(PROLOGUE) Grievance unlike mine.
It had only been a couple days since the cursed spell that changed Peter’s whole world.
Of course, there was no one to blame but himself, however it didn’t stop him from being bitter about the situation. He wouldn’t change his decision but at night as he continuously stared up at the dingy ceiling or flushed the broken toilet twice in a row that was dated to be fixed on the firefighter calendar or even just petted the stray grey and white cat outside of his and Aunt May’s apartment, he desperately wished that it was different.
Peter sat in the old wooden chair in the dining room of the apartment, gazing into the abyss as he waited for the bread to pop out of the toaster. The clock ticked to his left; his enchanted senses made the sound of the seconds hand shifting around the bolt knock his brain against his skull like a drum.
Peter’s thoughts were interrupted by the familiar pop of the toaster in the corner. As he moved towards it in a constant focus, he pulled one of the very few clean plates left from the cupboard and laid it out. Using his fingers, he picked the single piece of toast from the toaster.
He hadn’t been able to stomach much lately.
Peter went to grab a knife and some butter but as he slid the draw full of cutlery open, he saw there were no knifes left, his gaze drifted over to the sink where the dishes had started piling up slowly over the course of the last few days.
Aunt May’s dirty glass cup was still sat in the sink, the lipstick stain from her lip gloss still smudged on the rim of the glass.
He looks back at the empty draw. He wasn’t disappointed or angry, it didn’t make a sadness bubble up inside him or a fire stir inside his stomach like it should. Instead he just felt a brief stab of annoyance, maybe a little numb.
He had been feeling numb a lot lately.
He should be scared, maybe a bit of loneliness gripping at his chest, he had seen and heard people talk about grieving and they never described it like this.
He wasn’t nonchalant about Aunt May’s death or the loss of his friends. It was more that he didn’t care and that’s what bugged him.
He didn’t care that Aunt May was dead.
He didn’t care that MJ and Ned had no idea who he was.
He didn’t care that his whole world around him was collapsing.
He just didn’t care…and it was pissing him off.
He should be throwing things about with a rage inside him as big as a black hole, or wailing in despair loud enough for the world to stare in sympathy and his throat to feel red raw, Peter would even take frustration at the fact he was left to deal with all this himself.
However, he just didn’t care. Everything felt more like an inconvenience.
Peter started to slowly nibble on his toast by the toaster, he heaved a deep sigh as he watched couple ants moved towards the sticky orange juice that he had spilt yesterday before drying up with the corner of his dirty shirt.
They were walking around the border of the stain, clearly looking for the source of the citrusy smell, Peter raised an eyebrow. He suddenly turned towards the kettle that sat on the countertop across from him. The water line was below the minimum, Aunt May was always very vocal about making sure the water was never boiled below or above the min and max line.
He clicked the button and boiled it anyway. She was dead, it’s not like she could say anything about it.
As Peter listened to the sound of the kettle gurgle due to the years of use he heard a loud pounding on the front door of the apartment.
His locked on the wooden door, he didn't want to answer. With a roll of his shoulders he reluctantly headed over and grasped the golden knob, he twisted it and listened to the click before his gaze rested to the chain above. He bit his lip. The pounding returned twice as hard. With nimble fingers Peter slid the lock and chain and opened the wooden door, there stood the landlord. He had been on Peter’s back ever since he got news of Aunt May’s death.
“Peter.” The man mumbled with a frown.
“Mr Whitlock.” Peter nodded in greeting.
Mr Whitlock was a short, stubby man that looked to be in his early fifties. He could be compared to the shape of a thumb, a wide body and small head. Even before Peter and Aunt May moved in, he was always frowning, the first time he saw Peter in his nerdy shirt and comfy sweats, carrying a box from the moving truck he turned his crooked nose up in disgust with a sneer and made a comment about the ‘sloppiness of brats these days.’
Aunt May had almost thrown the lampshade she was carrying at him before Peter stopped her with a smile.
Mr Whitlock sniffed through his nose; the sound loud in the hallway. He glared at Peter in distain, his thick eyebrows furrowed. “I expect you to be out within the next few days. It can’t take that long to pack Ms Parker’s things.”
Peter bit the inside of his cheek before smiling at the man. “Of course, I’m sorry. The moving trucks are coming to grab May’s things this afternoon, I’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow.”
Mr Whitlock nodded in satisfaction. “I’m surprised she had someone in her will. No one was ever around, just her.” He commented.
Peter held in a grimace at the reminder of his current standing in society. “Yeah, I was overseas, you saw the documents.”
That was one thing that wasn’t destroyed. All digital trace of Peter Parker was removed from the world, however everything on paper was still around. Peter realised this when he was going through the file cabinets in the safe and saw all his important information documented. It wasn’t just written information, any printed photograph or identification that was physical was kept.
However, all photos on his phone, documents online, social media accounts, digital fingerprints were all removed from existence.
“Yes, I’m just surprised, she was a rather chatty woman sometimes, yet she never mentioned you.”
Peter just nodded again with a smile as he leaned his weight against the frame of the door, The only time Aunt May was chatty with Mr Whitlock was when Peter had to sneak in and he was doing his monthly 'rounds.' “We parted on bad terms.” He shrugged.
Mr Whitlock put his hand in the breast pocket of his black vest before pulling out a blue and green, crumpled handkerchief. “It’s always a shame when family die after an argument.” He muttered with a shake of his head.
Peter just shrugged again before he heard the click of the kettle in the background.
Mr Whitlock blew his nose before sticking the dirty handkerchief back in his pocket and wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “Well I better go now, good luck with the moving Peter.” He went to hold his hand out, but Peter awkwardly put his hands behind his back.
“Thank you, Mr Whitlock. I better start moving the boxes towards the door.” Peter said as he started to slowly close the door.
Mr Whitlock lowered his hand with another frown, “Don’t block the hallway.”
“Of course,” Peter agreed before finally closing the door shut and sliding the lock in place with a heavy sigh. He listened closely to Mr Whitlock’s thumping footsteps disappear down the hallway, finally when the man was gone, he turned back towards the kettle.
Steam rose out of the mouth as a low bubbling sound came from inside the metal.
He glanced back over at the ants, there were a few more now, walking around the sticky residue of the juice. He picked up the kettle and carefully hovered it over the ants, barely hesitating before he tipped it just enough for a small stream of boiling water to pour over the small, baby ants.
He watched them run in boredom before the scorching water hit their bodies, they floated in the small puddle left behind.
Peter put the kettle back on the stand, his heart just as empty as before.
At least Peter made their death quick.
He could have used bug spray and made them suffocate on the poison like Aunt May did on her own blood, but he didn’t because he was nice.
Maybe next time would be different.