Life and death
August 10, 2001– A baby boy was born to parents who would never know him. His name: Peter William Benjamin Parker. For Richard and Mary Parker, the 10th of August was the best day of their lives. A beautiful baby with big brown eyes and a wild mess of brown hair on his tiny head. He was everything to them. A perfect little boy, with his father’s eyes and his mother’s hair. They named him after his Uncle Ben, and after Mary’s late father, William Fitzpatrick.
But four months later, on December 1, 2001, Mary and Richard Parker were gone. They died in a plane crash, or so Peter was told. He was just a baby—too young to walk, let alone understand what had happened. Orphaned before he could even speak. The only family he had left were Aunt May and Uncle Ben.
This, however, is not the story of how Peter Parker became a child of tragedy. This is about Peter, and the many masks he would wear throughout his life. So let’s begin.
At twelve years old, Peter’s class took a field trip to Oscorp—the company owned by his best friend Harry Osborn’s father. Harry, who was five years older than Peter, was the only person who ever really talked to him in the chemistry lab. Gwen Stacy was nice too—she was Peter’s lab partner, back when she was still alive. She’d died the summer before. Peter couldn’t save her, and it haunted him. But he didn’t let it show. He and Harry never spoke about her anymore.
The field trip itself was a bore. Peter already knew everything they were talking about. He never liked asking questions—he preferred to observe, to learn things on his own. But his curiosity got the better of him. Behind one of the locked doors marked with warning labels, Peter felt an irresistible pull to know what lay inside.
And so, as the rest of his class wandered through the tour, Peter slipped away from the group. He’d always been drawn to the unknown, and curiosity had a way of getting him into trouble.
He entered a room marked with ominous signs: *“Warning: Do Not Enter—Cause of Numerous Fatalities.”*
Peter’s heart raced.
Then he felt it—a sharp pinch at the back of his neck. The world went black.
It wasn’t like anything he’d ever felt before. For a moment, Peter thought he was dying. His breath caught in his chest. His mind swirled with panic. He felt the darkness pressing in, and yet… at the same time, there was a strange thrill. A rush of excitement.
When his vision returned, Peter's eyes widened in astonishment. Spiders. Everywhere. Spiders in tanks, crawling on the floor, in the air. The smell of chemicals filled the room.
Peter had always been fascinated by spiders—their webs, their behaviors, the way they moved through the world. He’d tried for years to recreate their intricate webs in his own lab at home. Now, he was standing in a room full of the very creatures he’d studied, and it was almost more than he could comprehend.
Then, it happened.
One of the spiders crawled across his hand, and in a split second, Peter felt a sharp sting as it bit him. His first thought was that he was going to die. *Shit.* *Shit, shit, shit,* was all he could think as his body started to burn, a strange, crawling sensation spreading through him.
This was it, wasn’t it? He was going to die, of all things, from a stupid spider bite.
But as the pain subsided, Peter forced himself to his feet. The tour guide was calling everyone to get back on the bus. Peter barely managed to regain his balance, his head swimming as he rejoined the group. Harry looked at him with concern.
“Where the hell were you?” Harry’s eyes narrowed.
Peter gave him a half shrug, shaking his head as if to say, *Nowhere*. Harry rolled his eyes, but he didn’t press further. Peter appreciated that. He didn’t need to talk about it.
On the bus ride home, Peter sat next to Flash Thompson—the biggest jerk he’d ever met. Flash was always picking on him, but Peter had learned to ignore it. At least Flash didn’t talk much on the way back to school. It was quiet, which suited Peter just fine. When Peter fell asleep, Flash didn’t push him away. In fact, when Peter accidentally slumped against him, Flash just muttered under his breath, “You’re a little shit, you know that?”
Peter didn’t mind. He understood. Flash wasn’t a bully. Not really. Flash was just someone who didn’t know how to deal with the chaos of his own life. Peter understood that. They were both looking for ways to escape their problems.
Flash knew Peter’s secret. Not *Peter*—but Dr. PWBP, Peter’s online persona. The name stood for “Doctor Peter William Benjamin Parker,” a nod to the part of him that was a prodigy. It was his escape, his way of coping with the loss of his parents and the constant pressure from everyone around him. He’d emailed scientists like Dr. Banner and Dr. Cho—he’d even debated theories with them. They treated him like an equal. Flash had picked up on that, and over time, they’d become something like brothers.
But Flash didn’t hate Peter. Not at all. They had a strange bond—a sibling relationship. Flash picked on him, sure, but it was the kind of teasing that only comes from someone who cares in their own way. Peter understood that.
Their parents—both Peter’s aunt and uncle, and Flash’s—weren’t so kind. They were abusive. They hit their kids. Peter never talked about it, but he knew Flash’s home life wasn’t any better than his own.
That night, after the field trip, Peter returned home to May’s harsh words and hands that left bruises. Ben was at work, which meant May had free rein to punish Peter for whatever *lesson* she thought he needed to learn. But Peter always left. He escaped the same way he always did.
He went to the closest 7/11, hoping for something—anything—normal. But when he tried to buy a chocolate milk, he was short a couple of cents. The cashier was a jerk, and Peter asked if he could just take the milk.
The man didn’t hesitate to pull out a gun, and in an instant, Peter was caught in the middle of a robbery gone wrong. The man fired, and everything went silent. When the man tossed Peter the chocolate milk, Peter didn’t even register the words. He just stared, too stunned to speak.
That’s when he heard it.
The gunshot. A muffled thud. Ben was outside. Peter knew. He knew, because the sound was familiar—he knew it might’ve been the robber who shot him, or maybe it had been Ben trying to stop it. But Ben was gone.
Ben had died in Peter’s arms.
And Peter? Well, Peter had powers now. He could feel them—fangs, spinnerets—an entire new world of possibilities opening up to him.
But Ben’s last words… They would haunt Peter forever. “We should have never brought you into our damn apartment. You killed your parents, and now you’re killing me.”
It wasn’t Peter’s fault. But it felt like it.