The hell goes on
The snowflakes gracefully descending from the sky melted, at an unknown speed, on the red and blue suit already damp, soaked with sweat, grime, and dried blood. A snowy New York, a magical backdrop enhancing this special time called Christmas—the favorite holiday for so many. The city dressed in a white blanket, adorned with lights of countless colors and breathtaking decorations, promised celebration and the warmth of family gatherings, the familiar tunes we love and hate lingering far too long in our heads.
The masked hero loved this festive season with all his heart. Nostalgia washed over him as he saw families gathered in the streets, while he swung through homes or worked at his job, his face uncovered. Peter Parker loved seeing joy flourish, especially when he saved someone and was warmly thanked with a beaming smile—one of the gestures he cherished most as a superhero. In fact, it was one of the rare sources of sunshine in his grim, gray life. Yet now, he wanted to obliterate the happiness of everyone but himself. He knew this toxic, even unhealthy jealousy was purely selfish, but he couldn’t help projecting himself onto others.
Years ago, it was just him and May celebrating together, united after the tragic loss of Uncle Ben. Before he vanished for five years, Tony Stark and his family had planned to celebrate with him, but they never got the chance. He lost his father figure just minutes after their embrace on the battlefield—a hug too brief, too insufficient. Both had clung desperately to each other after five years of mourning—a father and a traumatized teenager, burdened by experiences no human should endure in five lifetimes. Of course, he had stayed in touch with Pepper and Morgan after Tony’s sacrifice, even growing closer to them, until everything fell apart.
In Morgan, he saw a little sister.
In Pepper, he saw a second mother figure, after May.
Though they were alive, he had to mourn them too. Just as he mourned MJ, Ned, Happy, Mr. Stark, his parents, Uncle Ben, and Aunt May.
His old life,
His identity as Peter Parker.
From the ashes, he had to start over.
That wasn’t true. He still had Spider-Man.
In fact, he only had Spider-Man.
His lifeline in an endless ocean, clinging to this last hope.
He couldn’t wallow, could he? That’s not what heroes do. He didn’t need saving, after all—it was his role to save others.
Exhausted, his suit clung desperately to his skin. He hadn’t showered in two days—not that he didn’t want to. He’d sell a kidney for a long, hot bath; he just couldn’t afford that luxury. Still, he wouldn’t complain. He had found a job, a place to live—that was more than enough. His body ached, numb and sore muscles screaming. He had work the next morning at 7:00 a.m. and couldn’t take time off for the holidays. He needed the money.
His stomach growled, sharp and painful.
He needed to earn more to eat better. His enhanced metabolism required greater quantities of food. Eating meant performing better, having more energy to help people.
He couldn’t continue his patrol much longer, even if this feeling of freedom was his drug—the one thing keeping him upright, helping him see the good.
He took a detour to visit May, to wish her a Merry Christmas, to tell her how sorry he was.
It was time to face reality.
It was time to walk through the gates of hell, once again.