Life is unfair.
Peter new that better than most people.
He had lost more in his 27 years of life than most people in their 90’s.
He had seen more death than a mortician and had seen more horrors than a war veteran.
But that’s what he was, wasn’t he?
A soldier.
Since he was in what the media dubbed as the “Civil War”, fighting adults in a mess he should of never been brought into at 14.
Since Titan, when he fought a genocidal maniac after his, and half the universes blood.
Since Mysterio, being outed by a grown man when he was hardly out of 16.
And many times after, he kept fighting.
And fighting.
And fighting…
Till he couldn’t.
He remembers meeting the Avengers.
They were all nice to him, and after a few months, he became apart of their little dysfunctional family. And for the first time in a while, more than a few people liked him as just Peter. As himself.
But then Tony snapped.
He died.
Nat died.
Steve died.
Loki died.
Vision died.
T’Challa died.
And after the rest forgot him they either died or left.
Wanda died.
The Guardians left.
Sam left.
Bucky left.
Bruce left.
Thor left.
They all left.
And yet again. He had nothing.
But the world kept turning. People kept walking. And the world moved one.
And so did he.
Or he tried.
Now 27 without a High School diploma, a genius mind, no family, so friends, shitty apartment, and one of the scariest faces to see. Peter was alone and tired.
And every time Spider-Man got up, he lost a little more fight.
Now their was no one to help him up from the sea of black he was drowning in.
Now it was only him.
His photos.
And the razor by the sink.
————————————————————————
He was tired.
His exhaustion was a bone deep feeling that had him willing his way out of bed each morning. Tha scars along his body aching with each stretch.
His heavily scarred hands coming up to cart through his long curly hair that falls to the middle of his neck. One threading through the tangles while the other carves over the left half of his face, caressing the thick jagged scars going from his neck, through his hazel eyes, and into his scalp. Other scattered marks lining his pale, cut face.
Sitting up from his stale floor mattress, and looking into the small, cracked mirror on the other side of the wall, dull hazel eyes stare back at the face of a man who has seen to much. Eyes older than they should be. Dark bags hood under younge, yet old eyes, a thick scar starting from the right side of his stubble covered jaw, and slinking up through this left eye and brow, disappearing into his hairline. Another scar starting from the left bridge of his nose, dangerously close to his eye, carving down through a pail cheek and ending half way. Another, much more thin scar, starts from the left half of his chin and runs through pale lips and ending right below his nose.
Every movement of his face bring a deep ache to his scars, like old breaks long healed, aching from the rain. Reminding him of his imperfections and failures. Bringing back the voices that wailed and screamed at him for not being good enough to save them. The blood pooling from sunken in skulls. There eyes, now grey, and lips now blue. The hair matted by blood, and live he might as well have taken with his own hands.
He know he can’t save everyone, but he expects it. What can he say.
How can he save one person if he can’t save himself?
The popping joints and aching muscles, he stands up of the floor and throws on his shoes. Not even bothering to change from his work cloths he feel asleep in.
He goes through his routine.
Go to work, get yelled at, eat, go out Spider-Maning.
He pulls on his reinforced spider costume, holes on his mask and flies out the window.
Except tonight he screwed up again. To slow, weak, a failure once more. He watch weed her fall, seen her hit the ground and heard her lung deflate and her heart stop.
Suicide.
He was jealous.
But more than anything, he was tired. He flung a web out and swung home, smelling like blood and smoke.
That night he sat in an empty bathtub with a pack of cigarettes. Chain smoking while holding a picture of him and his family. It was one of his favorite memories.
They were playing Uno, Pepper was winning and you could see Tony trying to lean over her shoulder to see her cards. She was shoving him away with a smerk. Rhodey was laughing , while Natasha was smerking at a sulking Clint by a game of Mario kart that showed her in first place. Steve was on the couch snuggled by Bucky, and Sam was eating cereal out of Steve’s shield. Wanda was squished into divisions side, looking on in fondness. MJ had her head on his shoulder asleep, and Bruce was engrossed with some equation on his laptop.
He couldn’t help the watery smile it all brought to his face. He remembers printing it out and hanging it on the wall. Tony wanted to burn it but when he looked at how happy it made Peter he bought a frame for it.
“Ow!” He exclaimed suddenly. His cigarette had gone down to his fingers and burned him, but looking at it he had been so caught up in memory. He didn’t notice it until just now.
He.. he couldn’t do it anymore…
He’s tiered and lonely and… and he missed his family… he misses MJ and his friends and LIKING being Spider-Man, instead of having to will himself into doing it. And push himself to get up out of bed each morning.
With permanently, shaky hands, he reaches over and grabs the razor off the sink. It’s a tiny shaving knife about 5 1/2 inches long. You’re not really supposed to shave with it, but it works just fine.
With scarred hands, he turns the faucet on in the bathtub, not bothering to check the temperature, so numb he wouldn’t be able to tell even if he tried. No
With a deep intake of air, he brings the knife to his throat, already scarred and ugly from injuries time and time again.
The edge of the knife digs against his already scarred skin, and in one fluid motion, he digs as hard as he can with a smooth swipe making sure he’s deep enough his healing won’t be able to work in time, save him fast enough. He feels his throat open, windpipe severed and blood gushing out like the volcano in Pompeii.
He hears the radio from a block away as black dots dance around the edges of his eyes.
He’s always loved this song.
So as he gasp for air and feels the darkness beginning to take over in his vision and creep into his mind, he listens with closed eyes, feeling more relaxed than he has in over 10 years.
It doesn't hurt me (yeah, yeah, yo)
Do you wanna feel how it feels? (Yeah, yeah, yo)
Do you wanna know, know that it doesn't hurt me? (Yeah, yeah, yo)
Do you wanna hear about the deal that I'm making? (Yeah, yeah, yo)
You
It's you and me
And if I only could
I'd make a deal with God
And I'd get Him to swap our places
Be runnin' up that road
Be runnin' up that hill
Be runnin' up that building
Say, if I only could, oh
You don't wanna hurt me (yeah, yeah, yo)
But see how deep the bullet lies (yeah, yeah, yo)
Unaware I'm tearin' you asunder (yeah, yeah, yo)
Oh, there is thunder in our hearts (yeah, yeah, yo)
Is there so much hate for the ones we love? (Yeah, yeah, yo)
Oh, tell me, we both matter, don't we? (Yeah, yeah, yo)
You
It's you and me
It's you and me
Won't be unhappy
And if I only could
I'd make a deal with God
And I'd get Him to swap our places
Be runnin' up that road
Be runnin' up that hill
Be runnin' up that building (yo)
Say, if I only could, oh
You (yeah, yeah, yo)
It's you and me
It's you and me
Won't be unhappy (yeah, yeah, yo)
Oh, come on, baby (yeah)
Oh, come on, darlin' (yo)
Let me steal this moment from you now
Oh, come on, angel
Come on, come on, darlin'
Let's exchange the experience (yo), oh, ooh, ooh
And if I only could
I'd make a deal with God
And I'd get Him to swap our places
I'd be runnin' up that road
Be runnin' up that hill
With no problems
Say, if I only could
I'd make a deal with God
And I'd get Him to swap our places
I'd be runnin' up that road
Be runnin' up that hill
With no problems
Say, if I only could
I'd make a deal with God
And I'd get Him to swap our places
I'd be runnin' up that road
Be runnin' up that hill
With no problems
Say, if I only could
I'd be runnin' up that hill
With no problems
As the music fades he realizes how at peace he feels, how his heart doesn’t feel as empty. Peters never been religious despite being Jewish, but for just a moment, as he exhales for his final time, feels the pain fade, smile on his face, and picture right beside his heart, he swears for a second he saw a flash of light.
“Hey buddy, you ok?”
What the hell…?