TW: violence, abuse, questioning reality, mental illness, abusive parents/trauma

This chapter is where we get some of Norman's past, and it's not pretty.

"A-… This is pathetic, Norman. You were supposed to study for this test but got an A-?" Amberson Osborn's breath reeks of cheap alcohol as he yells at me. How did he even find my test score? I usually hide it all from him. I'm good at forging his signature when I need to. I didn't get to be fifteen without learning to be invisible in this house. At least he didn't lock me in a room again. I wish I were strong enough to fight back. But I'm always exhausted from working part-time after school. My eyes count the rug's fibres, trying to make myself invisible. I need higher grades to impress the colleges. I need to prove I'm more intelligent than the other kids. I have no choice but to reclaim the glory and riches of the Osborns. I have to earn money and get away from here.

Amberson always reminds me that it's somehow my fault he lost everything and that we live in a rundown house. I'm a cursed child. It started when I was eight. How can a teenager be responsible for all the world's woes? What does that matter?

He lectures me, spittle flicking out of his gaping maw, "You need to work harder to get into a good school. That's the only value you have: your brain!" He jabs my forehead with his index finger, "Besides that, you've got nothing going on. Wicked child! Wicked, useless son!" He slaps me across the face. It stings.I stand tall and take the beating. I know I deserve this. I take it as he hits me; if I don't, he'll hit more and harder. After my left eye turns bruised and swollen, he decides I've had enough for now.

He points to the table where the King James Bible is open. Catholicism seems to be his only other distraction these days. "Read it, boy, try to internalize it this time. Start with Leviticus, and don't you dare stop. We're going to confession later; you better confess all your wickedness. Every single sin got it?" He grabs my arm and sits me roughly at the table.

Great, I have to reread the Old Testament. I hate this stupid book. If there is a God, why does he hate me so much?

I nod silently. It's best not to talk back when Amberson starts to rampage. He never used to be like this. I used to think he loved us. I miss my dad. I hate him. I wish he would die.

Mom wouldn't have to work double shifts at a small diner to cover for us if he didn't keep investing in get-rich-quick schemes and then drinking every cent we earn. I wouldn't have to work part-time and hide my money from him. He doesn't know where I work; he thinks I avoid this stupid house. And why would I want to be here? Everyone knows Norman Osborn is the son of a drunk. Amberson Osborn is a failure, a loser, and an angry bastard. He'll never improve; I know that for sure. I hoped my father would stop drinking. I hoped he would be my dad again. It would be better for us if he died. It would be better for us if…

*Clink* I look up from the table. I heard the bottle fall to the ground. Amberson's passed out in his armchair. Mom's not home. I only have a small window for this. I'll put an end to him.

I leave the table and grab a cushion from the couch. Wordlessly, I creep in front of Amberson and push the pillow into his face. He doesn't register that I'm suffocating him, but I press my knee down into his chest to make sure he won't get back up. I hold it there until his body finally relaxes permanently.

I feel myself breathing quickly. My body is covered in cold sweat. I did it. Amberson Osborn is dead. I have to think fast and make this look like an accident. I'm not going to jail for this.

"Fuck you, old bastard." I spit on his chest. I grab him by the arms, and I drag him to his bedroom, moving his body to his bed and placing him face down. I press his face hard into the pillow on the bed. It'll look like the drunk suffocated in his sleep. For good measure, I arranged the bottles he drank near his body.

My hands shake slightly as the adrenaline leaves my body. I make my way back to the kitchen table; the bible mocks me with its stories of regret and murder. I glare at the heavy tome.

"Shut up; I had to do it for Mom and me. If God is real, he wouldn't want us to suffer, would he? God's supposed to punish evil. Where is God when everyone is suffering?" This shouldn't be my life. I shakily close the book. I don't need it mocking me.

An all too familiar voice drifts slowly into my mind, "Is that how you'll justify it? That's an unforgivable sin, son… Thou Shalt not Kill. And look at you…" Demented laughter echoes within my mind. "And these will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.- Matthew 25:46, remember Norman, you're going into that lake of fire, eternal punishment. You never repented like I told you to! I told you to repent, boy." My father's religious fever echoes in my mind, his sightless eyes somehow staring me down—the cloudy eyes of a corpse. A death mask twisted in pleasure."God will punish you, Norman."

I gasped awake, covered in a cold sweat. Good God… I… did I murder my father? In my confusion, I look around, expecting the police to come in and arrest me for patricide. But the fog begins to clear, and I remember. That's not what happened. He died of a heart attack at 57. I had left home by then. Mom died, too, in a car accident years before him; that's when I left home. I didn't kill either of my parents. I escaped before then. Why would I dream about this now? I don't think about them anymore.I promised myself I wouldn't be like Amberson. I never hit my son. I'm not him.I'm not like my father.

"You're right, Norman, you're not like your father. You're so much worse." Gwen's ghost agrees with me. "You never stopped with your family. After all, you emotionally manipulated, abused, and murdered so many more people. The embodiment of the ideal 'if I had to suffer, then so does everyone else.'"

I try to steady my breathing, but my hands shake, and my body is cold and clammy. "I didn't… I didn't mean to become cruel like my father."

"And yet here we are, Norman." Gwen stands by the window, aloof.

Cold sweat covers my body, dripping from my hair onto my blankets. My shaking hands grip the sheets, and I breathe deeply. Why do bad memories always find me in the dark?

I can't get back to sleep like this. I should call my therapist or write a journal entry. Instead, I get out of bed, suit up, and leave quietly into the night. He can't haunt me when I'm encased in gold. They can't haunt me if I run.

Why am I thinking like this? Why is he still tormenting me in my dreams? I haven't been near him since I left home at sixteen. I left it all behind me. My mother died, and I left. I worked my ass off. I ended up here in New York City; everyone wants to be in New York City. I made money, I built a fortune, but I let my obsession with wealth, my trauma and my stress control me. I tried to be vulnerable. I tried to be honest. I tried. But life kept hitting me, keeping me down. I was so desperate to keep us out of poverty, to make everyone forget about my bastard of a father. But I always had a temper, a darkness.I provided for my wife and son. Harry had everything he could ever want. And yet-

I'm alone in the night sky, the way it always ends up over and over. Flying is automatic at this point. It's second nature. I've reached Upper New York Bay. It seems quiet tonight. Damnit, usually there are arms dealers or smugglers or criminals or- I wanted to hit someone. Unfortunately for me, it's the one night the harbour is peaceful at 3 in the morning.

I make my way to a billboard, jumping off the glider to sit and watch the waves. The sounds of water are soothing, even for me. My mind begins to wander.

Why did I open up to Peter like that yesterday? I should have let the memories stay buried, safely stored, and compartmentalized. Now, all I can feel is pain—pain over the distance past, pain for the future, agony over what might have been if I weren't every bit of evil my father predicted I would be.

"Oh, Norman, you could have been so great." A voice echoes in my thoughts, a reminder that I have failed to be anything but a predestined maniac.

Grief is a powerful emotion. It clouds your mind and judgment, and it causes you to feel shocked, pain, sadness, anger, and so much used to be that when people close to me died, I didn't care at all. Why would I? It was the natural order: life and death; the frail and old go first, and the strong-willed and young inherit the earth and shape it as they see fit. Those who are weak will never survive. The rule of the world is anger and pain: only the strong survive.

But it's not the case anymore. The walls I built around me are gone, and I feel everything. The betrayal of years past, the losses of family, friends, lovers, and acquaintances. The burden of being a killer, whether the actions I took are justified in the eyes of others or not.I killed indiscriminately, and I could have stopped anytime. The people I targeted didn't deserve my ire. They were just people.

It's painful. And it's conflicting and confusing to realize that to move forward, I must sit with this pain and self-loathing. Let the emotions wash over me without killing me, without burning me alive. Survivors' guilt seemed like a lie made up to give sympathy to those who survived the tragedy. Yet now, I'm all too familiar.

I could have saved him if- incorrect My actions would have been different had I known- No, they wouldn't

YOU pulled the trigger every time

I just saw her- You killed her They didn't deserve that. Didn't they? Why? Why not? If not them, it would be you.

How many people were buried because of my direct actions? How many due to indirect actions? Memories flooding my brain, ghosts whispering in the dark. But this isn't all me. It's not all in my head.

Harry…

There are hints and whispers in the wind that something is afoot. Someone is messing with me, but why?

I feel a personal responsibility to investigate in secret, to snuff out anything that remains from before. There's always someone looking to worship at the feet of a powerful man. I had cults worshipping me as an anti-Christ. There are imitators like the Hobgoblins. Some want the Green Goblin to return, and others swear he never left. Some hate me for my present actions, and maybe they're not wrong for it.

And then there's Peter. Spider-man, Spider-man, barely getting by Spider-man. I hired Peter to ensure I kept it together, and now he's spending all his time with his boss instead of having a real life. Peter insists on keeping me accountable and blames himself when I lose control. He's always nearby, always willing to help. I have no right to hold on to desperate delusions that Pete would ever trust me. Hell, he won't forgive me or like me. And yet, knowing that Peter and Liz are keeping tabs on me, comparing notes like parents with co-custody of a child. It's humiliating. Why can't I be a good person? Why am I such a fuck up?

I feel the depression sinking in, so I go to work. If nothing else, I have Oscorp to keep me busy. I remove the golden suit in my office, leaving me in the black flight suit. I change into my spare clothing. I haven't stopped caching spare suits and arsenals in safe houses. Oscorp is no exception.

It's time to get it together, Norman. My name is on the side of this building. My new legacy will be that I care about the planet and others. I am Norman Osborn; I will atone. My pep talk doesn't help me after the nightmares. In my quiet office, I am only reminded that I'm a sham, a faker. What do good deeds mean if they are hollow?

I decided to pack up in the early afternoon and go back home. I've sent all the staff away; I need to be alone. I must reflect. After spending the afternoon journaling, trying relaxation techniques, and recalling every terrible thing I've done, I give up trying to fix my brain.

I need a distraction, so I begin to cook. It's a hobby most people have yet to learn about, except possibly Harry. I used to cook breakfast for us all the time when he was little. He loved it when I made pancakes. I fell out of the habit as I became more obsessive about work. And then suddenly, my son was a stranger.

My penthouse never used to feel so empty. I rifle through my recipe books, looking for a good distraction in the pages of international cuisines.

It's not until I hear the door open that I realize someone else is here. I turn around abruptly, paring knife in hand.I'm surprised to see who walked into my home.

"Peter?" I gave him a key to my penthouse some time ago but didn't expect him to use it.

The younger man eyes me, and I find myself flushing slightly as I realize he's walked in on me in an apron holding a knife. I feel self-conscious about how I don't look my best. Peter removed his jacket and placed it on a chair in my kitchen.

"Hey, I knocked, but you didn't answer, so I let myself in." He walks toward me, "You're cooking?"

"Yes, I learned a lot as a single dad. I'm a good cook, you could join me if you like," I offer, ready for his rejection.

To my surprise, he sits down. "I haven't eaten yet; I wouldn't mind actually."

I smile, and I continue to prepare dinner. There's something nice about preparing food for someone else."I'm assuming this isn't a social call. So, you want to talk shop while I cook?"

"Actually, I came here to see you." Peter hesitates and adds, "You told me to come by and check up on you whenever I wanted. You left work early today."

I slam the knife into the chopping block with too much force, causing a big dent in the blade. This is about my meltdown again. Fuck I know it was barely a month ago, but- "I'm fine, Peter." I grit my teeth but manage a neutral tone. The lack of trust hurts more than I wish it did.

I can hear Peter getting out of his chair. I don't turn around. Instead, I move the vegetables I chopped into a bowl and prep the next part of the recipe.

"Norman, sorry I phrased that poorly. What I meant was I wanted to visit you as a friend."

Wait. Did Pete say-

"Your friend?" I fumble with the kitchen utensils. I turned to face Peter, my eyebrows raised.

"Your friend," he confirms, smiling. "You've been good to me, Norman. You've helped me in the past year, and I can see you're trying. You're not the person you were before, and I like who you are now."

I put down the knife, feeling shocked. I turned toward Peter, my stoic mask gone. I felt happy. Relief washed over me in waves. "I didn't think you could ever forgive me."

Peter walks toward me. He touches my shoulder, "We're good Norman." We hug, a gesture of friendship and healing. Embracing him felt terrific. My body feels electrified and warm.

"I can't be angry forever, Norman; I've had many emotions about you. But who you are now, you're not the Green Goblin. You're not a cult leader. You've even cleaned up a lot of corporate bullshit, which is amazing in and of itself. You are trying to become better. I see you talking to others. You're much kinder—most of the staff like you. I see you making jokes and helping out in the labs. Don't get me wrong, you're also stubborn, grumpy, and overly proud, but- you're human, not a monster."

I smile. This is more kindness than I deserve. Peter's a good friend. I'm glad I have him. We continue to chat as I cook dinner. It's roasted vegetables, a side salad and pork cutlets, but Peter acts like it's a 5-star meal. We eat together. At the table with my friend, chatting about nothing and everything. But a part of me also wants something more. Somewhere in my mind, I deny a place exists inside me. I'm imagining us cooking together in my penthouse. With his hands around my waist, Peter watches me prep the meal. His left hand has a plain silver-coloured ring, subtly etched to match the ring I wear on my hand. He asks me if I'm happy. I am. He's here. He kisses my cheek and-

Peter has been staring at me; he asked me something, and I've been daydreaming.

"Sorry, I was- did you say something?" I ask.

Peter chuckles, "I was just asking if you're feeling better lately. You had a dreamy look in your eyes, so I'm assuming that's a yes."

"Daydreaming about improving the world." I lie.

After dinner, he heads out into the night—my friend. I can feel the smile on my face. I like having a friend. It reminds me of when Harry was a teenager. I would sit and talk with Peter as we all had dinner. Except there's no Harry or his other friends anymore. Peter always spoke to me like an equal, but now he acts like one, too.

After he left, I decided to work on my therapy homework. I've been trying therapy; there are so many kinds, and I decided to try talk therapy and Cognitive Behavioural Therapy first. Change me by changing my thoughts. It feels like lying to myself, saying, "This thought isn't true; it's flawed for this reason." But I know that's not the case. I'm working on my self-loathing by journaling and saying kind things about myself. I tap my pen against the blank page. Typically, my journals aren't emotional. Getting started seems impossible.

I sit in my home office, surrounded by various souvenirs from the world and gifts from other companies. I collect masks, which feels ironic now. Fancy pens, a leather-bound journal with my name embedded in it. It's a roomy office with large windows and wooden furniture, comfortable and easy to settle into. A large grandfather clock keeps time nearby.I'm supposed to write freely, flowing from my mind.

"Hello journal, I'm supposed to try this exercise where I write like talking to a friend. It's easier said than done when I don't have friends.

Well, that's not true. Peter is my friend now. He surprised me for dinner; seeing him outside work was lovely. I usually see him only in professional settings.

I've always hid so much from everyone. I didn't want Emily to know I killed my dog when I was eight years old. I accidentally mentioned that in therapy, taking out anger on animals, throwing rocks, strangling… I even dissected a few dead animals I found when I was younger. It was a morbid curiosity back then. I…"

I scratch out what I've written and try again.

"Dwelling on the past isn't helping me. Okay, focus. Focus, Norman. What can you do better? Why are you so bad at this?

I can't admit that I'm unsure how much of my breakdown happened without outside interference. I can see with how Peter glances at me that he suspects as much as well. For God's sake, I've been beaten senseless at least 5 or 6 times this year, all because I refuse to fight with the same determination and fury that carried me in the past.

I may not be a complete pacifist, but I cannot justify killing for any reason. Anytime I kill, and the body count increases, I can hear him reminding me that I'm as fake as ever.

Empty Penthouse. Empty life. As isolated as ever."

I scratch this out as well. I stare at my journal, entire pages scratched out. I start tearing out the pages and balling them into the waste bin. I can't do this. This is so stupid.

Instead, I prepare for a PR stunt I somehow agreed to tomorrow. Norman Osborn talks about being The Gold Goblin... or some other trite title that this podcast will inevitably use. Jonah's been hounding me for weeks, promising it'll be "fun" and "a good way to mend fences."I discussed it with Peter over dinner; he thinks "Threats and Menaces" sounds excellent for gaining public trust. Peter said it had been helpful for him and Jonah in the past to sort out some of their bad blood. It also helped improve his public image. According to Peter, I could use good PR. I come off as "cold" and "unrelatable." He added the descriptors of difficult, temperamental, and prickly, and I cut him off. I get it. I'm a jerk. I prepare notes about Oscorp and our latest projects and write about aiding Spider-man and fighting crime. I silently hope the obvious questions about my personal life won't arise.

The next day, I sat in the recording studio, putting on the headset in front of a microphone. This looks like a radio booth; I've done radio interviews before. Jonah looks like Jonah, a big pile of notes in a folder in front of him. I noticed other much younger people working in this building, including Norah Winters, with whom I have an adverse history. That quirky blonde investigative journalist is now not much more than a tabloid writer. I don't see much difference between her days at The Bugle and now, considering she has no sense of self-preservation. She tries to act cute but loves to ruin people, including herself. That woman's burned more bridges than I have.

Jonah settles into his chair, headset on as he flicks a few dials and buttons. A sign flashing on that says "Recording." I sit across from him, keeping my gaze neutral. We both have water bottles and cups of coffee with his show's logo on them. I scheduled an hour for this, and I hope it doesn't run over time.

Jonah speaks boomingly, "Hello, fellow seekers of Truth and Justice. I'm your host, J. Jonah Jameson, and this is Threats and Menaces. I'm here to help you set the record straight in these uncertain times. My guest today is Norman Osborn, CEO of Oscorp and an occasional vigilante known as the Gold Goblin. Norman and I have been friends on and off for years. Say hi to our listeners, Norman."

I speak clearly into the mic, relaxed in this studio. "Hello. It's a pleasure to be on, I'm sure. I want to remind everyone that I did not pick that name; I would like the "goblin" moniker to die out. I'm not that person anymore, and I intend to prove that to your listeners today. It is good to see you, Jonah. I hope our friendship is on and not off." It was a good introduction. I wish people would stop calling me goblin this and that, but I doubt my statement will make a difference.

Jonah throws back his head and laughs heartily. "Of course you do, Norman. There's a heart beating somewhere in that expensive suit, after all. And I'm not talking about the gold one!"

It takes a lot not to roll my eyes at his humour. Good PR, I need good PR. I offer a slight smile instead.

Jonah flips open a notebook and makes some notes in pen as he reads his script. "But we're not here to talk about our shared history; today, we want to answer the burning questions of the public! Let's get started. Norman, over the years, you've been many things. Ruthless is usually the word most associated with you. You've always been considered a powerful man who shouldn't be crossed, a businessman who built an empire, a costumed maniac who terrorized the city and attempted treason, often clashing with Spider-Man and other heroes. But now you're turning over a new leaf: no more Green Goblin, no more homicide. Everything is by the book all remember the Sin-Eater. You were one of his last victims, or should we say he saved you?"

I feel my body tense. I don't owe that man a debt of gratitude. I keep the tension out of my voice, speaking slowly, "I wouldn't call a man inciting riots a hero; he did shoot me point blank with a shotgun. I'm not even sure what "sin removal" means. Sin-Eater may have changed me for the better, but he also caused turmoil for the entire city."

Jonah cuts in, "Turmoil that inconvenienced you, Wilson Fisk, and other corrupt officials. You were the director of Ravenscroft Asylum under Wilson Fisk's mayoral run, correct?"

I'm becoming agitated. I inhale slowly, "Yes, I was, and if you check, I've stepped down from those operations. Ravenscroft is run by professionals with cutting-edge techniques for rehabilitating and healing dangerous criminals. I funded its reconstruction and remodelling myself. As for Sin-Eater, he created a vigilante mob with no intention of rehabilitation, only mindless executions. His mob attacked people indiscriminately. I'm confident the mobs caused more chaos and violence than they did good. I won't deny that I had poor motives back then, but the Sin-Eater almost caused the collapse of half of New York."

What the hell are you doing, Jonah?Are you trying to piss me off?

Jonah avoids my glare as he continues his script, "It's a good thing Spider-Man was there to stop him! He's turned out to be an invaluable hero to our city! Speaking of our friendly neighbourhood Spider-man, you've been spotting aiding him lately in your Golden 've heard many rumours about that, some good and others bad. Are the rumours true that this is all a publicity stunt? A way for you to gain points in the eye of the public? You said you're done with being a villain, but is the Gold Goblin a hero?"

His dramatic radio voice makes this sound like such a farce. I know he's goading me. He suspects I'm laying low until I can kill Peter. If he knew how I felt about Peter, he'd know how wrong he truly is.

"I don't like what you're implying, Jonah. I told you I'm not a goblin, green or otherwise. I'm just a man trying to be better."

Jonah laughs awkwardly and sips his coffee, "It's nothing personal, Norman. These are listener questions. After all, my job is to get to the truth! Andhow better to get to the truth with a hard-hitting Q and A."

"Everything I do is legal now, and I have a team of lawyers who ensure I do things correctly. I have been very transparent with my intentions. No more tricks, no more plots or schemes. Why would I be helping Spider-Man if I was still evil? I was retired and forced out of retirement by the scheming of Hobgoblins and the Goblin Queen. I only put the armour on to protect my family. I've been the target of villain violence several times in the past year, even when I wasn't aiding the heroes. Everything I do is to make amends." I take a sip from the coffee. It's overly bitter, and I can see some grounds in the cup. Great. "This coffee is terrible," I mutter, reaching for the water bottle on the table instead.

Jonah smirks at my scowl but plows on, "Defend the defenceless, a noble desire. Besides vigilante justice and your grand gestures, have you done anything to make reparations with the families you destroyed as the Green Goblin? My listeners want to know what you will do to repent. Grand gestures to garner public favour don't mean much to the families who lost their loved ones after all. You must have big intentions to right the wrongs you committed. You're not in jail or even under house arrest, which is more lenient than most criminals get. Most of them are locked away, or in the wind, and here you are! Rich, famous, and in the public eye. You pay a legal team to clean up all your messes and do charity work while playing a golden hero. Billionaires are losing popularity; we've all seen the news and the corruption of rich, non-villainous people." Jonah's rant is pissing me off. I don't need the third degree. I know it's my fault. I know I messed up. I-

I cover my microphone and hiss, "What the hell are you doing, Jonah? I didn't agree to this to be attacked on your radio show."

Jonah keeps a cheery tone, "Not a radio show, a podcast!"

I take off the headset and push back the chair, which squeaks loudly against the floor. I glare, "We're done here."

Jonah stands up, trying to catch me before I can leave the room. "Norman, calm down, seriously… take a second and breathe."

I push past him. Why did I agree to be on Jonah's "Threats and Menaces podcast?" Of course, he's going to grill me about all my transgressions. I storm out of the recording studio, Jonah calling after me. I let the door slam behind me, rubbing my temples. I feel eyes on me, and I look up to see a familiar face.

Norah Winters was watching us from outside. Of course, this was her doing. She hates me for manipulating her and ruining her investigative journalism "career." I know a snake when I see one. That woman is as corrupt as I am—was. She ruins lives in her way, doing anything for her story. Journalists aren't saints or heroes, either.I bet she thinks this is funny.

"Ooof, he lasted longer than I thought," she whispers loudly to Peter, "Hey, can you hook us up with Spidey again? That footage sells."

"Norah, don't," Peter looks annoyed at her as I clench and unclench my fists.

"What? It's not my fault Osborn's got thin skin. We all know he hates when people have his number, don't you, Norman?" The blonde woman stares me down. Norah's got her cell phone out.

I'm about to give her a piece of my mind when Peter moves before me, "Norman, hey, wait! Norman!" Peter grabs my arm to stop me from getting in Norah's face. "Norman, take a breather. You're not doing okay; look, I know Jonah can be a bit- he's Jonah, here, take a minute." Peter takes me to the side, and I feel calmer with his presence. I'm glad he's here. He hands me a water bottle from which I take slow sips. I realize how tense my jaw has been, anger brewing to the surface. I can't lose control now.

Norah Winters smirks as she tucks her messy blonde hair behind her ear. I know she's afraid of me, but she's also a complete psycho. But Peter's right. I can't lose my temper now. That's not why I'm here. I breathe deeply, turning to meet Peter's gaze. Concern… he looks concerned. "I'm okay. Sorry, I wasn't ready for that. I was a bit overwhelmed." I force a smile, and Peter nods back. He removes his hand from my shoulder.

"I'm right here, Norman; I won't let anything get too intense. Put their minds at ease, show everyone you're the Norman I know who is a bit of a grump but an overall good guy." Peter smiles, trying to reassure me.

"I'm not grumpy; you like to annoy people. I'm pretty sure most people I know lose patience with you." I give him an affectionate shoulder squeeze in return.

Norah continues to stare, but I resist making a snide remark to her face.

"You need better taste in friends; Norah can't be trusted," I mutter as I return to the recording studio. Let's try this again, be calm, be normal.

"Ah, good of you to rejoin me, Norman!" Jonah beams.

"I needed a breather. Why don't I explain what I'm doing at Oscorp and why our research matters?"I put the headset back on as I sit down.

Jonah nods, "So we've heard your company is pivoting into clean energy, and your projects focus on donating to support centers around New York and opening various treatment centers for addiction and mental health."

I'm comfortable discussing Oscorp and our projects. I can explain at length what we are doing with the jet engines and engineering. He asked about working with Spider-Man, and I said I wanted to make amends and aid him where possible. I talked about how I wanted to be better, to do better. Then he asked me about Harry, and I stopped.

"Harry died almost two years ago. You've dedicated a few projects to his memory. How are you holding up without your son? If I recall, you two had a strained relationship. Would you have mended it if he was still alive?"

I stiffen. I can't talk about Harry; my pulse quickens, and I try not to look guilty. Harry… "That's… too personal." That's all I can manage: Harry's death and fall from grace. I can't speak on that. It's all my fault.

"Rumour has it you supplied him with drugs to get him addicted and easier to control. Your failed son could be moulded that way, moved out of the way when necessary. Harry never did hold a candle to you."

"That's not true!" I shout. The room is colder, but the questions keep coming. I barely register that Jonah seems less vibrant. Things feel off.

"And yet you always punished him, hated him. An abusive, neglectful father who thought money could buy his son's love. And when he messed up, you broke him. Poor, unloved Harry Osborn. I wonder if they know you traded his soul for success when he was an infant."

"Shut up!" I see Kindred standing against the recording studio's glass window. He grins maliciously at me. "Stop it; that's not what happened."

"Make me father, make me stop telling the truth."

I rush to the window, reaching out to grab him, but he disappears, and I stumble into the glass. The fog cleared, and it looked like I had body-checked the window where Norah was standing for no reason. I cracked the glass with the impact of my hand. Peter is shocked, and Norah seems terrified. Then, I see her frantically typing on her phone. Oh God, she's spinning this into some gossip.I turn away, trying to hide my embarrassment.

Jonah rushes to me. "Norman, what the hell was that? I'm trying to throw you a bone here."

Norha and Peter burst into the recording studio. "What the fuck just happened? Is he off his meds again?" Norah roars. "Hey asshole, I'm not afraid of you; you don't get to come in here and act like a maniac." She keeps yelling at me.

I ignore them and search for traces of how Kindred got in and where he went, running my hands along the glass, the floor, and any surface I can find. There's nothing. I can't track him. I can't find him—nothing to show for what just happened. I feel frantic. I can see Jonah looking concerned. This isn't like me. I'm not this panicked, but… "Nothing… Nothing… He can't have gone far, can he?" I mutter, "I'll pay for the window. I have to go."

This time, Peter can't stop me as I hurry out of the building onto the busy street. I briefly see Harry walking in the crowd. "Harry! Harry, please stop!" I cry out, my voice filled with desperation. The bustling crowd pays me no mind. Their indifference starkly contrasts my frantic pleas. Peter catches up to me, his face a mix of worry and confusion, as I continue to call out for my son. "Harry, we need to talk! I know you're close by!"

Peter grabs me by the shoulders and shuffles me away from the sidewalk. Jonah's with him, and both look concerned. "Norman! Norman stop! Harry is gone. He's dead! I don't know what happened there, but you've got to stop." Peter places a hand on my shoulder, trying to calm me down. He and Jonah bring me back into the building. Jonah barks at someone to grab me a glass of water. Peter leads me to a chair, and I sit down but can't calm myself. He was here in front of other people; he was here, and I know it.

"Harry was there, Peter, I swear it! I saw him in the recording room, standing before the window, and then he was gone. But I know he was there." I plead, my voice filled with a desperate certainty. "Harry's alive. He's still here. You have to believe me. I'm not crazy. I know what I saw."I implore Jonah and Peter. Their disbelief is apparent in their glances. They've both experienced loss and seen the world's unpredictability, but they don't understand. They don't believe me.

Peter sits beside me, and he speaks softly. "Norman, please stop. I'm going to take you home or to your therapist if I can get you in now. You're grieving, Norman; it's normal. I used to think I saw Uncle Ben everywhere when he first died. You're upset because Jonah mentioned Harry, and you haven't accepted his death. He's gone."He puts his hand on my knee, trying to soothe me.

Jonah gently adds, "Norman, there wasn't anyone but us in the studio. I'm sorry I mentioned Harry. I could see you looking distressed when I mentioned his name. It was out of line on my part. I know some good books on grief if you want. I've read a lot of them."

They're both wrong. I know what grief is. And this isn't it.I slow my breathing, collecting myself. Keep it together.

I look at Jonah and Peter and smile. "You're both right, sorry I was overwhelmed. Look… I have to pick up Normie from school. I'll be fine." I show Peter my text to Liz.

Liz: Norman, I'm out of the country for a week. Can you watch the kids?

Norman: Yes, I'll pick Normie up after school.

Liz: Good, I'll be back late the following Monday.

I put my phone away. Jonah and Peter exchange glances. They seem satisfied with me agreeing with them.

"Okay, Norman, visit your grandkids. It'll be a good break for you." Pete smiles, "Say hi to the kids for me."

I've become the kid's alternative guardian since Harry died. I never considered I'd be able to repair that relationship, considering all I've put those children through. But Normie and I are working on rebuilding trust. He often gives me a snark for my past actions, but he does want to know about his father. And despite all my flaws, he brings out a softer side to me. I try not to spoil the kids, but I like taking them places: Coney Island, batting cages, movies, and anywhere they want. Without the goblin influence, I can be the doting grandfather.

It's not about having an heir anymore. I want my family to love me. Normie has been a bit irritated with me lately. Not that I blame him. I did turn him into a monster, exploiting his love and trust. I wish I could take it back. I know he's entangled with a symbiote. I'm leaving that be for now. If it were up to me, I'd rip it out of him and kill that thing for it's not up to me. It's up to Normie, so I watch it to ensure he doesn't get into more trouble.

I'm holding Stanley's hand. I grabbed him from Liz already. He's bouncing up and down, waiting for his brother.

"Hey, Pop-pop," Normie greets me as I pick him up from the school gates.

"Hello Normie, how was school?" I ask. Uniformed children rush to meet their parents, and some glance at us. They all know who I am. Most of them have kissed my ass in the past. I ignore the eyes and walk with Normie to the car.

"School's okay, I guess. Some of the other kids are jerks." Normie says, "They mostly leave me alone now. We're going on a field trip to the Science Museum next week."

I'm relieved he's being left alone; otherwise, I would talk to the headmaster.

"Good to hear. What are you studying?"

Our mundane conversation continues like this until we reach the car. Stanley lets go of my hand and jumps into the backseat, kicking his legs against the seat. It must be nice to be so carefree…

Normie looks like he struggles with the weight of the world. He's ten, he shouldn't be worried about anything or have problems.

I take them back to their home. Liz's home. I'll check in on my penthouse over the week, but I know the boys are more comfortable with their rooms. My home isn't exactly kids have everything they could want, and we're good at pretending to be a functioning family—at least, that's what I tell myself. Most of our family time is spent when I protect or bring them to PR events. That needs to change. Everyone keeps saying the Osborn name is cursed, that we are cursed.

Stanley at once goes to play, shouting excitedly about this and that. Normie throws off his uniform jacket. He's been reticent.

"Is something wrong, Normie?" I ask. Will he open up to me? He might still be mad over disagreements with that symbiote he harbours. Or he might be angry at me for some other reason. I'm just waiting for him to tell me how I've fucked up everything again.

He shakes his head, "Mom said you were sick a month ago. She wasn't expecting you to feel better so soon."

I hesitate, but I decide to attempt to explain my mental illness to Normie. "Yes, I was sick; I've been sick all my life." I show Normie my pills, "I take these every day to help because I've got a mental illness. Unfortunately, it's something I'll always struggle with. I know you can't see it, but I'm sick." I return the pills to my pocket.

Normie continues, "Mom says you never stood a chance. She says your dad was awful."

I stiffen. Liz? No one needs to hear about that.I sigh; I would rather not explain abuse to a ten-year-old. "Yes. He was a bad father. I'm not saying I'm excused from my actions because of that. Normie, I know I've hurt you and others. I know I was a bad person." I put my hand on his shoulder and looked into his eyes, "I promise that's not who I am anymore. I'm not the Green Goblin. I don't even want to be the Gold Goblin, but I have to protect our family."

"And fix your mistakes."He meets my eyes with an unexpected intensity.

I sigh, "Yes, that too; I know I have a lot to make up for. Are you mad at me currently?"

Normie shrugs, "No… maybe, not really. I just… I wish our family were easier to be in."

"You and me both, kiddo." I hug my grandson. "I do want to be there for all of you now. Please don't worry about this too much. I promise I'm working on fixing everything." Let me be the adult.

Normie nods. "Okay Pop-pop"

"Normie… I know we're not supposed to, but batting cages later, okay? I think I owe you some fun."

Normie smiles, "Okay, Pop-pop."

He leaves to his room, and I lose the tension I've been holding on to. I open my phone. I want to talk to someone, but-

Norman: Looking after the kids this week. I think Normie's mad at me again.

Fuck wait, did I just text Peter? Stupid- wait, he's typing back.

Peter: Normie's a preteen with a younger brother; of course, he's moody.

Why's he mad? Did you take his school hostage? :p

Norman: Thanks. I feel so much better. That was sarcasm.

Peter: Hey, if you're looking after the kids, does that mean I get the week off?

Norman: No, it means you had better work twice as hard so you have results for me when I'm in next week.

Peter: You're so mean :'(

JK

You'll be fine, Norman. They're kids, and they love you. Besides, you're taking your meds, right?

Norman: Yes. Everyday.

Peter: Then no problems! All right, I have to go. Text me later if you need help.

Huh, I'm surprised he offered to help me. I feel myself smile.

When the boys are in bed, I pull out my laptop. I didn't realize Jonah had such a big following. The released podcast helped my image at work. The interns kept approaching me to tell me they were so sorry that I had never reconciled with my son. Condolences… That's new. In the edited version of the podcast, I talk about how much I miss my son, spend time with Normie and Stanley, and try to be there for them. After our first recording session, I recorded some new audio for Jonah, and he added it. You can hear my guilt and regret in every word.

I asked Jonah to send me the raw audio as a favour; maybe there's something in there that everyone else missed. I've even reviewed the audio transcript, staring at the same excerpt.

Transcript of Jonah's podcast

Jonah: "Harry died a year ago. How are you holding up without your son? You two had a strained relationship. Would you have mended it if he was still alive?"

Norman: "That's… too personal." *static* "Harry… I'm so sorry- Harry. Stop it." *Shuffling sounds* "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" *Thump*

The abrupt ending of the recording.

Something is off in the audio, and I can hear it, but I can't figure out what's happening. I'm confident I saw son is alive. He has to be. The alternative would mean… it would mean… I can't be wrong about this.