Three children. One boy, two girls. Drowned in the lake. He had held their boneless bodies, weighed down by wet clothes and hair. Their skin was too white, their eyes were sightless. They were dead.
He tried reviving them. He pressed with both hands on their little chests. He pulled the mask half-way up, first to puke out the lake-water and than to give his breath to them. They laid silent. Hair all wrong. Skin too white. They were like dolls.
The sirens came not too long after. To look at the other children. The ones he had saved. And to look at him. They were concerned. They were saying things about panic attacks. About trauma and near suffication.
He had failed. He had failed. All because he was afraid of drowning. Because he remembered being pulled down into the lake and not being able to go up. The light was right there! Why would he not be able to swim to it? But he was being dragged down and down.
And now those children had experienced that and no one came to pull them out. They kept going down eventhough the light was up. He hadn't pulled them out. He wasn't a hero. They died. They drowned. Because he was selfish.
He went on. His suit was wet and his fingers wouldn't still. He could barely breath through the wet mask. But those little children hadn't been able to breath at all. He stopped a robbery. He helped an injured pigeon.
His suit wouldn't dry. It had been two hours. Everybody looked at him as if they'd seen a ghost. As if he had drowned as well. They looked at him as if they had never seen him before.
On the edge of a rooftop he sat. Not seeing anything. Not feeling anything, except the cold breeze against his wet suit. He let his legs dangle.
"–agic incident took place at three this afternoon. Twenty-six children and one driver were on the bus, most children and the driver survived. Four children are in Intensive Care, thirteen children and the driver are still in the hospital for check-ups, six children have already returned home."
The sound of the radio of one of the apartments below was so loud to him, that it seemed someone had placed a speaker next to his ears.
"Three children drowned."
The street below was a blur, strange since he wasn't even crying. Small stings were irritating his side. And his chest. And his hands.
"Spider-Man singlehandedly saved all surviving passengers. Resuscitating those who needed it. He also tried resuscitation on the children who died, but it had no effect on them."
He blinked. And blinked. He felt tired. But he still had a few hours to go. It was strangely silent in the city. Like it had gone in mourning already. Why did the ground keep getting closer?
A tingle in his head alerted him of someone opening a door to the roof. He could probably hear the person if his hearing wasn't focused on a generic pop song.
The person kept getting closer and closer. It didn't matter. They weren't a threat. They were just on a roof in NYC. Just like him. But not like him. He was still dripping. The water didn't leave him. Would maybe never leave him. Cursed to carry his mistakes. To put them on full display.
"I sat here once too."
A man was seated next to him. Gruff voice, legs hanging over the edge as well, hesitant in his approach. Or maybe, no one was there. Maybe, he would fall through the building like a ghost and melt together with the Earth. Or maybe, easy escapes would never happen and his life would always go on.
"December 25th, awfully cliché during the holiday season. Christmas day even!"
He couldn't look away from the street. He couldn't contain his thoughts in their neat little boxes. He couldn't come back to reality, he just wanted a little break.
"And you were still slinging around. Eventhough it was snowing, eventhough it was Christmas, eventhough everyone was happy and celebrating. I will always remember watching from this spot, and seeing all the warm and lively livingrooms. And still wanting to jump down."
He freezed. Or, perhaps, he was pulled thaught. His hands on the edge. His feet flat against the wall beneath. Leaning forward. Would he have jumped? Would he have jumped? Why would he jump? Why would he not use his spiderwebs? Would he have jumped? Why wou–
"And then you landed next to me. In that ridiculous crouch. And you started talking a mile a minute. About some robbery where the robbers were the Avengers. And how you had never expected that Thor would be a villain all along. And then you started backtracking, explaining it was a joke and that Thor is lovely and let's you hold his hamer. And," the man catched his breath," you were saying you were happy to have a rooftop-buddy on Christmas."
He finally looked away from the grey and flitsing colours below. The man was wearing a green sweater. He was old but not that old. Forty, maybe fifthy. A few grey hairs in his beard. He had a soft face, friendly.
"I didn't say a thing, but you took it in stride. Sitting next to me and pointing to every place you had some bizar fight or conversation. You told me about the Avengers. You gave me a codename."
Thomas, for Thomas Malory. He did that whenever the people he encountered remained silent or just didn't want to give him their name. He gave them all nicknames.
"I actually read his book. I went to the museum the next morning. I read it front to back and back to front. And then I read The Mists of Avalon, on recommedation of the librarion. And then I read some more. And then I helped my daughter out with a presentation. And I am okay. I am finally okay again."
The man looked him in the eyes. And the man had such green eyes. Bright and full of life and purpose.
"You saved me, Spider-Man. And you saved so many others. Thank you."
But how could he bare the name of a hero, when so many died because he was simply not enough? When he had burdened so many with his fake heroic persona? When the world would be so much better without him?
"Let me save you, Spider-Man. Let me return the favour. You are a hero, let me go home to my daughter and make her happy with a good story and not a sad one."
And maybe he would jump and not catch himself. Or maybe he would let the wounds on his side, his chest, his hands, scar. And would he be haunted by diving into black, endless water, ripping his skin apart trying to save helpless children. Remembering everytime he held his breath what it felt like to drown with children in your arms.
But for now he let his legs dangle, and asked Thomas how his daughter was. He let the sun dry him and took a towel Thomas had brought with him to stop his bleeding. The thoughts didn't leave, nor did the clawing feeling in his chest. But, he could still fake a smile and try to have a conversation with a good man.