He ran, and he ran without caring about the looks he attracted due to his speed. Let them look, they wouldn't see his face anyway
He would have liked to keep running, increase his speed and only stop when he was far away from that city, far away from those people. But, for some reason, he just stopped running at some point. He didn't feel tired, he gasped, but because he was trying to hold back tears, not because he had run half the city at a constant speed.
The moments passed like unconnected pieces, like photos that told a story. The smell of vomit still permeated his nose, even after rubbing his face with water from a public fountain.
He was used to suffering some kind of humiliation. But not even Flash had gone that far. He wasn't like those bullies in sitcoms who put nerds' heads in the toilet or something. As much of an asshole as he was...
Harper... he clenched his own fists, hard, making his knuckles turn white and almost puncturing his own skin.
Why? There was no reason for it... he hadn't done anything to him.
Then why?
He gritted his teeth and pressed his arms against himself as he started walking. He kept his head down, trying to hide from the crowd that still circulated through the brightly lit streets.
He could hear people nearby... someone stopped next to him, in front of him... a man by the sound of his footsteps and strong heartbeat.
"Hey, kid, you okay?" Peter mumbled something inaudible and continued walking, but the man's voice didn't leave his head. Do I look okay to you?
He heard sighs, people complaining about the smell, teenagers who started laughing and making fun of his situation, and in an instant all those sounds, all those voices and laughter hit him from all sides, as if they were consuming him.
"Jeez, what the fuck happened to that kid?" A nearby hot dog vendor asked one of his customers. Peter cringed... of course they'd ask, of course they'd look, he had at least two weeks' worth of garbage on his clothes and all over his body.
Peter tried to ignore it, clenching his fists, but he felt his blood boil.
"Holy shit, he stinks." Peter stopped for a moment, his face burning with shame, but he didn't look back. He just walked on, jaw clenched.
After a while, Peter entered the narrow street that led to his house. He just wanted to get off the street, it felt like everything and everyone was making fun of him, and the laughter he heard followed him and echoed in the back of his mind, even if it wasn't really there.
He was dirty, drenched in sweat and with the sour smell of vomit impregnated in his nose and on his clothes.
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket for the third time. His uncle Ben, most likely. He just ignored them, not really in the mood to see his reflection on his cell phone screen. And he was already getting home.
When he finally reached the front door, he realized that there were no lights on, no noise coming from inside. They weren't there yet.
Good.
Peter climbed the porch steps quickly. The keys jingled in his trembling hands as he unlocked the door.
He closed the door behind him, took off his sneakers by kicking them aside and pulled off his shirt. It fell to the floor, revealing a design emblazoned with an atom and the words:
"Never trust an atom. They make up everything."
Peter stared at the shirt for a moment before kicking it too. He didn't care about leaving those dirty clothes on the floor, he just wanted to get out of them.
He went upstairs and into the bathroom, locking the door with a dry snap.
Peter turned on the tap and dipped his hands in the cold water. He ran it through his hair and then over his face, scrubbing as if he could wash away the feeling of humiliation along with the dirt.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
No injuries, not that he would have been surprised if he had any. On his bare chest, dirt and something that looked like hot dog sauce or mustard, mixed with that disgusting, dark, viscous liquid with a strong, unpleasant smell. If he doesn't get sick from that, he would be surprised.
His countenance seemed empty, he looked a little pale perhaps. Despite his visibly healthy body, he felt so... sick.
The image spun in his head.
He remembered Kong throwing the garbage can as if it were a joke, the heavy impact and the horrible smell of wet garbage. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, feeling the urge to vomit return with force, his hands gripping the edge of the sink perhaps too tightly.
He remembered the sound of Harper's laugh - high-pitched, cruel - and the look on Danny's face as he walked away, shaking his head as if to say that it was all "normal".
He felt their weight, the smell of garbage, the humiliation burning like fire under his skin.
Suddenly, the air seemed to run out.
He leaned forward, resting his hands on the sink, and took a deep breath. He tried to control the trembling in his hands, but he couldn't. His heart was pounding.
Why didn't you do anything? The question resounded in his mind. He had a way of retaliating now, he had a way of fighting back, destroying one by one with perhaps nothing more than his fingers. Perhaps he was too strong and risked seriously hurting them.
Still... why didn't he at least defend himself? Why didn't he trust his instincts? That strange sensation at the base of his neck.
He raised his mind, his frown contorting violently. Peter wasn't a fighter, he was the brain... he had a very calm personality, some would even say submissive, but he rarely really got angry about anything. This was one of the rare occasions when that happened.
He shook his head at himself and moved under the shower, turning on the cold water on his now super-sensitive skin.
The noise of the water and the cold sensation helped, to a certain extent. The noise took over his mind, drowning out the laughter and distinct voices. And the cold sensation overcame the feeling of disgust that seized his skin.
He stood under the shower for some time, whether it was tens of minutes or even a little over an hour, he didn't know, and he didn't care.
He got out of the shower and went straight to his room and put on some random clothes. Dark sweatpants, a simple gray tank top and a dark sweatshirt. Just as he finished dressing, he heard his uncle's car pull up in front of the house, and he suppressed a sigh.
Peter went downstairs slowly, perhaps a little hesitantly... he really wasn't in the mood to talk about... well, about nothing, really. He barely reached the middle of the stairs and the smell of food almost made him recoil. Not from hunger, but because he could still smell the trash can in his memory - or perhaps in his nose.
Uncle Ben was standing next to the dirty clothes he had dumped on the floor, holding the shirt Peter had worn earlier - the nerdy joke printed on the front now covered in dark stains. Aunt May was crouched down, picking up the pieces of the broken camera, the cracked lens reflecting the light in the room.
"Peter?" Ben turned around, his worried expression soon turning to confusion and something close to frustration. "What is this?"
He could hear his heartbeat... that only seemed to make things worse. Aunt May's body is weak, she couldn't go through that kind of stress.
"Pete... what happened?" Ben asked again, this time more firmly after Peter had been silent for some time.
"It's nothing!" Peter said suddenly, without thinking, his voice rising a little.
"Peter, there's no way it's nothing." His aunt said, her sweet voice saying worried words. She lifted her face, holding the broken body of the camera. "Your clothes look awful, Peter, and your camera is destroyed. What happened?"
"I fell, okay?" He said, perhaps a little more rudely than he had intended. He looked away and walked into the kitchen. "That's all that happened."
He didn't want them to worry... or for it to become something bigger than it could be.
" You fell?" Ben asked, clearly not believing it at all, his arms crossed in front of his chest. "You expect us to believe that?"
"Look, I told you I'm fine!" He said, louder now, the glass of water in his hand beginning to crack from his increasing grip.
Both Ben and May fell silent for a few moments. Peter wasn't one to get angry, he'd always been the type to stay silent, keep his head down. They couldn't even remember the last time he had raised his voice. Perhaps when he was still a child, shortly after his parents had left him there.
"Peter..." May tried to move closer, but he stepped back, his shoulders tense.
"I don't want to talk about it, okay?! Why do you always have to insist?" He said, leaving the glass on the table before he could break it completely.
"Peter Parker!" Ben raised his voice, firmer now. "First, tone it down when you talk to your aunt!"
Peter looked away, embarrassed, but didn't back down.
"You don't understand..." He said, more to himself, but loud enough for them to hear.
"Then explain it to us!" Ben stepped forward. "Because, so far, what I'm seeing is a boy who ignored my messages and calls, disappeared without a word, destroyed an expensive camera and dumped his dirty clothes on the floor as if it wasn't a problem!"
It wasn't like that and Ben knew it. That was very unusual for Peter. It was safe to say that he had never acted like that, he knew there was something there. But Peter refused to say what it was, so he just talked about how things looked to try and get him to finally say something.
"And you think I'm worried about a camera?!" Peter shouted back. "I've spent the whole day being treated like crap, I don't need to hear you yelling at me and acting like I'm out of my mind! What's the problem with you?!"
Actually, he understood his uncle, hell, how he understood, he was being a little asshole now.
"Look, Peter, I know we're not your parents..." Ben said again, his voice even firmer, trying to keep himself under control. Peter gritted his teeth, tired of... well, everything!
So much had happened, not just that night, but in recent days... that night...
That night was easily one of the worst nights since his parents left him. And he... he just wanted to... he didn't fucking know!
"Then stop pretending you are!" He practically shouted, accidentally knocking over the glass, which flew violently towards the wall, shattering into thousands of pieces.
May brought her hand up to her mouth. Peter had never spoken to them like that, and very rarely raised his voice. Something had definitely happened to make him like this.
But as he refused to say what it was, they had no way of really helping him.
Peter gritted his teeth, his expression of anger contorting into one of shame and regret. He saw his aunt's wide eyes, her heartbeat racing. He hated it...
And he hated looking into his uncle's eyes. Ben stood his ground, but his eyes showed... sorrow... disappointment.
That...
His throat closed up...
That was too much.
Peter turned and ran out of there, out the back door of his kitchen. He heard his uncle shouting for him, but as soon as he reached the backyard, he jumped over the fence and ran aimlessly, ignoring his uncle's calls, his aunt's, and prying eyes coming from upstairs in the Watson house.
He didn't want to think about who was watching him, who might have heard him. He didn't want to think about his uncle's gaze, his aunt's... or Harper's, or Danny's, or Kong's... he didn't want to think about anything, just for that night.
Footsteps echoed on the empty sidewalks as he walked aimlessly, kicking stones and cigarette butts left on the ground. He just wanted to... concentrate on something.
And that's when he blinked as he raised his head... only then did he realize that his super-vision, still new and confused, was turning the world around him into something he could barely process.
He stops in front of a lamppost. The bulb flickers softly, and Peter sees more than he should: tiny cracks in the glass, an almost invisible wire that seems about to break, and tiny insects circling around the light. He feels as if he can count every wingbeat, every fragment of dust that moves in the illuminated air.
He had already noticed this... inside his own room, not on the street, not like that. He hadn't stopped to analyze his vision since he got those... powers. Something he mentally criticized himself for.
Peter continues walking. A cat crosses his path, and for a second, he sees the animal's muscles moving under its skin, the intense glow of its eyes capturing the light in an almost hypnotic way.
Why was he focusing on this just now? He didn't know, but he didn't care. He was grateful to have something to distract his mind.
He lifted his head and looked at the small, dimly lit square ahead. In the dark, he could see more than he should: the cobwebs between the tree branches, glowing like little maps, the soft movements of nocturnal creatures in their nests.
He shook his head, his feet moving without him even realizing it. When he finally stopped, he was in front of a 24-hour convenience store. The fluorescent lights cast a cold glow against the glass, and Peter saw himself reflected there: messy hair and a distressed expression.
He gritted his teeth again and breathed heavily before entering the store. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for - maybe just a reason not to go home. He grabbed a soft drink and a packet of snacks, but when he reached the cashier and placed the items on the counter, he realized that a few coins were missing.
"... Twenty-five cents short here." The cashier hurried away, and Peter searched his pockets once more. He found a ten-cent coin and put it together. The cashier just looked at him with an arched eyebrow. " You're still short of cash."
Peter suppressed a sigh.
"Come on, let me take this and I'll come back and pay for it. I live nearby." He said, not having the patience to deal with it.
"Store policy, I can't do that." The man said stubbornly, and Peter grunted low. "What? Dad and Mom didn't give you the money for the snack?"
He felt his anger rising.
"Fifteen cents, you're complaining about fifteen cents!" Peter said... gee, it sounded even more pathetic now that he'd said it out loud.
"Look, kid... fifteen cents becomes fifty, fifty becomes a dollar, a dollar becomes two, two becomes four... at the end of the month, you feel the difference. Understand?" The cashier said with a sharp look. "If you don't have the money to pay, get out of here."
Peter took his money back and turned around, his face hot with anger. He was turning to leave when he heard a loud sound behind him - something falling to the floor. He turned in time to see the customer in line behind him, an older, sallow-looking guy, knock over a candy display.
"Really?" The cashier said in clear annoyance. He rolled his eyes and bent down to pick up the scattered packages. It was quick. The guy behind Peter leaned over the counter, stuck his hand in the register and grabbed the money. Before running off, he grabbed the soda and snacks that Peter had left on the shelf and threw them towards him.
Peter was paralyzed. The robber walked out of the door as if nothing had happened, and the man at the register only realized the theft when he raised his head and saw the cash register open.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, again?!" The cashier complained, shouting and heading for the door.
Peter looked at the items in his hands and, feeling a wave of guilt, put them back on the counter.
"I didn't do anything, I'll just leave these things here."
"Shut the fuck up and get out of here!" The cashier complained angrily. Peter even tried to retort, but honestly, after hearing the anger and desperation in the man's voice, he let it go. If it wasn't the first time this had happened, he understood why he was angry.
He left the store and looked in the direction the man had gone.
Should I go after him...?
He would surely catch up with him. He was sure... it would be easy.
Well... he felt a sense of guilt, but there were too many people around. And he could hear sirens nearby, the police on the scene. They would be able to reach the man without his help.
He turned and walked at a slow pace, back into his own bubble. He felt the cold wind hit his face, and raised his hood above his head.
As he walked, he heard hurried footsteps behind him. He just ignored it... however, that same sensation at the base of his neck alerted him again. This time, he didn't ignore it completely.
Whatever it was, it seemed to be some kind of... sixth sense, perhaps? Either that, or it was just a big coincidence that he always felt it before something bad happened, whether it was being slapped by someone, bumping into someone, or having trash thrown at him.
He turned around, and he arched a confused eyebrow when he saw a policeman running towards him.
"You can stop right there, kid!" He ordered. Peter blinked, even more confused.
"What?" He tried to back away, but the policeman stopped him by putting his hand firmly on his shoulder.
"Don't even try. That cashier said you helped the man who robbed the store. Where the hell did you think you were going, huh?" The officer squeezed Peter's shoulder harder. "You're going to have to come with me to the police station."
"What?!" Peter looked at him in disbelief. "I didn't do anything! He threw the things at me, but I didn't even touch them! I gave it all back!"
"You can explain that later." The policeman was already pulling out the handcuffs.
"Hey, wait!" Peter tried to pull away, but the officer held him back, and Peter really didn't want to subdue a cop with his strength... who knows what would happen. "I didn't do anything wrong!"
"Don't try to move, it'll be worse for you!" The officer's tone became harsher.
Peter began to struggle against the grip. His body reacted by instinct, fear and anger mixing with disbelief in an irrational impulse. He knew that, if he wanted to, he could break free easily. But damn it! The way he was, he had no idea what could happen to the cop!
He'd never tried to subdue anyone before, and as far as he knew, he could seriously hurt him.
"Hey, wait, what the hell are you doing?!" It was then that he heard a voice. Peter looked up and saw his Uncle Ben running towards him.
"Uncle Ben!"
"What the hell is going on here?!" Ben asked, trying to put himself between Peter and the police officer.
"Sir, step back, okay? He needs to come with me." The officer said authoritatively.
"Why?! What did he do?"
"Sir-"
"That's my goddamn nephew! What did he do?!" Peter looked at his uncle. His expression sharp and fierce, his heart beating fast and hard in his chest...
"He's suspected of helping a thief steal cash from a nearby store." The officer replied, out of patience.
"I didn't do anything! Uncle Ben, the guy threw things at me, but I didn't take anything, I left it there, I don't even know him! Just look at the security camera-" Peter said, only to receive a hard slap on the side of his head. He widened his eyes, the officer slapped him in an attempt to make him shut up.
"What the fuck?! Are you crazy? That's an abuse of authority!" Ben said again, stepping even closer. The cop looked at him angrily, seeming not to care.
"If you keep interfering, I'm going to have to arrest you too."
"For what?! For saying the truth?!" Ben shouted angrily, taking another step closer. The policeman pushed him hard in the chest, but he resisted.
"Uncle Ben!" He shouted for his uncle, and this brought another blow from the policeman. With that, Ben had enough and lunged forward, trying to separate the man from his nephew.
They fought, at some point Peter found himself pushed forward. He watched everything almost in slow motion.
He wanted to act... by God, he wanted to do something when the policeman's hand touched the handle of the gun in his waistband.
He wanted to act... he could act, he wouldn't have any trouble immobilizing the officer... but he could only watch as the man pulled the trigger and the gun went off.
Peter felt the world slow down as his uncle fell to the ground. His vision... as detailed as no other human's, saw the particles of gunpowder that came out of the gun in an explosion... he saw the bullet pierce his uncle's chest clearly. The drops of blood splashing out of the new wound.
He heard the sound of the bullet piercing his uncle's body. The impact felt like a punch against flesh and bone.
Peter couldn't move his body to grab his uncle before he hit the ground. The noise, always so loud and dense, seemed muffled, as if he were underwater.
"Uncle Ben!"
He ran in the blink of an eye to his uncle's body, thick tears threatening to run fiercely down his face. He was desperate, more blood was escaping from the wound, and he didn't know what to do, trying futilely to make the bleeding stop by putting his two hands on the wound.
The bullet hit his heart... he... he could hear... he could hear...
"Pe...ter..." Ben tried to say, his voice no more than a weak, uneven whisper. Peter could only hear because...
"Uncle Ben! Oh, shit... oh, God... please!" His voice came out shaky, he was trying to put pressure on the wound, but at the same time he was afraid of pushing too hard and making it worse.
He heard the police officer say something, but he didn't even register his voice.
"Call an ambulance!" He shouted, his voice louder and stronger than ever. His eyes never left his uncle, who was weakly clutching the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
"Pe... ter..." Peter heard his uncle's breathing become more and more irregular, blood spurted from his mouth... his eyes looked at him with a desperation that Peter never thought he would see in his uncle's eyes, and he hated every moment of it.
And then, he heard... his uncle's last breath, and only silence remained... Ben's head fell to the side, and the grip on his hand weakened until it fell to the floor in a thud that felt like an explosion to Peter.
Peter remained kneeling beside his uncle's body, the warm blood still staining his hands as the world around him seemed to dissolve into white noise. Ben's empty gaze was fixed on nothing, but Peter couldn't look away.
He felt something against his head, an icy sensation that pulled him into bitter reality.
"Get down on the floor now and put your hands behind your back!" The officer said, his voice sounding distant... but clear.
"Did you hear me?! I won't say it again!" Peter gritted his teeth, his hands clenched into fists. His voice was so... vivid now. It was a nuisance, like fingernails scratching a blackboard.
He... shot Uncle Ben. For nothing...
Peter heard the man's finger move. That same sensation at the base of his neck came back stronger, even stronger. So strong that it was uncomfortable. This time he didn't fight it, and his body moved sideways at such a surreal speed that even he was surprised.
Another gunshot was heard. The bullet pierced the floor. A bullet that would inevitably have hit Peter in the head if he hadn't reacted.
The cop looked surprised, but his surprise was short-lived. Peter grabbed the officer's forearm, squeezing so hard that he was sure one of his bones cracked. He could tear that arm off so easily...
It would be like playing with a doll.
The police officer screamed in pain, his fist slamming into Peter's arm, which didn't even seem to feel the blows. With one brutal movement, he lifted him off the ground and threw him against the brick wall next to him.
The impact was loud, and the police officer fell to the ground, motionless.
Peter stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the man's collapsed body. The world seemed to spin around him, and he could barely process what he had just done. His hands were shaking.
Fuck him...
He returned to Uncle Ben's side, kneeling down again. The tears came again, hot and uncontrollable.
"... I'm so sorry..." He whispered, shame and guilt slowly consuming him.
Sirens began to approach, red and blue lights reflecting off the surrounding buildings.
When the cars arrived, the officers came out with guns drawn, ordering him to raise his hands. Peter didn't even move. He remained kneeling, his eyes fixed on Ben's lifeless face.
He didn't move until the ambulance arrived... when it did, he didn't react when he was taken to the police station.
What happened next was highly complex... the look on his aunt's face when she found out, when she saw him in that police station.
He just thanked God that she hadn't had a heart attack or a relapse at that moment... he couldn't bear it. At all times, he just thought of his uncle.
It happened when Peter was sitting in the small interrogation room, his elbows resting on the cold metal table and his hands interlocked, the handcuffs already removed, but the sensation of the metal still burning on his wrists. His clothes were soiled with dust and dried blood stains. The metallic smell still lingered in his nose.
The door opened with a creak and his Aunt May entered.
Peter looked up, but immediately regretted it. Her eyes were red and swollen. The wrinkles on her face looked deeper. She tried to smile at the sight of him, but failed miserably.
"Peter..."
Her voice broke, and it was as if something inside him broke too.
"I..." He tried to speak, but his throat closed up.
May walked over to him and hugged him tightly. For a moment, Peter wanted to pull back, afraid that she would feel how much he was shaking, how destroyed he was inside. But eventually he gave in, burying his face in her shoulder.
"I'm so sorry..." He whispered, his voice muffled by the embrace.
May stroked his hair, but said nothing. He knew she was holding back tears too.
The public lawyer May had secured came in soon after, pulling up a chair and putting a pile of documents on the table.
"Peter, we need to talk about what happened," said the lawyer, with a tired but understanding expression. "They're analyzing the security cameras in the area and inside the store, your innocence is almost certain, but the police officer... the police officer is saying that your uncle was the aggressor."
Peter turned away from May. His gaze fell on the man in pure shock. His heart was racing exponentially.
"What...?" His voice was only a faint whisper. "No... no, that... that's a lie!" He practically shouted.
"Peter..."
"My uncle was trying to protect me! He attacked us! He shot for no reason!" He argued. It wasn't a strong argument, he knew, but what else could he do?
"Peter, I understand, believe me." The man tried to calm him down. "They've done the autopsy. There's nothing to indicate that your uncle really attacked the officer. Nothing at all. That would be a big thing we could use. But there's no other person who could have inflicted those wounds on him. And even if there was, that police officer has... powerful friends. And he's not just anyone. He's got a lot of influence around here."
Peter slumped back in his chair, his elbows resting on his thighs. He lowered his head to his hands.
This couldn't be happening...
"He'll probably use it against you... I... I can only promise that I'll do my best." His words did little to console him.
Time passed...
The security camera footage was enough evidence to claim his innocence, as the lawyer had said. They managed to catch the thief, a middle-aged man with several previous arrests to his name. Typical petty thief.
Perhaps this was good news for the store owner, since the money was returned and there was even an extra commission for some reason that Peter didn't care to know.
But of course, his luck, always so terrible, sometimes non-existent, didn't allow him the slightest comfort.
The police officer, whose name was Marvin, was not punished in any way. As the lawyer had said, he used his injuries as "proof" that his uncle was the initial aggressor. In the end, he won the case, and they just lost money on the whole thing.
Peter did a little research. Marvin was not a model police officer. He already had some past accusations of corruption, abuse of authority, police brutality... but of course, he had powerful friends. Fake alibis, altering evidence... he used it all to win, and after a few days, there he was again, in his house, comfortable as if nothing had happened.
The sky was gray that morning. The rain was very light.
He felt empty. The echo of Uncle Ben's last moments repeated like a broken record. The pained look in his eyes. The silent plea. He had cried... cried so much in those last days.
And now, standing in front of his uncle's grave, he didn't feel he could cry... he had no more tears to shed.
Peter didn't look around at any point that day, his eyes only focused on his uncle's name. There were a relatively large number of people there. His uncle was relatively well known in the neighborhood, a good man, a good neighbor, a good...
There were neighbors... he was pretty sure that Madeline and Mary Jane were a few steps away. Close friends of his uncle. Marco, the owner of the trailer on the block, even closed the trailer for a few days. Work colleagues...
Peter stood motionless, his hands in the pockets of his borrowed jacket. It would have been too big for him if it hadn't been for his recent sudden increase in muscle mass. It was tight, but not enough to make his body look very shapely. And frankly, even if it was, he didn't care.
The soggy fabric clung to his shoulders, but he hardly felt the cold. His gaze was fixed on the coffin, but his mind wandered, trapped in an endless cycle of "what if?"
What if he had acted like an adult and talked?
What if he hadn't run away?
What if he had come home earlier?
What if he had let the officer take him away without resistance?
What if he had acted before the officer took the gun?
He remembered the argument, the look of disappointment on his uncle's face. "So stop pretending like you are..."
He would never forget that... his sin.
He heard his aunt's voice. She was standing next to him, her face streaked with tears. Even so, she squeezed his arm tightly, looking for some kind of support, perhaps? Or a way of offering support when she saw that he too was falling apart inside.
He looked at May and saw something there that destroyed him even more: hope. She believed he was strong enough to withstand this. He knew he wasn't.
He said nothing, but mentally thanked her.
As the last rites were completed, the priest closed the Bible and offered words of consolation that seemed empty. Peter barely registered them. All he could hear was the muffled sound of the earth hitting the coffin as the gravedigger began to cover it.
Ben was inside. His uncle Ben. Who died unjustly, because of him... and who was never coming back.
He heard Madeline offer her condolences, Mary Jane did the same. He did the minimum to show that he appreciated it, although he doubted it sounded convincing.
After everyone began to disperse, Peter remained. He didn't even notice when May let go of his arm and walked away to greet some relatives and friends.
Then he heard a sound that made him freeze.
He heard the sound of a car, a whisper of a voice he would never forget.
He turned his head slowly and saw, on the other side of the street, Marvin. He was in casual clothes, his arm bandaged, but he looked... fine.
He was talking to a woman as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't killed Ben. As if he hadn't destroyed Peter's life.
Peter's blood boiled. He clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. Every fiber of his body was screaming at him to cross the street, grab that man by the collar, throw him to the ground and...
And what...?
He didn't move.
Not because he didn't want to, but because something was holding him back. It wasn't fear of the officer. It wasn't fear of being arrested again. It was fear of himself.
He knew at that moment that if he crossed the street, he wouldn't stop.
Peter lowered his head, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, but the rainy air seemed too heavy. The damp, metallic smell stirred up memories of that night. The gunshot. The blood. The silence that followed.
He turned away.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Ben." He whispered, and walked away at a slow pace.
Peter walked aimlessly after the funeral, his hands shaking and his thoughts spiraling. The rain was still falling, now a little harder, sticking to his forehead and running down his face. He didn't even bother to wipe the drops away.
Each step echoed in his mind like a countdown. He had to do something.
Something.
The cop was outside, walking freely as if nothing had happened, as if the gunshot was just another day on the job. He had to pay. He couldn't just carry on with his life while Peter buried his uncle.
Peter stopped walking and punched the nearest lamppost, caring little when it bent due to his strength.
The idea took shape so quickly that it scared him. He could do it. He knew he could. He could bring Marvin to justice. His justice.
He didn't need to kill...
He closed his eyes and concentrated. He could feel his pulse echoing in his ears, but he couldn't tell if it was anger or fear. The world seemed different... a strange tingling ran through his body.
When he opened his eyes, he noticed his hands. The tips of his fingers were slightly red, as if there were small invisible cuts on them. He looked closer and saw something even stranger. Microscopic patterns, almost like tiny hooks, covered his skin.
He moved his hand away from the pole and, without thinking, touched the metal again, this time holding it. When he tried to pull his hand away, he felt resistance.
He frowned and pulled harder. His hand loosened with a slight sound, as if it were Velcro. He almost pulled the pole with him, and the metal structure bent sideways.
Intrigued, he looked at the building next door, a red brick wall, wet from the rain. Before he could rationalize, he reached out and touched the brick.
The rough surface stuck to his skin, but not in an uncomfortable way. More like... control.
A small spider climbed the wall right next to his hand.
Spider...
With his heart racing, Peter lifted his foot and pressed it against the wall. One foot after the other, one hand after the other. Before he knew it, he was halfway up the building, the cold wind cutting across his face.
He looked down. It was high, but he felt no fear. He kept climbing until he reached the top. It was so... easy. No different from walking, but with his hands...?
He lowered himself onto the ledge, looking down at the city below. It was as if he could see everything from a new perspective, as if he had been made for it. With that feeling, he leapt towards another building. A feeling of euphoria rushed through his chest, and he hit the ground with his heart racing.
He could make him pay...
He could redeem himself... be the reason Marvin was finally behind bars.
He could be... amazing.