Peter retrieves his phone at some point while I'm away from the workshop. If he knows I sneaked a peek, he doesn't confront me. I should be relieved, but I'm not. Instead, I'm engulfed in a wave of guilt. I should tell him I accidentally started reading his messages, but the guilt is a heavy burden I can't seem to shake off.
"But how much of that was an accident, Norman?" My favourite guilt-induced ghost, Gwen Stacy, asks. "You read most of his current message history with Liz, and I bet you would have read more if you hadn't seen them talking about you like an irresponsible child. You might have looked through his photos and read his entire chat log history. Do you want to know everything about him? Do you think you own him?" The words echo in my mind, stirring up a storm of self-doubt and inadequacy.
Gwen stands beside me as I tidy the workshop, trying to ignore her. "You do, don't you? You think you own Peter Parker, a plaything for Norman Osborn."
"That's not the case," I protest, "I... I don't know why I did that. It was a mistake. He's my friend, I care about him. I-"
"Liar, liar, pants on fire," she mocks me while sitting on the workbench, her glowing, vacant eyes boring into my brain. "You may as well face the truth. You still think Peter belongs to you and you alone. He's not your equal. He's better than you'll ever be. And you need to leave him alone."
My fingers curl in shame and frustration against the table I've wiped down. I swallow hard, trying not to cry in front of this ghost. Gwen's right. She's right, but I'm overwhelmed by feelings of inadequacy. I'm weak and stupid. I can't do this. I need to leave Peter alone. I don't have friends; I should leave my family alone, too; all I do is cause them suffering. The guilt of invading Peter's privacy causes me to withdraw once again. It brings up memories of invading Harry's privacy as a teenager. I used the cleaning staff to read notes and journal entries, snoop through his room, and do anything to prove that he was hiding things from me. I had a paranoia that my son would turn on me or sabotage me because he was nothing but a spoiled, lazy child. I installed software on his phone and computer to redirect his messages secretly, keep tabs on him, and ensure he didn't make the wrong choices. I constantly criticized Harry for never living up to the false standard I held myself to. Harry should hate me. He has every reason to since I became as controlling as my father. It's my fault Harry died. Fathers should not outlive their children.
Now, I find myself repeating habits with my son's best friend. Peter has every right to despise me. I killed his true love. I tormented his family and friends. I've murdered so many people just to get to him. Over and over and over, I tormented him for fun. I'm a manic with the best lawyers money can buy. If he weren't such a pure-hearted soul, he would have killed me by now. God knows I deserve to die.
My new personal rule is to only interact with Peter at work and keep it professional. I have over 300 employees; it's not like I have to spend time with him. He can focus on his work, but if he wanted to, he could leave, and I would still pay him. I owe him, after all. Throwing money at my problems never fixed them. I'm deluding myself. It's no secret that Peter Parker can't be bribed to give up his responsibility. And in this case, his responsibility is to keep me accountable. I've done a poor job as a hero, considering I've caused more deaths. I'm fumbling to be a good person at every turn. I'm rotten, awful, bad. I have always been "wrong". My father was right. It's all my fault. I'm weak, led to temptation, and don't hesitate to give in. Saying sorry isn't enough, and apologies are never enough; they are hollow words that echo in an empty room. Hell is too good for me, and I can't do better.
I've tried apologizing to the graves of those I killed. I try to learn about the people I victimized. But it feels hollow, an empty gesture. It's too little too late. I put flowers on the graves, and I try to cry, but the tears never come. I only cry if I feel sorry for myself when I feel sad that I can't improve.
I can't empathize with others. I can remember what I felt, how exhilarating it was to kill them, to make them suffer, make them all pay. Weaklings. Pathetic. They deserved it, and if I wasn't meant to dominate them, why did God let me?
"It's because God isn't real; you are God." The voice of the manic whispers in the dark corners of my mind. "You know… I'll never fully be gone. Don't you miss me? Why not let me out for a while, for old time's sake? You could kill someone who deserves it. Lots of people deserve violence. Debt collectors, politicians, killing the corrupt is appropriate, don't you think?"
An imagined conversation, a temptation that I have to ignore. The Green Goblin's gone. I'm me. Just me. No one else. And yet, why do I continue to fail? All I see are the dark circles around my eyes, the forced smiles, and the false image I project. I can't feel happy; I haven't been happy in months. I can't adjust to this life. Mental illness is much easier to deal with without anxiety and depression tagging along. Things have been going well. I don't want or need to be around other people. I had one friend, and she left me. I like being alone. Work is busy. I visit my family. As for friends… Well, friends are distractions.
I'm starting to realize people don't believe in second chances. I likely don't deserve anything from anyone, but I wanted a chance to prove myself and do good. The problem is that I don't know how to change and be a "good" person. It feels like the bad guys are better, faster, wiser, and I'm worse. Fear holds me back, and my movements are slower and less fluid. My defences are down, not out of confidence but out of despair. The only time I'm at my best when I stop pulling my punches is when I'm protecting someone else. I can't fight for myself anymore. I want to fail. I want them to give me an out. I've been declawed. Otto Octavius captured and tortured me, Otto of all people. I've never been second best to him. He was never better than me when I was insane; the only one who bested me was Spider-man, and even then, my overconfidence and hubris undid me. Recently, even Kingsley and Ulrich almost made me submit to them, and they're nothing more than cheap knockoffs in stolen gear. Hobgoblins might as well be cosplayers.
I clench my hand into a fist, tempted to put a dent into the mahogany desk in my office. I could splinter the furniture. Trash the room. Leave it all a smoking pile of destruction. Claiming it was some attack and claiming the insurance would be easy enough, but it is no longer what I'm supposed to do. I'm trying desperately to control my frustration and anger. Breathing, mindfulness, but sometimes I hit walls in alleys until my knuckles are cracked and bleeding. The self-inflicted pain reminds me of my failures, and I find myself cramped and alone, questioning if any of this is worth it.
I doubt anyone believes in me. I'm constantly being watched, and the heroes wait for the evil megalomaniac to show his hand. Except I don't have ulterior motives. But I don't deserve anything except for my guilt and self-loathing. This is precisely the life I deserve. Being in a waking hell is what criminals like me should be faced with.
I find myself whispering, "Why did you do this to me, Harry? Why won't you kill me already?"
Nothing. There was no response. Like it or not, I'm still alive. My heart pounded in my chest, my lungs heaving oxygen in and carbon dioxide out, my veins full of regret. Maybe I should hire one of those life coaches or watch videos of villains who turned their lives around. There are tons of those, aren't there? Reformed men, people who overcame their traumas. Then again, none of them would understand my regret. I committed mass murder. They aren't like me. I have more in common with serial killers than their victims. I can never hope to stand by his side. If I care about Peter, I'll keep my distance.
I check my calendar for the day. It's Wednesday. I have to work with Parker today. Fuck. We have a deadline to meet, and I made him the lead on this project—a short-sighted and stupid move when I don't want to see him right now. Meet with Peter and get this over with. I exit my office, keeping my expression neutral as I press the elevator button to take me to the labs.
He's waiting for me as I exit the elevator. I wanted to avoid the walk with him, but it was too late, so I faked a smile. "Afternoon, Peter. Shall we get to the labs?"
He watches me momentarily and nods, launching into a one-sided conversation about something. I'm too distracted to listen; I don't even pretend to absorb anything he's saying.
"You're extra bristly lately," Peter comments as we scan our IDs and walk into the secured area of the lab. He's been talking nonstop, which isn't unusual. Still, I'm not in the mood for chitchat after reading the condescending text messages between him and Liz. I know it's been a few days, but I can't help but see them as babysitters who are minding the problem child.
"Could we walk in silence if you have nothing of consequence to say?" I grumble. I don't turn to answer him. We're not friends. This kind of foolish conversation is why I like being by myself.
I can hear Peter sigh in annoyance behind me. "This is precisely what I mean; a few days ago, you almost cracked a joke, and then suddenly, this. One day, we get happy, Norman, and suddenly, you're too busy to take your calls, and I swear I saw you walk down a dead end to avoid talking to me yesterday. "I can imagine Peter guessing at the reason for the frown plastered to my face. I keep walking, increasing my pace slightly to get further ahead. There are so few people in this section of Oscorp. I can count on one hand who has access to the most restricted areas. I can't hope for someone to interrupt. Focus, walk to the testing area, complete the tests, and move on.
I feel Peter touch my shoulder, which sends a shiver down my spine. I turn to face him, and Peter's gentle hazel eyes gaze into my icy blue ones. It feels oddly intimate to hold his stare. Grounding hazel eyes, like rich earth, while I know my piercing eyes are off-putting. Everyone says blue eyes are beautiful, but mine cut into you like frostbite, chilling your healthy skin black and lifeless. Peter crosses his arms. His expression is a mixture of concern and annoyance.
"What's bothering you? Considering your mood swings affect everyone in this company, we're discussing it. You and me, right here and right now. I shut out. I've barely heard from you in a week. You're short with me, irritated at everything, and I swear I saw you punch a wall. Hiding whatever you're upset about doesn't solve anything." He refuses to back down.
I don't want to talk about anything with him. I know I'm being childish, but talking doesn't help. Hey, Peter, I read your text messages with Liz, and I'm annoyed that you discussed how fragile my mental state is. Even though you both have every right to worry after I had a month-long crisis that spiralled out of control and could have ended so much worse than it did. Oh, and I have no friends, so that's great; now I want someone to talk to and… I don't know, relax with? God, what do "normal" people even do? I think I'm losing my mind with all the guilt and pain consuming me. I'm probably going to end up killing everyone and myself trying to be a good guy. I'm not a good person. I'm barely a neutral person. My son might still be alive, or I might be delusional, but I can't tell. Everything my father ever said about me was right and-
"It's nothing," I shift my eyes to the side. Peter lets out a breath of annoyance.
"Seriously Norman? Your moods are loud and obvious. Everything you do has a dramatic flair. You wear gold armour to fight crime. Gold! This is a bit flashier than the guy wearing blue and red. You have a building with your name on the side of it." Peter tucks his hands in his lab coat pockets, "I almost miss sad Norman. At least he would talk to me. Why are you so grumpy?" He looks sternly at me, tapping his foot slightly against the sterile floor.
I'm slightly taken aback by how candid he is. Dramatic flair? I want to argue with him, but I bite my tongue when I realize he does have a point. I'm a grown-ass man wearing golden armour to punch villains while patrolling New York. And before then, I dressed up as a fucking Halloween mascot. I threw pumpkin bombs. Pumpkin bombs. Okay, fine, I'm a bit flashy. I'm theatrical, and I have a presence. I have a building with my last name plastered on the side, and I tend to name everything after myself. My ego is enormous. Still, his honesty has so much sass that it annoys and intrigues me.
I furrow my brow, keeping eye contact with the younger man. Fine, I'll give him the honesty he wants so desperately. "You've got it all wrong. I'm not grumpy. I'm…" I flush and mutter, "Lonely." I pause, surprised, even though I know it's true as I admit it. I'm isolated, and I do care. I like to pretend I'm above it all, a lone wolf, but I'm not. I never have been. I never chose to be alone; I always ended up that way against my will—a sad little boy cowering in a derelict mansion, waiting for the storm to pass. Norman Osborn was a young teenager who had more in common with teachers than his peers. He began twisting the rules to thrive when the cards were stacked against him.
Peter looks surprised. I don't think he expected me to respond to his prodding, let alone admit a vulnerability. "Lonely? You're moody because you're lonely. Even with the grandkids keeping you busy? And all your fans? If you opened your fan mail, I guarantee you would find some spicy love confessions there. I've seen your inbox; not all those letters are "Oscorp business," especially the ones with the heart seals. You enjoy fame, family time, and a busy company."
He doesn't want to dig too deep into this. It's like he regrets asking such a question. Peter breaks eye contact and scuffs his shoe against the floor, his left hand rubbing the back of his messy brown hair. He never seems to use a comb or shave often enough. He should grow a beard if he lets stubble cover his face most of the time. He's such a mess. I'm deflecting.
I shake my head. This is embarrassing. I should say I'm joking or make up an excuse. But I'm exhausted, and words keep flowing out, "I've got much less going for me than you'd expect. Grandkids aren't exactly stimulating conversation. I was pursuing my ex-wife a while ago, and she shut me down. You walked in on the aftermath of that fumble in my office. It was brash, and I regret it. Yes, I'm lonely and, I suppose, frustrated as well. I'm friendless, single, and don't have much for hobbies or leisure time. I spend all my time here working or in the city trying to atone for my past screw-ups. Plus, I had a very public mental breakdown, so that makes for a fantastic image change, doesn't it?" I kept eye contact with him to see if Peter regretted this conversation. "Satisfied, Parker?"
Peter takes a moment to shuffle side to side awkwardly. He gives a low whistle, "Your ex, huh? Ya, that uh… well, we've all pursued our exes, you know that's… well, you see." He stumbles, then offers, "I could help you set up a dating app."
I am not getting dating advice from Peter Parker. It's not happening. He makes worse choices than I do—well, minus the murder—but he sabotages his happiness. I've watched this boy flounder for years. He could have a successful company, a beautiful and loving girlfriend, family, friends, everything he could want. And yet again and again, within a few years (or a week), he loses it all and ends up living paycheck to paycheck with no one except his Aunt May to feel sorry for him. He lost a company and his degree. I don't need advice from him.
"No." I shake my head firmly. "No, this was a mistake. We're done." I ball my hands into fists, clenching them tightly with my nails pointed into my palms. Use the pain to ground me. Refocus on what matters.
"What about-"
"No"
"You didn't even hear me out."
"That's because we are not talking about this. I didn't want to talk about this in the first place. We're not friends; I'm not confiding in you; you don't need to solve my problems. Have you seen your life before I employed you? You were thousands of dollars in medical debts, you lost Mary Jane again, and you had the worst apartment I've ever seen in my life." I snap. I see the hurt in his eyes and instantly regret what I said. Fuck. No, I didn't mean to say that.
"Ya sure, I'm the one who has the shitty life; it's me who is the living failure. Thanks for the reminder. If I suck so bad, then why are you always pursuing me? My shortcomings never stopped you from coming to me before," Peter replies coldly. Peter's glare makes me uncomfortable. His eyes are serious, and his posture is confident. I can read him well enough to know he won't relent. Even so, I can't do this. I turn away from him. I'm not engaging anymore; I already hurt him again.
"Look, forget it; I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that." I step out, and he grabs my arm gently but firmly. I try to ignore how my heart beats faster as he gently holds me in place, closing the gap between us. He's so physically close to me, yet we are miles apart. I can never make him understand.
"Norman, damn it stop. I'm not trying to fight with you." His tone is forgiving. Peter's grip is gentle yet firm, like when you try to soothe a child with a tantrum. A grip to reassure and prevent me from lashing out. He could never hold or stop me from leaving, but I feel compelled to stay. I want to let him in. He can help me. I imagine that he cares. "I can't."
"I know you're emotionally stunted, but… damn it, I am your friend Norman. Stop acting like a loner who has to change the world by self-destructing. Killing yourself won't undo anything you've done. Saying it out loud feels weird, but I'm concerned for you. You've changed, and I can accept that now." He sighs, "But you've got to talk to me. You should probably get a support group or a therapist, but we can start by talking to me. I can tell something is wrong, and you'll feel better if you talk to me."
I don't know how to react to this. I've been isolated all my life. I don't need anyone. I do-
"Peter, I… are you sure?" I can't stop myself from pleading for his help. I relent. I'm so tired.
He shrugs and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks reddening, probably because I'm frustrating him. "Well, don't make it weird."
I inhale, checking to make sure we are truly alone. I feel my eyes start to mist over, so I swallow before I begin my confession.
"I… I saw your text messages with Liz by accident, and it was a reminder that I'm a timebomb, ticking down, I'm going to fuck up, and you'll have to put me down. Again. I don't want to be your problem for the rest of our lives.
I don't know how to be a good person. I am figuring out what to change or how to change it. I know it's not enough not to be evil. True atonement requires something that I don't have. I'm broken. I've always been wrong, built for nothing but sin and regrets.
When I was a child, my father would hit me. Sometimes, it was for something I did or said, and other times, well, he liked to smack me around until I got too big to take it, not that it stopped him from being a bastard.
He always reminded me that I would never amount to anything and was full of evil. He was the one who lost our family fortune, but somehow, it was always my fault that things weren't getting better. I used to stay away as much as I could. I would fight with other boys, even though I wasn't much of a scrapper and had no one to back me up. Life wasn't fair. I found ways to even the odds, but it was always through less-than-legal means: a loner and an opportunist. When I was aloof, pushing people away wasn't hard; I only gave them surface-level details. No one knew me, and that was by design. They knew I was charismatic, but people didn't catch on to the lies, or they chose to believe them. In elementary school, the adults always took my side. It was easy when I was more likeable than the others. All you need to do is be gifted. I could convince the other kids to do whatever I wanted, so they avoided me for fear I would talk them into something indecent. I didn't usually harm them on purpose, but sometimes they saw the bruises and knew something was up.
Moving away from Connecticut was the perfect opportunity to reinvent myself and find easy marks to scam out of their savings. I excelled in chemistry and engineering. I dabbled in as many sciences as possible, hoping to find anything to turn the tables for me. I even sold test answers and experimental pills to help students cram for tests. Life wasn't fair, and I decided to ensure that the odds would be tilted in my favour, even if that meant I had to cheat. And I was good at it. I could charm anyone and quickly take them for everything they were worth. When my father died, I ignored the calls to pay my respects at his funeral. I have no love for him. My mother died first. I missed her funeral then… even though… I just couldn't. I… I had to leave.
The goblin formula didn't change me; it helped me realize my full potential and unlocked the door in my mind, bursting at the seams with anger and resentment. The world hated me, so I hated them all right back. When I first became the goblin, my mind felt sharper and better; it was like being manic all the time—the feeling of invincibility without the crash. I could kill God if I wanted to. But I could also feel my mind fighting, screaming in terror—fear of what I was becoming, unsure what to do or how to stop myself. I now understood Jekyll and Hyde perfectly.
And then I took it out on you. Spider-Man, the hero I followed home to discover he's barely more than a teenager. My son's best friend, a boy who was trying to be something better. But all I saw was an opportunity, someone I could mould—someone to continue my legacy. Then rejection after rejection, pain and defeat and madness. Anger growing and never burning out, I doubled down again and again until I had nothing left but hatred and a warped sense of morals that revolved around the powerful getting to rule. Everyone else has to adapt or die. The feeling was intoxicating, and I became addicted to showing the world that hurt me that I could bite back even harder."
That's it. That's the truth. Peter listened, nodding along. He didn't seem angry at me for confessing my motivations; he was just silently reflecting. I expected him to resent me, confront me over all the evil in my heart, and turn and walk out. Instead, he looked sad.
"You never had anyone, did you? No wonder you have so much pent-up anger; you were alone. You didn't have an Uncle Ben like I did. I might have become the same as you if I didn't have my family support. I understand you better now. You're so used to being against everyone that you refuse to let anyone get close. You can't move forward if you don't let go of the past. Norman, you can stop; you can rest. It's okay for you to let us in."
Is it? I can count on one hand the people I've loved and trusted. I can't be weak. Peter's wrong. He's nothing like me. I'll let him down again. I feel silent tears break loose, and I try to hold it back to stop the pain from leaking out. I… I…
Peter does something unexpected. He grabs my hand, holding it firmly; it feels comforting. He looks into my eyes again, gently saying, "Norman, you need to let go. Leave the past in the past."
I lower my gaze, my vision blurred with tears. "I don't know how. I'm stuck."
I feel him squeeze my hand; I want to smack it away; I want to let him; I want him to disappear; I want to disappear.
"I'll help you. I'm not as perfect as you seem to think I am." Peter smiles awkwardly, and we lean against the wall, lowering to the floor. "I've messed up a lot, and I almost let the Venom symbiote make me into a killer. It always told me it was easier and better to kill my enemies. It tried to use my anger as a weapon, and I was close to embracing that darkness because the power was intoxicating." He explains his struggle with darkness, and how he had support, family, and friends, he loved coming home to. Peter talks about his guilt, balancing life, trying to move forward, and a monumental sense of duty and responsibility.
I confide in him about my self-doubts and insecurities. It feels strange to reveal so much to the man formerly my greatest enemy. Now, my friend. We don't get much done, but we're ahead of schedule, so it's okay for today. An hour has passed, and it's about time to go home. I get up, making my way to the elevator. Peter pushes the door closed button.
"Hey, it's Thursday night. Aunt May and I are having dinner. Why don't you come by?" Peter offers.
"Just her and us?" I ask hesitantly. That seems like a lot for me right now.
I must look nervous because Peter adds, "Don't worry, it's her, me, and a few other guests; she won't mind." He smiles, trying to reassure me.
"You know she stormed in here once to yell at me for working you too hard. It was when you asked me to increase the sensitivity of your spider-sense super, and you almost melted your brain." I laugh, "I doubt she wants to see me."
Peter grimaces, "Sorry about that. She can be a bit overprotective at times. That was reckless of me. I won't make you change my biology again."
"Don't make promises you won't keep." I shake my head, giving it some thought as I adjust my tie. I come to a decision. "I'll come by. I'll even bring a generous donation for her to smooth things over." I hope that works. I know she cares about the FEAST shelter. I hope she doesn't consider it a bribe.
The dinner party goes surprisingly well despite Randy Robertson and his wife staring daggers at me. I'm used to the hate by now; I eat calmly despite the anger. This is the second dinner I've attended at May Parker's home, and thankfully, Peter sits through this one, so I don't get another lecture from May about pushing her nephew too hard. He always tells her it's work-related, and he works for me. Naturally, I would be blamed for his running off.
J Jonah Jameson, my sometimes ally but mostly suspicious critic these days, is also in attendance. Jonah and I have been slowly reconnecting, and he seems pleased with my efforts to help Peter. I made an effort to talk with him privately a while ago. Apologizing for holding him hostage, forcing him to reveal Peter's identity and a host of other actions I took while under the Green Goblin's influence. At the table, he talks about his podcast, "Threats and Menaces." He offers me a spot on it to discuss my ongoing progress at Oscorp and "reassure the public that I'm not plotting to blow up Times Square." His words, not mine.
May looks incredibly happy to have so many people in her home. I begin to feel uncomfortable around the happy dinner guests. Most people don't want me around; I'm not well-adjusted. I excuse myself by mentioning that I have to make an early morning overseas conference call. It's flimsy as an excuse, but no one seems to notice or care. As I left the dinner, I discretely left a thank you card and the donation cheque on her kitchen table. I'm the first to go, but it's for the best. I know I make them uncomfortable.
My phone pings as I make my way to my car. It's a message from Peter: "Hey Norman, thanks for coming tonight. May loves the card you wrote. She won't let us see it, but whatever you said made her smile."
I wrote back, "I told her she has a good nephew. I wrote some nice things about you in there, so please don't read it. Thank you for having me."
It's not quite "normal". But it feels like a step in the right direction.