Murmurs rise in crescendo, they echo from the mouths of the people gathering around the still figure of the masked outlaw, Spider-Man. The wind carrying the ocean's breeze whirls around, hugging the crowd with it's tingling chill. They're stopped in motion, not knowing how what to do. But one among them re-gains his composure. One who has always had a secret agenda against the wall-crawler, J. Jonah Jameson. He starts on a rant, the usual "I finally get my chance to unmask the wall-crawling murderer…" And he banters on like a crazed egotist, like someone who thinks they have a golden voice that spits out golden ideas and thinks they are a gift to the world.

He finally finishes and starts to reach out his arm. His arm, his hand shake with fervor; shake with the heat of this moment, shake with worry at what he could uncover. He hopes that no one notices. Jameson's slimy fingers clutch themselves around Spider-Man's mask, and for a few seconds he leaves his hand there, still trembling. Until he regains his remaining composure and lifts the veil completely. The gathered crowd goes electric. The wind passes through like a ghost, carrying the whispers and gasps of the observers.

Somewhere in the crowd an old woman screams Peter Parker's name into the night sky, before she collapses and clutches her chest with a death-grip. Those that were close to Peter Parker are stunned silent, with the hard lines of incredulously carved on their faces. Even the greedy publisher, J Jonah Jameson; who's never had a good or true thing to say about Spider-Man or Peter Parker, is at a loss for words with his quivering mouth. The death of a nephew, employee, friend, foe, the death of a hero, a symbol; is felt by the everyone in the crowd it bogs them down, it constricts their lungs, it sucks the life out of them and leaves them with an empty feeling. Then it all becomes a haze everything becomes blurry and numb, except for the scream and the pain, the scream…the pain they don't stop…they don't stop…

…With a start, Peter Parker wakes, his whole body trembling, sweat sliding down his neck and breathing hard as though he had just ran a marathon. His head feels as if elephants had just danced all over it. His throat is swollen and sore from the screaming. He gulps down the vile at the back of his mouth, it feels like razorblades scraping through the flesh of his throat as it makes it way down. The air coming in through the open window in his room, carry's the icy chill of New York's winter. It feels like knives stabbing at him where it strikes the sweat on his body.

When will this nightmare be over? When will it be over? Never! It will never be over…because it's my fault…all my fault…

His thoughts flicker through his mind, as tears start to well in his burning eyes and cascade their way down his cheeks. Even in death, he can hear the Goblin's mocking cackle. It burns a hole right through him, it churns inside him, it gnaws like rabid jaws at his insides. He's still haunted by the memory of the death of Gwen Stacy, the only girl he's every truly loved, even a year after that fateful night. But time means nothing, absolutely nothing. He still remembers the vision of her falling as if it was tattooed on his mind, he still remembers the crack of her neck as if it was ringing in his ears, it'll never stop. Time means nothing…it will never heal his scars…it will never absolve him of his guilt…it will never ease his pain…it will never stop…never…