CHAPTER TRIGGER WARNING: SELF HARM, SELF LOATHING, SUICIDAL IDEATION/TENDENCIES/PLANNING, ETC

Chapter One: Suicidal

Peter sat on his bed. An open notebook and abandoned pencil lay beside him. Headphones on, the loud music blocked out the world. It was peaceful. Calming. And Peter loved it. It was his "happy place," if it was even possible for him to have such a place.

To an outsider, Peter would have seemed to be a normal teenager in a normal teenage environment: a messy room, an unmade bed, loud music blocking out the world. No one would ever be able to guess the truth. And this was exactly what Peter needed.

At the sound of a single knock on his door, Peter pulled off his headphones and called, "Come in."

Aunt May opened the door and poked her head into the room. "Hey, Peter," she said. "I have to in to cover a shift. I won't be back until after you leave for school tomorrow. Will you be ok?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course, Aunt May. I'll be fine," Peter replied.

"Ok, Peter. I'm leaving now, so I'll see you tomorrow. I love you."

"I love you too, Aunt May."

She smiled and closed his door. A few minutes later, Peter heard the front door open and close, and the key turn in the lock. He sighed deeply. He was finally alone.

Peter stood up and walked over to his closet. Reaching all the way back, he pulled out a small brown box. Inside was a full bottle of pills. Peter took it out and set it on his desk, then returned the box to its previous hiding place.

His hands were shaking. Badly. A single tear ran down his cheek, but Peter fiercely wiped it away. "Stop crying, you fucking loser," he berated himself. His voice was harsh; the self-loathing in it was clear. "Nobody care about you. You deserve this. It will be better for everyone." Tears continued to fall, as Peter sank onto his knees, head in his hands.

Peter sat crying on the floor for about 10 minutes. When the deep-heaving sobs had finally subsided to small whimpers, he raised his head and wiped his face with his sleeves. A small smile spread across his face, as if he had some secret that no one else could ever guess.

Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, Peter pulled out a tiny silver blade. He pulled up his sleeve, revealing a mess of criss-crossed white scars and angry red cuts in various states of healing. Peter softly moved his thumb over his forearm, feeling all of the raised wounds. He knew it was messed up, but he couldn't help it.

Peter gripped the blade like his life depended on it. He found a small area on his wrist that was still unblemished, and set the cold blade against his skin. Pressing hard, he dragged it across his wrist. Little droplets of blood welled to the surface almost immediately and rolled down his arm. Peter winced as he sliced his wrist open for a second and a third time.

He stood up and walked into the bathroom, where he wiped his blade clean and returned it to his pocket. He didn't bother to clean up or hide his wrist. Aunt May was gone, so Peter was home alone.

Peter walked back into his room and sat down on the edge of the bed. Hands shaking, he pulled out his phone. After hesitating for a brief moment, he took a deep breathe and dialed Mr. Stark's number.

Three times in a row, Peter was sent straight to voicemail. He decided that he would try one more time. If Mr. Stark didn't pick up, it would confirm for Peter that Mr. Stark didn't care about him. He dialed the number one last time, fully expecting F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s pre-recorded message, telling him that Mr. Stark was busy.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Peter's shoulders slumped. Four rings. Then, "Hey, kid."

"H-hey, Mr. Stark," Peter said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"What's up, Peter?" Peter hesitated. Mr. Stark sounded stressed, tired. It was clearly a forced cheerfulness in his voice; he didn't want to be bothered by Peter. "Look, kid, is this important? I'm really busy right now. Kind of in the middle of something important."

Peter took a deep breathe. He's busy. He doesn't care. He doesn't want to talk to you. You aren't important. "N-no, it's not important. I'm fine. I'm sorry I bothered you." I'm sorry I bothered you at all. I'm sorry for bothering you with my existence.

There was a moment of silence. "You sure, kiddo? You don't sound fine."

"Really, Mr. Stark, I swear I'm fine," Peter lied desperately. Why did I even bother calling him? He doesn't care. I'm just wasting his time.

"Ok, Peter. I'll see you later, kiddo."

Peter's goodbye caught in his throat. The phone beeped, signaling the end of the call. A single tear ran down his cheek. Several minutes after the call ended, Peter whispered, "Goodbye, Mr. Stark."

Standing up, Peter walked into the kitchen, took an unopened bottle of water from the fridge, and returned to his room. He pulled a sealed envelope from the brown box that had held the pill bottle and set it on the desk.

A/N:

IMPORTANT TRIGGER WARNING NOTICE:

This fic will have potentially triggering content, dealing with self-harm, depression, anxiety, suicidal idealization, etc. PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS FIC IF IT MIGHT BE TRIGGERING FOR YOU. Seriously, your mental health and general well-being are so much more important than a stupid fic. Stay safe. Stay alive, frens.