I've accepted that I'm a superhero and that the public needs me. I can do good, but it feels heavy. Peter is constantly eyeing me like I might snap at any moment, following me more often than ever. I don't think he realizes I notice him tailing me, but he's there almost daily. The spider silently watches the goblin, the time-old dance, but the rhythm feels all wrong. We will likely do this forever, him watching me warily, me trying to focus, to block out all the distractions. If they would stop jeering for one moment, maybe I could sleep. I feel like everyone is waiting for me to slip up. To crack, fall into old habits, and start murdering indiscriminately again. They aren't wrong to cheer for me to fail. I usually do. That's why it's crucial that this time, I don't.

The ghosts in my mind watch me on the sidelines, silent as I work. I swear they never leave. Gwen Stacy and Harry are usually the closest, both with disappointed expressions. I swear sometimes I catch them whispering to one another, but when I turn to get a better look, they've moved again. Watching. Waiting. I empty my mind and focus on the mechanical parts of the job. Evacuate people from fires. Shut down the crooks. Foil the heists. It feels strangely routine after a while. The tech helps streamline the process, but it is repetition. Like any job, the more you repeat yourself, the easier it becomes. Most of what I do is damage control and clean-up that non-powered people can't do. I want a break to take in some quiet. I want to fade into obscurity for the rest of my life. They won't let me. The people I've killed, their ghosts won't let me stop. When the spirits get too loud, I must move to shut them up. I have to keep going, or they will never let me be. So, I patrol. My patrols are mostly listening to police scanners at night and visiting old haunts to erase the lingering pests. And as I work, the spider watches me, ghosts flanking him in judgmental silence. Please stop.

The incidental crimes are decreasing. This is good, considering New York has a surplus of heroes and a recent surprising decrease in world-altering catastrophes. It used to feel like those happened at least once a year. I want to stop. I would much rather pretend I was never the Green Goblin, that I've always been Norman, the ruthless businessman who decided to change his ways—just Norman Osborn, not a villain, not a hero, just me. Work feels the most normal of my new reality. However, I still hear the rumours and whispers between my colleagues and subordinates.
Some say I've found God. Others that I had a near-death experience that changed my perspective. Neither is correct, but I won't bother with that nonsense; rumours are pointless. The only thing I've found is guilt, trauma, and regret. It makes for a great time. I'm a joy at parties. The man I attacked, pretending to be Spider-man at Normie's party, can attest to that. I'm not getting better; I still don't sleep and feel nothing but remorse and guilt. What am I supposed to do? I'm not sure who to talk to about this. It's not like there is a group (not that I would go to that bullshit). I don't have friends, and I don't expect my family to understand. I'm the good guy now, and I've still gotten people killed. Is any of that my fault? Am I being punished for trying to fix the shit I've done? I wish I knew.

A side effect I didn't expect from the evil removed from me is my ability to feel grief. Grief for the family I drove away. And grief from the death of my son. I have a box of his things I've been keeping in my office; there's very little, considering I'm a terrible parent: a few photos, a report card, and an old iPod. How sentimental of me. The report card I held on to initially to embarrass and motivate Harry. This was a misguided parenting move. It only made him angry when I compared him to others. The photos are mostly life events like his graduation, Harry and Normie, Me, Harry and Emily… reminders of my lack of sentimentality. I finish rummaging and pull the old iPod from the bottom desk drawer. I found the charging cable in a junk drawer on a sleepless night. On a whim, I connected it to my computer. I read somewhere that music is an excellent way to communicate with those you miss. Or maybe Liz said that. I find it hard to recall where I heard that idea. I wait a minute, and soon enough, the computer pings. I open the music folder.
There are a lot of bands I don't know. Outstanding. This seems stupid now. How can I connect to random songs? I must try something to ease my pain, so I stiffen my resolve, click, and start listening. These songs have unfamiliar names, "I Write Sins Not Tragedies" is a long name for a song that feels too personal. "Thnks fr the mmrs" No idea what that means. I flip through a few, reading the bands' names: Green Day, Metallica, AC/DC, Panic! At the Disco, Fallout Boy, and My Chemical Romance, playing snippets here and there. I stop and let the music play. I recognize most of them from his room, a sound wall to shut me out—racket from behind a closed door.

I've just arrived home from work and can hear that damned music again. I told Harry to turn it down and keep it at a reasonable volume for once. I'm in a bad mood and don't feel like being the "nice" parent.
"Harry, stop blasting your damn music and study. I spend enough money getting you private tutors, but your grades are garbage. Osborn's are not slackers!" I pound my fist on his door, not out of courtesy—more of a threat. My son opens the door and glares at me. His room is a mess of books, clothing, and things. I brush past him, criticizing how he doesn't clean up after himself and needs to smarten up. We start shouting back and forth, a daily ritual. That damned music keeps blaring, and we must shout louder to hear each other over it.

"I study, which you would know if you ever asked me anything. The music helps me concentrate." Harry yells. He looks angry over the invasion of privacy, his fists clenched at his side.
"Oh Harry, you do know I get your report cards. You're failing nearly every class. Do you even go? Or are you just an idiot?" I start reciting his report card comments, mocking my son. "Isn't focussed, Disturbs others, Could apply himself more-"

"Shut up, Dad!" He yells at me, his eyes wide and hurt. I see it as a weakness and scoff at him—pathetic child. Why can't he be more like the Parker boy? Or his other friend, Gwen Stacy? Any of his current friends would be an upgrade. My idiot son could stand to learn a thing or two. I smirk at how easy it is to upset Harry, taunting him for fun. I stop when I hear a click; the door is opening-

"Hey Norman, the door's open, so I let myself in. Did you forget we had a meeting at 1?" A man enters my home. Wait, no, that's wrong. I'm not in my house. This is my office.

Huh? Oh, it's Peter Parker. 30-something Peter is not a high school kid. Harry is dead. I'm at work. Damn I lost myself there... back to reality. I glance at my watch. It's 1:15 PM. Shit. I compose myself.

"Yes, well, something came up." I lied, shuffling papers on my desk. I try to fake being busy.

Peter half shuts the door as he enters the room. He is holding a file, and he slides it onto my desk. "Was it the Black Parade?" Peter smirks as he places the folder in the "IN" box.

I frown as I glance at the folder he's just submitted, not bothering to grab it yet. "What are you talking about?"

"That's the name of the song that's playing. It was trendy in high school." Peter chuckles as he sings along with the song. I forgot the music is still playing. I forgot I was here. I fumble with my mouse and shut it off, attempting to hide the still-connected iPod. Peter watches at this poor attempt to hide things.

"It's Harry's music," I mutter as if that explains everything, giving up on hiding this secret from Peter.

Peter moves behind my desk and peers at the laptop screen. He smiles as he reads off the songs. "Funny seeing you listen to these songs, Norman. If I remember correctly, you hated everyone on Harry's iPod, which was actually the criteria for what went on there. I remember helping him come up with ideas. There should be some bizarre, loud and grating music on there. we didn't even like it, but he loved how much you hated it." Peter backs away from my chair. His arm brushes my shoulder, and I shudder. A pleasant sensation ripples through my body. This is new. We sit in silence, neither of us willing to acknowledge the passing of Harry. I exhale, but it comes out as a sigh, a betrayal of my sadness. Peter looks at me for a moment and nods slightly.

"I miss him too." Peter offers. I can't speak right now; my mind is too full of guilt and regret. Instead, I nod. Peter observes me. He reaches out to pat my shoulder and stops. Instead, he offers, "I've seen you with Normie. You were a terrible father, but you are a great grandfather. You both always look so happy; that kid loves you."

I'm surprised he offers reassurance. Peter has made it clear several times he does not like or trust me. Yet, he still uses the tech I make, which must count for something. I'm trying. I really am. "Thanks, Peter. I wish I could make amends with Harry."

Peter nods but doesn't say anything else. He gets up and walks out, done with me once again. I watch Peter leave. He closed the door, which allowed me a moment to exhale. Solitude allows for reflection and, in my case, torment. My sins haunt me. I can't keep this up. I need to refocus.

I disconnect the iPod and store Harry's things in the bottom desk drawer. I shut them away like that will somehow shut out the sadness in my mind. I compartmentalize my emotions as quickly as I can compartmentalize objects. I glanced at the photos on my desk in one of those multiple-shot family photo frames. Normie and me, Liz and the kids, and a blank space where there should be one more. I removed Harry's image because it was causing me too much sorrow. Hiding him away isn't fixing anything, but I can pretend to ignore the pain. I've never felt like this. My emotions feel strange and uncomfortable after years of repression. My mind feels like it's going to fracture.

I'm not okay.