Peter Parker, xxxx-xxxx, A Spider who died too young
Peter, well, was dying. At least he thought so, but maybe that was just his arachnid part. He coughed up a concerning amount of blood. Nevermind, he was dying. How was he dying, that's a good question. Spider-Man thought that insect repellent wouldn't bother him, and which genius thought that it would work, well, he needed a word. I mean, sure, he was allergic to everything spiders were allergic to, and hated a lot of things they hated, but why he didn't think insect repellent worked against him, he would never know. How the heavens do you know what's coming next when you're some radioactive mutant spider- human?? He was still learning, but no, he was NOT a kid. Being thirteen and going around as Spider-Man doesn't mean he's a kid. At least, he thinks so.
Earlier, he'd dropped in on a group of robbers, just to be greeted with his spider-sense screaming “RUN DANGER DANGER” and was ultimately greeted with the deadly puff. And now, he was gagging up blood and trembling like a leaf in the wind, and what piercing pain ran through him, every breath begging for another, yet how closer to death each breath brought him. His vision started blurring, and for a moment, he could see his parents, smiling at him.
How incredibly proud Ben was, smiling with open arms, greeting him. Sometimes, Peter wishes he could curse at the world, for torchering his very existence until the end, but Ben and May had raised him better than to curse. Part of him wishes to leave the world, to be at peace at last, and live again with his parents. How he wished Ben to wrap his arms around him, to carry him on his shoulders and laugh with him… for May's half burnt cookies. As his breaths rasped and scraped around his chest, guilt made its way through, a strange ache rushing through him. I don’t want the old men to be alone… was his last wish, and forever Spider-Man slept, sinking into sleep.
At least… in that universe.
.
.
.
This is taking way too long.
Wait… what is?
Peter pondered for a moment. Wait- he could think? He didn't know you could think after he was dead, he was pretty sure he was dead. Angels were supposed to come take him, apparently. But where were all the angels? Why weren't they taking him? He was curious, honestly, what an angel looked like. He knew they were made of light, but he didnt know how they worked, so he simply thought it was better to ask one when he died. Well, he didnt think it would be so soon, but if the angel hurries up, he can meet his parents and his aunt and uncle too. He doesn't know if he's going to heaven, but he wants to at least see Ben and May. He's sure God would punish him for stealing when he was too hungry to even find money. He can't- couldn't, he corrected, get a job because apparently, he's too young.
But now he was dead!
The old men though…
He immediately felt guilty for being giddy over dying.
Slowly, he started seeing green. Wait- seeing? He had eyes?
Then all of a sudden, he started choking. CHOKING??? He was dead.At least, that's what he thought. He swam through the strange liquid, memories flowing like endless rivers.
He was sitting in his room, his tears still fresh on his puffed cheeks. Lonely as he was, he knew he deserved it. It was because he hadn't come home early enough that May had died. She i- was only 50-something, she shouldn't have died, he reasoned. That made him remember her cookies, sitting cold in the microwave, and he failed to suppress a sob.
“A true man doesn't cry.”
That's what he'd heard in school, but there was no one watching, so there would be no one to judge.
But the angels are always watching. A gentle voice reminded him.
But the angels were nice, weren't they? Surely, they wouldn't judge.
Peter fell asleep on May's bed that night, her scent comforting him, and his tears warming his eyes.
Green liquid took him away from the comforting scent of May.
Mayflies live only a day, right? They're only use is to bring upon the next generation.
May was never a fly, but she was gone in a year after her husband, on that same spring day, warm, sunny and nostalgic.
The green tore him away from his memories, and he was choking, bubbling, and seething in the strange liquid. How filled with pure rage he was, how he wanted to crush the existence of the man who killed Ben. Frustrated, he shot his arm for the outside world, pushing himself through, and was met with blinding light, only for the world to go black again.