I was a kid but I wasn't clueless
Peter had no idea if the memories he carried from before his ninth birthday were real or just fragments of his imagination, stitched together by a desperate brain. The images were fleeting, hazy at best - a warm hand ruffling his hair, the scent of fresh-baked cookies filling the air, the soft murmur of a lullaby he couldn’t quite remember the words to. Sometimes, they felt vivid, as if he could reach out and touch them. Other times, they slipped through his fingers like water, leaving him questioning if they ever truly existed at all.
As he grew older, this uncertainty gnawed at him. It was hard to trust a mind that seemed so willing to erase pieces of his life. In his search for understanding, Peter became fascinated with books and articles about the human body - especially the brain. The more he read, the more he marveled at its complexity and adaptability. It was incredible how it could protect itself, building walls around painful memories to preserve the person as a whole. But it was also infuriating. Why couldn’t his brain just cooperate? Why couldn’t it work with him instead of against him? Peter’s frustration deepened as he realized how much he relied on his mind, even when it betrayed him. Every thought, every idea, every fleeting moment of inspiration came from the same source that had locked away parts of his past. Over the years, he developed a strange, tangled relationship with himself. He loved his mind for its brilliance - for its capacity to solve problems, to invent, to dream. But he also hated it for the things it had taken from him, for the holes it left behind where memories should have been.
His memories were like shifting sands, constantly in motion. Sometimes, a scene would play in his mind so clearly that he could almost hear the laughter, feel the sunlight on his skin, or smell the faint tang of salt in the air. But then just as quickly, it would fade, leaving him unsure if it had ever been real. Other times, memories would overlap and contradict each other, creating half-truths he couldn’t unravel. The worst moments came when he realized just how much he had lost. Peter often wondered if the gaps in his memory hid something important - something that could explain why he felt this constant, nagging emptiness. He couldn’t remember the sound of his father’s voice. The truth was, the absence of his father weighed on him in ways he didn’t always understand. It wasn’t just the lack of memories - it was the lack of anything. He often wondered if things would have been different if his father had been there. Would his life went the other way if he had been there from the beginning? Sometimes late at night Peter would stare at the ceiling and wonder if his father ever thought about him. Did he regret leaving? Did he miss the milestones he never got to see - Peter’s first steps, his first words, the first time he built a Lego tower taller than himself? Or was Peter just a distant memory, someone his father had moved on from long ago? This uncertainty was maddening. It was like trying to piece together a puzzle when half the pieces were missing, and some of the remaining ones didn’t seem to fit. But Peter couldn’t stop trying. Even when he knew it was futile, even when the effort only deepened his frustration, he kept searching for answers. Over time, he came to accept that his mind was both his greatest ally and enemy. It was the source of his intelligence, his creativity, his ability to think on his feet. He learned to live with the uncertainty, though it wasn’t easy. He clung to the memories he could trust - the ones rooted in the present. The laughter of his friends, the feeling of the sun hitting his face, the quiet reassurance of Aunt May’s hugs. Yet, no matter how much he tried to move forward, the questions remained. Who had he been before life became so complicated? What had he lost in the fog of forgotten memories? And, perhaps most hauntingly, what kind of person would he be if he ever found those answers? Because, in the end, Peter was nothing and no one without his mind.
As uncertain as he was about his memories from before, he was sure of one thing - something had happened after his tenth birthday that changed everything. It altered his life, his family, his aunt, his schools, his friends, and, mostly, his mother. Her drinking had come out of nowhere, bringing with it everything that followed. For the first ten years of his life, Peter knew alcohol existed. He had seen it in movies, noticed drunk people in the city, and occasionally passed homeless people clutching bottles. But it had always remained outside his world, something distant. He knew of it, but it had never been a part of his life - until it was. Until it is.
At first, his mother’s drinking didn’t bother him; in fact, it even seemed to make her happier. She started with wine on the weekends, understandable enough. Free from work, she relaxed, just as he relaxed from school. They were both reserved people who preferred spending time with family or close friends rather than venturing out. She would sip a glass of wine while making breakfast, do the same as sit was beside him as he watched TV, or help him with his homework - when she leaned close, he could catch the scent of something stronger than wine. He didn’t fully understand it then, but those small changes carried big consequences.
She seemed happier, but the light within her began to fly away when she started drinking during the week. At first, it was a drink after work - sometimes two. Mondays became routine. Then Wednesdays. Then Fridays, Thursdays, and finally Tuesdays. The first weekend she drank every single day marked the point of no return. Peter didn’t often need help with his homework, but he would still ask for it - just to feel her ruffle his hair, hear her praise, or get a kiss on his forehead.
" Someday, you won’t need my help at all, Pete! " she would say with a laugh.
But that wasn’t true. When he needed her help most, she was laying on the sofa, nearly unconscious. And that hurt the most. The day before his eleventh birthday, they moved in with his Aunt May. The rent had been climbing, and his mother’s salary wasn’t enough. Aunt May had always visited them often, despite living two hours away. Peter adored her. She was like a second mom. He realized he’d started calling her for the fifth time in a week, and she never once complained. No matter how horrific her hours at the hospital were, she rarely declined his calls. She became not just another person he could rely on but the only one. He had a feeling there was more to the decision to move than what his mother told him: 'We have to move in with Aunt May, sweetie. The rent here keeps going up, and my job isn’t enough. Besides, a trio is better than a duo, right?' It didn’t seem like the whole truth. Peter had the nagging suspicion he’d missed a conversation or event that led to this. Not that he wasn’t happy to live with Aunt May, she was wonderful, but Peter liked knowing everything. And he couldn’t ignore how unsurprised Aunt May looked when his mother opened a bottle.
Though Queens was only two hours away, Peter felt like he’d moved to another world. He remembered every shop near Aunt May’s house, the playground nearby, and the library just ten minutes away. But he was angry. Angry about leaving the home he had lived in for eleven years. Angry about leaving his school and the friends he lost contact with after just a month. Moving was strange. He found himself missing the homeless man with the star tattoo on his arm, the older woman who worked at the bakery he visited every week, the view from his old window, and even the graffiti on the abandoned building down the street. He sometimes missed things he hated the most there, trash on the street, broken bottles on the way to his school, even the criminal who lived next door - waking up at two in the morning to the voice of police officers wasn't nice but the man himself was always nice to him and his mother.
Making new friends at the new school was hard. Peter wasn't a fan of any sports; he enjoyed reading books more. There were a few children like him, but he couldn't stand them because of their personalities. Maybe he was the problem when it came to making new friends. People his age didn't like him, and he didn't like them. However, he had taken a liking to a few teachers. As the months passed, Peter disappeared from the school halls and started spending his breaks in a classroom with his favorite teacher, Mrs. Wilson. She said she was four times older than him, and since Peter was great at math, he she must be quite a bit older, though she looked young! Maybe it was her long blonde hair, her full cheeks, or the big smile on her face every time she had class with him. Mrs. Wilson loved assigning Peter extra homework and often called Aunt May to sign a few papers. It wasn't long before Peter started participating in math competitions. At first, it was just within his school, and he easily outperformed his classmates. Then came the neighboring schools, where the pressure began to raise. Every win brought a mix of excitment and anxiety - what if he failed next time? The stress of keeping a winning streak began to weigh on him. Finally, the inevitable happened. At a state competition, Peter faced a tough problem and stumbled. He didn't win, and the loss hit him hard. For days, he replayed the moment. Meanwhile, his classmates were a constant reminder of how different he felt. There was one boy who barely spoke English, his presence a quiet mystery to Peter. Then there were a few rich kids with fresh books and fancy-looking notebooks, always seeming worlds apart with their shiny gadgets and expensive clothes. One girl always had a weird smell that set her apart, making Peter feel a strange mix of pity and discomfort. Some classmates simply didn't like him, their outright rejection stoking his insecurities. One boy, who consistently got straight A's, was a silent enigma. Peter couldn't recall ever hearing him speak, which somehow made him even more intimidating. It wasn't just that they were different - it was that they seemed so sure of themselves in ways Peter couldn't fathom. Their confidence, or sometimes aloofness, magnified his own social anxieties. He often felt out of place, like an observer rather than a participant in the social world around him. Peter's social anxiety made it difficult for him to reach out. Every interaction was a potential minefield, and he often second-guessed himself, wondering if he had said the wrong thing or if people were judging him. This anxiety only grew when his mother went to rehab for the first time. Back then Peter didn’t fully understand why his mother had to go away. One day she was there, and the next, she was gone. Aunt May told him she was getting better at a place called rehab. It sounded serious, but no one explained what getting better really meant. They just said it was important and that she would be back when she was ready. But for Peter, it felt like she had vanished, leaving an empty space where she used to be. There was a mixture of confusion and sadness. His mother had never left him like this before. He could still call her sometimes, but the conversations were short, and she sounded tired, different. As the days turned into weeks, sadness turned into irritation. Why couldn’t she just come home? Why did she have to leave him? He missed her presence, her movement in the kitchen at night, smell of the drink in her hand, and the comfort of knowing she was just a room away or laying in the living room.
Despite everything, Peter found something stable in the familiarity of numbers and equations. They were predictable, unlike the confusing dynamics of human relationships. Numbers didn’t change suddenly or let him down; they followed rules, had clear answers, and made sense in a world that no longer did. With his mother gone, the comfort he found in math became his anchor, a way to hold onto something when everything else felt unstable. While making friends had always been difficult, it became even harder after his mother left for rehab. He couldn’t bring himself to care about his new classmates at the different school. They all seemed distant, wrapped up in their own lives, and Peter had no interest in trying to break into their circles. He would sit quietly at his desk, head down, focused entirely on his work. Socializing felt pointless. What did it matter if he didn’t fit in? His world had narrowed to one purpose: schoolwork. The day he arrived at the new school, Peter made a decision - he would focus only on his education. If he couldn’t control what happened at home, he could control how well he did in school. His dedication paid off. He began getting straight A’s, acing every test and assignment. Teachers praised his work ethic, but Peter didn’t feel proud. To him, it was just something to do, a way to keep his mind off the emptiness left by his mother’s disappearance. But Peter’s life outside of school was almost nonexistent. He had no friends, nothing that connected him to the world beyond his textbooks. Aunt May noticed and tried to encourage him to be more social. She’d suggest playdates with other kids, sign him up for after-school activities, or invite neighbors over. Peter always found an excuse to stay home.
He had a hobby that he never told or showed anyone. Drawning.
His drawings started as simple doodles, small distractions of his school notebooks. At first, they were just shapes and patterns, lines and circles that he would trace while listening to his teachers or sitting alone during lunch. But over time, these doodles grew more detailed, more purposeful, transforming into something deeper. He never wanted to become an artist. Drawing was just something he did when the weight of his thoughts felt too heavy. It started with sketches of familiar things—his mother’s face, her smile that he missed so much, or the park they used to visit together. These drawings felt like a way to keep her close, to hold onto the memories that were starting to feel distant. He’d draw her sitting on their couch, or the way she used to tie her hair back when she was cooking. Each line and stroke was a way of remembering, of keeping her present even when she was far away. He also started drawing characters from his favorite books, imagining himself as one of them. In these sketches, he wasn’t just Peter; he was a brave adventurer, a clever detective, or a magical hero. He drew himself with a sword or a wand, facing down dragons or solving mysteries. These drawings gave him a sense of empowerment, a way to imagine himself as strong and capable, when he felt small in real life.
Peter had always been drawn to the world of superheroes, their stories offering an escape from the complexities of his own life. After his mother left, he found solace in sketching them, pouring his emotions into every line and detail. For a long time, he fixated on Captain America. There was something comforting about the idea of a hero who was a symbol of hope and justice. Peter admired Captain America’s courage, his sense of duty. He spent hours trying to perfect the shield, the costume.. But as much as he tried, something didn’t feel quite right. The lines didn’t flow as naturally, and the emotional release he felt when drawing wasn’t the same. Captain America seemed too perfect, too far removed from the messy, complicated feelings Peter was grappling with. Captain America stood for a world of clear rights and wrongs, a world Peter didn’t feel he belonged to. He needed something more nuanced, something that mirrored his own struggles and uncertainties.
Everything changed at the Stark Expo.
Aunt May had been trying to get Peter out of the house more. She noticed how withdrawn he had become, how he spent hours alone in his room, buried in his books. The Expo seemed like the perfect opportunity - a day filled with excitement, technology, and, most importantly, superheroes. Peter was reluctant at first. The idea of being in a crowded place with so many people made his stomach twist with anxiety. But Aunt May’s hopeful smile and the promise of seeing the latest gadgets eventually convinced him to go. The Expo was a sensory overload. Bright lights, the hum of advanced machines, and the buzz of excited voices surrounded him. Peter wandered through the exhibits, half-listening to the presentations, more focused on finding a quiet corner to sketch. Then, it happened. Suddenly, the crowd into a panic. Peter was pushed as people scrambled to get away. In the chaos, he stumbled and fell, feeling a sharp sting as his knee scraped against the pavement. Fear gripped him, the noise and confusion overwhelming his senses. Then, amidst the clamor, a figure descended from the sky - a flash of red and gold. Iron Man. Peter watched in awe as the armored hero took control of the situation, disabling the rogue robots with precision and ease. The moment Iron Man landed, it felt like the ground itself trembled. The sound of his boots hitting the ground was thunderous, and yet, there was a grace to his movements. The way he adjusted, getting ready to engage, was so precise, so calculated. Every motion was perfect, like a well-oiled machine working flawlessly. The air was filled with the sounds of explosions, the sizzling of metal, always a step ahead of the robots, always in complete control. Peter’s admiration deepened as he watched Iron Man work. This wasn’t just a man in a suit of armor - it was someone who had mastered that suit. Someone who used technology, intelligence, and strength in equal measure, and who cared about the people he was saving.
So he started drawning Iron Man.
Tony Stark wasn’t invincible, he was flawed, human, and that made him relatable. For Peter, who often felt powerless in his own life, Iron Man represented the idea that you could create your own strength, your own armor, even when the world felt like it was falling apart. Drawing Iron Man became a way for Peter to explore the idea of building his own armor, of finding a way to protect himself emotionally when he felt most vulnerable. His first few sketches were rough. The proportions were off - really off - one arm was too long, the legs looked stubby, suddenly he had a ponytail because Peter closed his eyes for few seconds and his pencil was still moving. He erased the mistakes and tried again, focusing on one part at a time. He started with the helmet, carefully drawing the faceplate, then adding the eyes, trying to capture the intense, glowing stare that made Iron Man so intimidating. As he worked, Peter lost track of time. He was completely absorbed in the process, the outside world fading away as he focused on the lines and shapes before him. It wasn’t just about drawing a superhero, it was about creating something that made him feel a little more like one. Iron Man was a genius, someone who built his own power, and in a way, Peter felt like he was doing the same, piece by piece, pencil stroke by pencil stroke. By the time he finished his first real attempt, Peter sat back and looked at his drawing. It wasn’t perfect, there were still some awkward lines, and the shading could be better - but he felt a surge of pride. For the first time in a long while, he felt a spark of accomplishment, not because of a grade or a test score, but because of something he had created. Peter kept practicing, filling pages with Iron Man in different poses, flying through the air or standing tall and heroic. Each new drawing got a little better, a little more refined. He even started adding color, using markers to bring the red and gold armor to life. Drawing Iron Man became a routine, something to look forward to, a way to channel his energy and emotions wherelse.
It wasn’t just Iron Man anymore. It was Iron Man in action - soaring through the sky, blasting through enemies, saving people. The red and gold of his armor catching the light, the repulsor rays shooting from his palms with precision and power. It was Iron Man saving the day, saving the city, saving him. Each sketch became a moment of bravery. At first, Aunt May didn’t say anything. She never commented on his drawings, not directly. She never asked why he was filling the walls of his room with images of a man in a suit of armor. But Peter noticed that she would pause at the door whenever she came into his room. Her eyes would linger on the sketches, a soft smile tugging at her lips. It was the only sign she ever gave that she noticed. She never questioned it, never pressed him for more details. Maybe she didn’t know what to say. Maybe she didn’t need to say anything. The drawings spoke for themselves. As time passed, the walls of his room became a decoration of Iron Man, each drawing building on the last. Always in control, always strong. There were moments where Iron Man was standing tall, his suit gleaming in the sunlight, a symbol of strength and resilience. And then there were the smaller, quieter moments - the ones that Peter didn’t talk about to anyone. The moments where Iron Man was alone, sitting with his head hung low, looking tired but unbroken. Those moments felt like a reflection of Peter himself, like a secret he could keep hidden away. These moments were the best. One of Peter’s drawings was of Iron Man sitting on top of a tall building, his body slightly hunched, elbows resting on his knees as he stared out at the city. The lights of New York stretched endlessly beneath him Iron Man’s faceplate was down,, like Tony Stark was taking a moment to breathe without the weight of the world on his shoulders. The suit itself wasn’t shiny or pristine; it was worn, scratched from battles fought, reminding Peter that even heroes carry scars. This was a quiet, almost sacred moment one where Iron Man was allowed to just be. Peter understood that feeling deeply, the need to just exist without having to be anything for anyone.
Aunt May came in, as she always did, to check on him before bed. She paused by the door, her eyes scanning the walls, taking in the growing collection of sketches. Peter didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He knew she was smiling, just like she always did. She didn’t say anything, but that smile, that quiet acknowledgment, meant more to him than any words could. And Peter, in his own way, understood too. He understood that the world wasn’t perfect. His mother was gone, and Aunt May was trying, but there were things she just couldn’t fix. But in his room, surrounded by his drawings, Peter didn’t need fixing. He had found a way to cope, to hold on to something that made sense in a world that didn’t always. Iron Man had become his hero, but more than that, the act of drawing had become his way of making sense of it all. The sketches filled the room, and in a way, they filled the emptiness inside him, too. With each line he drew, Peter was slowly building a version of himself he could look up to, someone who could survive, who could keep going, even when things seemed impossible. And no matter what happened with his mother, or Aunt May, or school, Peter knew that his drawings would always be there. They would always be a part of him.
Iron Man was more than just a hero. He was Peter’s way of holding on to hope. Yet he stopped drawning him after his mom came back.
When she returned on his twelfth birthday, Peter couldn’t have asked for a better gift. The door to their small apartment opened, and there she was, his mom. She looked different, yet familiar in a way that made his chest swell with hope. Her presence was almost overwhelming. She stood there for a moment, taking in the room as if it were a completely new space. She was thinner, her face a little more hollow than before, but there was a lightness to her - something he hadn’t seen in a long time. She was smiling. She smiled so much. That was the first thing Peter noticed. It was strange and beautiful. Her eyes sparkled with something he hadn’t seen in a long time.
" Mom! " he remembered his voice, mixed with so much emotions.
He barely had time to react before she was hugging him tightly, wrapping her arms around him, and for the first time in so long, Peter felt like he was home. She smelled different, too. Not the sharp, overwhelming scent of alcohol, but something softer. Peter immediately noticed the changes in her. The way she moved was slower, as if she were calculating her every step. There was something new in the way she observed everything around her, the small details she’d never paid attention to before. Her eyes were sharper, alert, but there was also a kind of wariness about her. She seemed like she was constantly gauging the space, the air, as though she were afraid of missing something important. The smile never quite left her face, but it was like a mask, one that didn’t quite reach the depth of her eyes.
" I missed you so much, Pete " her arms were wrapped around him tightly. " Everyday. "
Peter took a deep breath. " I-I've been doing well " he said, trying to fill the silence, eager to make her proud of him. " I got all A’s. And I went to this big thing, the Stark Expo. It was amazing, Mom. There were so many cool things there, and- "
He was showing her his grades, his new school, the books he’d read, the new bus schedule, even his Iron Man cup. He was desperate to make her see how much he had grown in her absence. How much had changed. He wanted her to be impressed, to see that he hadn’t just been standing still.
" I’ve been drawing a lot " he added, a little shy now, pulling out his sketchbook. " Iron Man, mostly. You know, from the Expo. I think he’s really cool. " He flipped through the pages, showing her his favorite drawings.
She looked at them quietly, nodding occasionally. Her expression was soft, distant almost. But there was something in her eyes - a sadness, maybe, or something harder to place, that Peter couldn’t quite understand.
" That’s great, sweetheart " she said after a long pause. " You’re really talented. "
" Thank you, mom. I have more of them in my room " he replied, he had wanted her to see what he’d been doing, but now that she was here, it felt different.
Peter started to draw less. His sketchbook, once filled with his depictions of Iron Man, heroes in action and moments of silence, sat untouched on his desk. He didn’t have the energy to draw anymore. What was the point? His world had shifted again, but not in the way he had hoped. The excitement he had felt about her return began to fade, replaced with a quiet, gnawing sense of confusion. Was she really back? Or had she just learned to hide her pain better? Peter didn’t know. His mom had changed, but so had he. They no longer fit together in the way they once had, and Peter felt that gap widen every day. He tried to fill it with small talk, about school, about Mrs. Wilson, about math competitions, the things he’d done to survive the months she’d been gone. But nothing seemed to make the distance between them feel any smaller.
She didn’t ask many questions, just listened. Aunt May seemed to hover around the edges, like a quiet observer. She didn’t intrude, but she was always there, watching, waiting. She would make small, encouraging comments, gently suggesting that Peter spend more time with his mom, go out with her, do something fun. But Peter wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen. Something was off, he just didn't know what.
The first night, after a quiet dinner, his mom asked him to help her put away the dishes. It felt like an ordinary moment, a simple, everyday task. But Peter couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. She moved slower than he remembered, more methodical, more cautious. She’d once been the one to rush through the chores, impatient to get them done so they could do something else, anything else. But now she would stop, stare out of the window as if lost in thought, and then go back to the dishes, as though the world outside was too much to take in all at once. The next day, she asked him to go out with her, to the park. Peter agreed reluctantly, not sure how to act or what they were supposed to do. He could tell his mom was trying. She suggested they take a walk, something simple. Peter tried his best to fill the silence, talking about his favorite books and the math problems he’d been solving, but his mother’s responses were short, distracted. Her eyes would dart to the people walking by, or the trees, or anything else, but not at him. It was like she was there, but not present in the way he had hoped. When she tried to help him with his homework, there was an air of hesitation, as if she wasn’t sure how to interact with him anymore. She would sit next to him at the kitchen table, flipping through his math workbook, but her concentration would drift, and she’d stare off into the distance as if lost in thought. Peter noticed the little things, the way her hands would tremble when she held a pencil, the way she would sigh and rub her forehead, like something was weighing heavily on her. And for the first time in his life, he found himself wishing she would just talk, be honest with him about what was going on inside her head, about the things she was struggling with.
He wanted to ask her Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong? But he was scared. Scared that if he asked, she would just shut down even more. She had been so distant since coming home, so caught up in herself, in whatever battle she was fighting inside. He didn’t want to make it worse, didn’t want to push her away, but the silence was suffocating him. It was so loud. He wanted her to see that he was here. That he was still the same kid who needed her, who wanted to talk to her, to be close to her again. But he didn’t know how. She hadn’t really come back, not in the way he had hoped. She was here, physically, but it felt like she was a stranger to him. He didn’t know how to fix things. He didn’t know how to make her better, or how to make himself better in this situation. All he knew was that the silence between them was growing louder with each passing day, and he didn’t know how much longer he could stand it. All he wanted was his mom back. She had moved back into the house, but she didn’t live here anymore. Not really. She was a stranger in his home, a stranger in his life. And he hated it. He hated the way she would sit in the living room, staring blankly at the TV, her eyes glazed over, as if she was somewhere else entirely. He hated the way she seemed so distant, so unreachable. And in the silence, the loneliness grew.
Peter had always been observant, but lately, it felt like his eyes had become sharper. It wasn’t immediate. At first, he told himself it was just his imagination. She had been to rehab, she had seemed different when she came back. She had smiled more, laughed a little, even tried to engage with him in a way that felt almost normal. But slowly, little things began to slip through the cracks, things he couldn’t ignore.
The first sign was small, almost imperceptible - a change in the way she held herself. Peter noticed it one evening when she walked into the kitchen. Her shoulders were hunched slightly, her steps slower. Her eyes, once sharp and clear, now seemed dull, distant. The second sign was harder to miss. Peter would find her standing in the kitchen, staring at the counter for minutes on end, lost in thought. He couldn’t help but wonder what was going through her mind. There was a stillness to her, a quiet sadness that lingered in the air. The type of sadness that he knew too well, but didn’t want to acknowledge.
It was the night he found a bottle of alcohol on the kitchen counter that things really started to fall into place. It wasn’t the first time he had seen a bottle in the house. There had been wine before, the drinkS she would have when she was feeling stressed daily. But this was different. The bottle wasn’t tucked away in a cabinet or hidden. It was just sitting there, in plain view. And the way she looked at it made something inside Peter twist. The old patterns started coming back to him, the way she would drink when she thought no one was watching, the way her mood would change It was the first time in weeks that he had felt that familiar feeling of fear creeping up on him again. The next few days were a blur of small moments that added up, bit by bit, until Peter couldn’t ignore it anymore. He began to notice that his mom was often tired, more tired than usual. She would sleep through the afternoon, her face drawn and pale. She was less present, less engaged with him. Even when she did speak, it wasn’t with the same warmth or affection. And then there were the nights when May had nightshift. Peter would be in his room, trying to concentrate on his homework or staring at his Iron Man drawings, when he would hear her moving around in the kitchen, the sound of glasses clinking against the counter, the soft hiss of a bottle being opened. He hated it, that sound, the reminder that she was slipping away again. He would turn the volume up on his music, close his door, and try to pretend that it wasn’t happening, but deep down, he knew. He knew she was drinking again. And that scared him more than anything. There were moments when Peter wanted to confront her but he didn’t want to be the reason for more tension, more silence. And so, he stayed quiet, kept everything bottled up inside, just like he always had. He tried to focus on his schoolwork, anything to distract himself from the reality of what was happening. But the signs were there, undeniable and heavy. He couldn’t bring himself to admit it, not to anyone, and certainly not to Aunt May, who was always so hopeful, so eager to believe that things could get better. Peter didn’t want to be the one to shatter that hope. He kept it inside, locked away, like all the other feelings he didn’t know how to deal with.
So he grabbed his pencil.
The Hulk made sense to Peter in a way that Iron Man didn’t anymore. He understood the duality, the conflict between rage and vulnerability, the push and pull of wanting to protect and wanting to destroy. Peter had always been a quiet kid, keeping to himself, hiding his feelings behind a wall of math problems and quiet moments. But deep down, he was a storm, too. A storm that was building up, waiting to break free. He wasn’t angry all the time, but when the emotions overwhelmed him, when the fear and sadness and frustration piled up, he understood that quiet rage that lived inside of the Hulk. He could feel it in his chest every time his mom retreated into the same habits, every time he saw the bottle sitting on the counter. He didn’t know how to stop it. And that scared him more than anything. Drawing Hulk was his way of expressing what he couldn’t say. He spent hours sketching the massive figure, drawing the way his muscles bulged, the way his face contorted in pain and anger. It wasn’t just the superhero that Peter drew - it was the monster, too. The side of the Hulk that was wild and uncontrollable, the side that he didn’t want to face, but felt like it was waiting inside him, just under the surface. Peter didn’t talk about the drawings. He wasn’t ready to share it with anyone. The Hulk was too close to the truth, too close to the feelings he didn’t want to acknowledge. The Hulk felt like the perfect hero for Peter to draw. Someone who was misunderstood, someone who had no choice but to fight his own demons. Peter wasn’t the Hulk, but sometimes he felt like he could be, like if he didn’t find a way to express all the hurt inside of him, he might just break apart, too.
Peter shoved the sketch of the Hulk under his bed. It was the first drawing he’d hidden there. Peter turned off the light and pulled the covers tightly around himself, but even the warmth of his bed couldn’t stop the chill that had settled in his chest. The silence of the night pressed in on him, the weight of it heavier than usual. His room, once a sanctuary where he could escape into the world of numbers and Iron Man, now felt like a cage. He had drawn the Hulk, not just because of his own internal storm, but because he couldn’t stop feeling that growing sense of dread. He thought of his mother, how she had come back from rehab only to slip again, how she was still so far away, even when she was right there in the house with him. And then, for the first time in a long time, Peter couldn’t hold it in any longer. The tears came quietly, almost instantly as if his body had been waiting for permission to finally break down. They spilled silently onto his pillow, soaking into the fabric. He couldn’t stop them. His chest ached with the weight of it, but he couldn’t bring himself to make a sound. Not too loud. Not enough for Aunt May to hear. She had enough on her plate already. He didn’t want to be a burden, didn’t want her to worry about him too. He didn’t know how long he cried. Time didn’t seem to exist in those moments. It could’ve been minutes, hours.
He didn’t know how to make it stop. Didn’t know how to make the pain go away. But as his body slowly settled into the quiet darkness, Peter knew one thing. Hulk would always be there. In the shadows of his mind, in the depths of his chest, where the anger and the fear coexisted, there would always be the Hulk - his silent, constant companion. And for the first time, Peter didn’t mind. Because the Hulk understood. The Hulk felt what he felt. And somehow, that made it all just a little bit easier to bear.