Prelude
-2006-
“Peter?”
He stifled a giggle at hearing the inquisitive tone, and tucked himself further out of sight.
“Pete, you in here?” The wardrobe door swung open. After a moment’s pause, it was slowly pushed shut again. “Guess he’s not here…” At that, Peter, could no longer contain himself – a laugh burst through his lips, and the wardrobe door was yanked open once again. “Gotcha!” His father cried as he peeled the squealing boy from the roof of the wardrobe and clutched him to his chest.
If Peter really wanted to, he’d be able to get out of his father’s grasp, but he’d been taught many times over the years that he wasn’t to use his strength unless he was told it was okay. Instead, he pretended he couldn’t escape. “You found me!” he cried, wriggling against the arms that held him steady.
“Well, you didn’t make it easy on me, Pete – I thought we said no sticky for hide-and-seek?” His father crouched down until his glasses-clad eyes were level with Peter’s.
The years hadn’t been kind to Richard Parker. His hair was slowly becoming more grey than brown, and the corners of his eyes were steadily veering from ‘smile lines’ territory and into the realm of ‘crows’ feet’. At least, this was what he told himself; if you asked Peter, all the boy would think of was that his dad had a smile that always cheered him up. It was this smile that greeted him now, telling him that “Yes, you used your powers and you’re technically not supposed to, but it’s just us and I won’t tell mom if you don’t tell her.”
Peter only giggled, placing his hands either side of his Dad’s mouth and squishing his lips together, until the older man was laughing as well. “Alright, alright,” Richard said, brushing off his son’s hands before picking him up and tossing him over his shoulder, Peter still giggling away. “Mom’ll be home any minute, so why don’t we start making some dinner?”
*
-2009-
“I don’t know, I don’t know, Rich-”
“Wait.”
Peter stopped where he was, crouched low in the hall. He was sneaking closer to his Mom’s office door, but now he was holding his breath and praying they wouldn’t realise he was outside.
The door opened.
“Hey, kiddo,” his dad said, staring down at him.
Peter huffed out a sigh. “Hey, dad,” he mumbled guiltily.
Richard gave a light chuckle. Well, at least he wasn’t in trouble. “Sorry if we woke you. Why don’t you come and give your mother a hug?” He then lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “She’s kinda cranky right now.” From behind the door, Peter could hear his mom give a hollow laugh. With that, he nodded, and passed his dad into the room.
Mary Parker was leaning against her paper-scattered desk, one hand grasping a half-empty wine glass, the other clutching her forehead. At her son’s entrance, she set down the glass and gave him a weak smile. “Hey, buddy,” she mumbled, opening her arms to him for him to slide into them. He nestled his face into her side, allowing the scent of her perfume to overcome him. “Sorry, we should’ve known you’d be able to hear us,” she breathed, as she carded her fingers through his curls.
“Is this about me?” His voice was small with fear – his mind was growing quicker every day, and at 7 years old, he was starting to understand just how much of an issue his powers posed.
“No, baby,” his mother soothed, “I’m just having a bit of an issue at work right now, that’s all.”
Peter only nodded, trying to ignore the subtle increase of her pulse.
“Hey.” Peter raised his head to meet her eyes. She smiled warmly at him, taking a moment to sweep her blonde fringe away from her eyes before brushing her fingers against his cheek. “How’d you like to come to the lab with me tomorrow?”
Peter’s eyes lit up; he barely registered the way his dad shifted uncomfortably behind them. “Really?”
“Yeah,” she shrugged. “You can give me a hand if you want.”
“Mary-“ Richard warned.
“What d’you say, Pete?” Mary asked, cutting him off.
Prickles formed at the back of Peter’s neck. He’d been getting them on and off for a few weeks, but he wasn’t sure what they meant yet. Either way, it probably wasn’t something he needed to bring up until he’d figured it out.
“Sure!” he answered with enthusiasm, revelling in the way that his mother smiled along with him.
“Well then, I’m coming too,” his dad chimed in. Mary gave him a look over Peter’s head, one that the boy caught but didn’t understand, before shrugging once more.
“Alright, the more the merrier – family trip to the ol’ HT. Why don’t we get you to bed, lil’ man?” She messed up his hair, and started ushering him to the door.
*
“Stay awake, Peter! Baby, please, stay with me.”
Peter could only clutch at his arm. “Something stung me,” he slurred. His mouth was numb for some reason. How annoying.
“I know baby, I know, but you’ve gotta stay awake.” It was his mom’s voice, warming and lovely, but out of breath? And scared – more scared than he realised moms could ever be.
“It hurts.” Was he being rocked? The motion was making him dizzy.
“That’s good, okay? If it hurts then you’re awake, and awake is what we need right now.” She was so out of breath she was practically wheezing.
“Dad…” Something happened to dad. He’d just seen it, hadn’t he? Then why couldn’t he remember?
His mom made a choking sound. He wrenched his eyes open to see what was wrong, but she was holding his head firmly against his neck. Eventually, even though she was still out of breath, she replied, “He’s right behind us, baby. Just stay awake, can you do that for me?”
He wanted to do what she needed, but his throat was numb now too.
“Baby?”
She pulled him off her neck, but he couldn’t open his eyes. His head lolled to the side, and he was too weak to stop it.
“Peter, no-
*
Peter stared down at his shoes. He remembered the day they bought them, just a couple of months back – how proud he felt in them. They were his first proper pair of smart shoes, shiny and black, and completely grown-up. He’d worn them to a wedding.
He never expected he’d be wearing them to his parents’ funeral.
Peter wasn’t sure why there were so many people in the apartment, either. Every now and then, someone would come over and try to talk to him, but he just kept staring at his shoes until they left him alone.
He hadn’t said a word since it happened.
Right now, another person was talking to him. Old. Peppermint oil on their hands, ancient perfume mixing with the perspiration on their neck, tear-soaked handkerchief shoved down the sleeve of a musty cardigan that reeked of mothballs. When they spoke, he could hear the squelch of their dentures, and the clacking of the beaded string affixed to their glasses. A pacemaker whirring away somewhere in their torso, the grinding of arthritic joints. Past that, mumbled conversation, crying, chewing stale sandwiches, smells, sounds, words, too much.
Peter hopped down off the couch and made a beeline for the spare bedroom of his aunt and uncle’s apartment, the room he’d been staying in ever since they’d picked him up from the police station. He fought the temptation to physically cover his ears against all the muttered sympathy that rippled throughout the wake as dozens of puffy red eyes followed his exit.
Closing the door behind him offered a little relief, but not much. Peter marched over to the open window and thrust his head outside. There was still the sound of the traffic, but at least it was far away.
At least he could breathe.
He stared down at the street below. If he could, he’d climb down the side of the building and get as far away from the apartment as possible. It was only the small voice in the back of his head that stopped him, the one that told him his aunt and uncle would be worried, and that he hadn’t even told them he had powers yet, so him leaving through the window of their 5th story apartment would probably be a bit confusing. He wasn’t sure he’d ever tell them what he could do; they were already dealing with enough. For now, he closed his eyes and took the deepest breath he could, letting the afternoon breeze wash over him.
“Yeah, I kinda wish everyone would leave too.” Peter jumped slightly, which in itself was startling; he could always hear when people were coming, but today he was so distracted he didn’t even hear Uncle Ben open the door. Thankfully, the man closed it behind him, which saved Peter the trouble of asking (not that he would ask, mind). The man moved closer, sitting on the edge of Peter’s perfectly made bed. The boy turned away from the window, but he turned his gaze back towards his shoes rather than meet his uncle’s eyes. “You didn’t touch your breakfast this morning,” Uncle Ben noted. Peter shrugged. “And I didn’t see you take a plate from the buffet out there either.” Another shrug. Uncle Ben sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. “Pete, I know today’s been a lot, but it wouldn’t be right for me to let you miss another meal.”
He kept staring at his shoes. He wanted to speak, but words stubbornly evaded him.
Uncle Ben pushed off the bed and came over to stand by the window. At first, Peter worried he was going to level with him, eye-to-eye, and convince him to go back to the wake. Much to the boy’s relief, he didn’t do that; instead, Uncle Ben simply raised his arm and pointed through the window at some place a few streets down. “Down that way, there’s this sandwich joint your dad and I used to go to when we were kids.” He paused then, lowering his hand and staring out at the city. Peter looked up at him with curious eyes. When Uncle Ben met his gaze, the older man gave him a crinkled smile that felt hauntingly familiar. “Look buddy, I know you don’t want to be around all these people, and if we’re being honest here, neither do I. May’ll be alright holding down the fort, and I’m pretty sure no one would think less of me for leaving if I’m taking my nephew for some fresh air. So… why don’t we go and get a couple sandwiches, find a quiet park bench, and wait this thing out? That sound good to you?”
Peter could feel his throat tighten. Not knowing what else to do, he quickly pressed his face against his uncle’s chest and wrapped his arms around the man’s torso, tears finally springing from his eyes when he felt the comforting pressure of two hands against his back.
One breath in, one breath out. “Thank you,” Peter whispered.
The pressure on his back increased marginally. “Any time, bud.”
*
-Today-
There was a glass of chilled water on the bedside table, fresh condensation trickling down the surface. A house-spider sat at its base.
Peter ignored the pain, the wires snaking across his skin, the fact that he had no clue where he was or how long he’d been there for – he kept his blurring eyes fixed on that spider. It placed its front legs tentatively against the glass, trying and failing to find purchase. It couldn’t adhere to it.
He would’ve moved the little guy if he wasn’t so weak. Instead, he could only watch as a fat droplet of water cascaded onto the spider, trapping its body like a net.
Peter fell back unconscious watching it drown.