TW: Gore, Animal Death/Gore, Suicidal Ideation, Self Harm
Some of his neighbors spared a couple side-eyed glances as he wearily trudged through the building. However, none went out of their way to help him. Peter liked that better honestly. If he wanted time to have a little pity party then he was going to have it without interruption.
His mouth tasted just as disgusting as it did before and he couldn't wait to wash it all away.
The more he thought of it the more he realized how fucking stupid it would have been. That fall wouldn't have killed him. Crippling him? Probably. But not killed. Then he'd have just laid there on the concrete, utterly alone and crippled, waiting for his healing factor to kick in.
He ran his hand through his hair while letting out a strained sigh. The chipped front door of 'his' apartment came into view and he reached for his key. His hand came back empty and he realized he must have left it at Delmar's. The hand on the doorknob clenched. Peter twisted it sharply. It gave way with a satisfying crunch… crunch…
He froze in place, eyes squeezed together almost painfully. Nausea overwhelmed him, but it was no use anyways since he couldn't seem to throw up. His head thudded against the doorframe as a frustrated exhale hissed through his teeth. It didn't help the now throbbing headache.
Feeling it slowly settle back down, he entered the apartment before beelining for the bathroom. He scrubbed his face until it hurt. His mouth too. And his hands. They felt gross. Sticky. And held a warmth to them that only came from another being's blood being spilt upon them.
Peter's toothbrush came back bloodied after splitting open his wounds. He rinsed it off and put it away.
He'd had someone else's blood on him before. Why did this have to be different?
Warm steam rose up from scalding water as he turned the shower on. He stripped down, noting the red marks from the man's nails. The man had looked so terrified, leading Peter to wonder what he looked like. Just staring down at him like some almighty being with the ability to snuff out life at a moments will.
Peter never wanted to feel that way again.
The familiar sight of red made him pause. There it was, that persistent 'S' still etched into his skin. There wasn't the bruise to hide it anymore. Looking at it, he knew for certain that whatever it was it had brought him here. It was the reason for this pain. And they were going to make Peter feel every little bit of it.
He shook his head and moved into the shower. Water cascaded down his body and swirled into the pipes below.
He'd heard about people drowning after passing out in their baths. It couldn't be that difficult really. Humans were so fragile and there were so many ways to die.
Peter blinked. When did he start crying? He wasn't going to do it. He wasn't going to.
His chest felt tighter. The steam caught in his throat as his lungs struggled to take in air. Peter turned the shower handle off with a jerk. The room seemed to spin as his vision hyper focused on the drain. He couldn't tear his eyes away, afraid of doing something he'd regret again.
Not again. Not again. Not again.
His stomach convulsed and its contents quickly emptied into the tub. Stomach acid burned his throat and nose while the disgusting taste of vomit etched itself into his taste buds. The hot liquid splashed onto his legs. Chunks of flesh and meat stuck to the floor of the tub, refusing to wash down the drain like everything else.
Waste of food.
Peter's body violently shook as he gasped for air. His eyes squeezed shut and he tore open the shower curtain, then the bathroom door. He couldn't breathe. Peter crawled into a corner and huddled there.
'Voice,' he cried, 'Voice, please talk to me… I need you.'
Silence.
'Please.'
It was gone. Peter was truly, utterly alone. He inhaled sharply and jumped down to his suit on the floor. Tearing through the pockets, he found the scrap of paper.
Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him. Call him.
The room spun again. Peter suddenly stood before Red Robin. His throat had been torn out, practically decapitated at that point, and his limbs had been contorted and broken. It was hard to tell where the red of his suit began and where it turned to blood. Red Robin's abdomen sported a gaping hole. Intestines spilled out from shattered ribs, the flecks of bone drifting in the blood.
Even then, he looked oddly peaceful. Peter kneeled down and brushed the man's hair away from his neck. Saliva pooled in his mouth.
Stop it. Stop it.
Peter blinked and it was gone. He was back in the apartment. His fingers dug into his scalp as he held his head in his hands. He couldn't risk it. The spider threw the paper away before clamoring beneath the bed, barely taking another moment to grab a blanket. He pushed himself to the darkest corner while pulling the blanket close to his body. Peter closed his eyes tightly.
Minutes passed by, but it felt like hours. His breathing slowly steadied and his muscles had begun to relax.
A low hum filled the room as the bed shifted above him. Peter's heart skipped a beat. He lifted his gaze to the gap beneath the bed. Its eyes stared back at him. An endless void of malicious content directed right at Peter.
"What did I do to you!?" Peter yelled at it.
It grinned and disappeared back above the bed. Peter crawled after it, but by the time he was out, it was gone. A thin layer of green fog shifted along the floor. The sight of it made him sick. He could feel eyes on him, the feeling sending shudders down his spine.
"Stop it! Stop looking at me!" He cried out in the empty room.
His skin crawled. It was watching… taunting him. Peter wanted to gouge his eyes out, tear his skin off. Just stop it.
"Your fault," It whispered
Peter kicked the leg of the bed with a strangled cry. It broke free with a crack. He clasped his ears and fell to the fetal position. "Shut up!"
Pressure built in his head and the room spun. His mouth tasted like metal again. Blood coated his hands. If he had anything in his stomach, he surely would have thrown up again. Peter's head felt like it was going to explode. His lungs refused to keep oxygen while his heart struggled to keep pumping. The edges of his vision darkened.
"It hurts," he whimpered. "May, please."
There was no one to hear his cries anymore.
The room went dark and Peter slumped. The green fog shifted to a corner of the room, forming into a figure, It.
"See you soon, Peter."
—
Peter wasn't quite sure how long he'd been sleeping. And even when he did wake up, it was usually to go to the bathroom or he'd end up laying there until he eventually fell asleep again. This was one of those moments. Tilting his head to the side, he came face to face with the Spider-Man mask. The lenses seemed to pierce into his soul. They were judging him, telling him to get back up and dawn the mask.
He was Spider-Man, but Spider-Man wasn't Peter. For the last few years, he had lived and died as Spider-Man. For once, he just wanted to do so as Peter. Normal, human Peter Parker.
His heavy eyelids closed again.
Peter had been caught in a web, a web built off of lies, fear, and the unending stubbornness to get back up again and again. He was afraid to let go and despite it holding him back, every time the web broke apart he fixed it instead. The web was breaking again and this time he couldn't fix it. The jumbled mess of string refused to go back to how it had been before. Before Tony Stark. Before Aunt May. Before Uncle Ben. Before everything.
He was so tired of fixing it and could only stand and stare as the final strands of string collapsed. It was gone, everything he had done to keep it up and it still fell. Oh how far Peter Parker had fallen.
Wind rushed past him as he fell. His destination, cold concrete. This time his spider-sense didn't save him. Peter jolted awake after he hit the ground, the sound of it echoing in his mind. His stomach curled in hunger and kept him from falling asleep again. Slowly he lifted himself from the floor, pulling on some clothes before stumbling to the kitchen.
The fridge light buzzed as he stood in front of the open refrigerator. His vision blurred every now and then while he scanned the contents. He closed the doors when he realized he didn't have the energy to actually eat something, let alone make something.
He left to his room and flopped down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. His mouth had begun to itch as his body destroyed itself to heal the wounds. Peter had seen himself in the mirror. It was revolting and ended with another shattered mirror.
The blades of the ceiling fan swished through the stale air. Peter shivered. Electricity hummed in the walls. He clenched his fists. An animal screamed outside his window. His eyes shot open and he sent a glare towards the window. A second yowl pierced the air. Anger simmered inside of him when what felt like a hand scraped its way down his spine. It was here and that damn animal was only making it worse.
Peter threw his sheets off and opened the window. Then he crawled out onto the brick wall. He dropped down before grabbing the culprit. The malnourished cat spit at him and struggled to escape his grip. Its hind legs were clearly broken, completely slack. Peter held its muzzle close and fleas were quick to crawl onto his bare skin.
"Shut up!" Peter hissed. He looked around frantically before continuing on in a pleading tone. "Please, it will hear you. Please. Please be quiet!"
It yowled in pain and dug its claws into his skin.
Yowling…
Screaming…
Claws…
Nails…
Skin…
Blood…
Hunger
A split second later, the cat went limp in his arms. Its head had been wrenched back until it touched its own spine. Its flesh split apart around its neck, blood flowing out in torrents. Bone pushed against the surface beside the shredded muscles and torn windpipe.
Peter lurched forward, sinking his teeth into the neck. Chomping, crunching, swallowing. Then repeating.
'Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Please stop. Stop. Stop. Please. Please. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Please stop,' Peter sobbed. He couldn't stop. His eyes squeezed shut so that he at least wouldn't have to see what he was doing.
Liquids oozed from the damaged esophagus as acid rose from the cat's stomach. Peter jerked away as the stomach acid leaked into his mouth. It burned. He retched, feeling the acid dissolve straight through muscles and bone. Peter puked. It didn't stop even when he'd emptied his stomach. All he could do was dry heave for what felt like an eternity, trying to get it out of him. The blood. The acid. The pain. Everything. He didn't want it; didn't deserve it, but that nagging voice in his mind told him he did.
He stopped. Spasms wracked his body and tears wet his cheeks. He held the cat tightly in his arms even as he could feel the fleas crawling over his skin.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. He'd let it happen again. It was his fault.
Peter set the feline down on the dirty cement. Born to filth and now it was returning to it. A thought that felt far too close to home for him.
He reached into his mouth again. The fangs had mostly grown back and Peter couldn't let that happen. Digging his fingers into the roof of his mouth, he ripped the venom sacs loose. The tip of a fang pricked his finger as he bore into the meat again. Then he sat there, staring at the twitching organs. He hated the taste of blood in his mouth.
A raindrop hit his head. Peter lifted his head to the clouds while more and more rain began to fall. For a moment, it felt as if Gotham was sharing his grief. Steam rose in the air as he exhaled.
Peter felt his body move in autopilot. He approached the wall before something caught his gaze. One of the cardboard boxes had been tipped over in the attack. What was revealed were little mounds of fur, each nearly identical to their mother. Peter's heart sank and the tears came back. He knelt down, feeling them for any warmth or even the littlest of breaths. The more he found, the more the dread grew. Until he found one. One was still warm when all the others were as cold as ice.
Peter held it against his chest and quickly climbed up to his apartment window. Once inside, he found a thermostat and cranked it to high before grabbing a blanket and huddling down beside the radiator. The kitten barely moved and the tears didn't stop. He'd killed its mother. If he couldn't nurture it back to health, it would also die and its blood would be on his hands. His hands had too much blood on them already.
Fleas bit his skin, leaving them itchy and irritated. The kitten's temperature slowly rose and its body moved more.
A voice called his name. He squeezed his eyes close, not wanting to deal with It again. His heart raced and his fingers clenched. A hand softly touched his shoulder.
"Peter, can you hear me?"
There was light shining through his eyelids. Peter cracked his eyes open to be met with yellow. Signal crouched down beside him, his suit glowing softly in the dim lighting of the room. The vigilante looked so concerned that it made Peter feel bad. He couldn't bear the embarrassment of facing Signal. Arms wrapped around Peter and he broke, turning into a blubbering mess. Signal didn't seem to care and just held him tighter.
"I'm sorry." Peter wept. It felt like the only appropriate thing to say at that point. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay, Peter."
