Chapter 1
Peter sat staring blankly at the pristine walls of his bathroom.
A million thoughts were rushing through his head, while his mind still managed to remain completely blank.
A pen was clutched tightly in his slightly trembling hand, frantically trying to scribble down some sort of apology or explanation for what he was about to do.
“Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry”
It's funny how hard it can be to come up with words even though your head is constantly filled with them. What are you even supposed to put in a suicide note anyways?
Eventually Peter concluded that as long as everyone knew it wasn't anyone's fault that would have to be enough. He hoped they wouldn't be too critical of the writing, I mean, you can't expect a flawless essay from a hopelessly suicidal 15 year old.
Setting his pen down, he exchanged it for the razor on his sink.
He let it hover over his pale and scarred arm, waiting for the courage to push down.
His mind suddenly flooded with all the reasons to stay, he guessed it was his survival instinct, it's not exactly natural try to kill yourself
'What about May, Ned, MJ or Tony, won't they miss you, won't they care if you're suddenly gone?'
Peter shook his head aggressively.
No. If they really cared then where were they now, where were they when he was cleaning up the blood from his arms and legs, or sobbing on his floor because of how unbearable things had become. Where are they now? You have no one, you are no one. Just finish the job, it's for the better.
He was selfish.
Selfish for not finishing the job earlier. For continuing to let May pay for his food, for him to be alive. He was selfish for forcing Ned and MJ to deal with his presence, his baggage. They didn't sign up for having to deal with that. So why keep forcing them to.
It was a relief for him anyway. For the past few years of his life there had been nothing. His brain was filled with static. He couldn't think, and he couldn't stop thinking.
He was stumbling around in the dark and the light at the end of the tunnel turned out to be a torch he was holding this entire time.
This wasn't like in the movies, real people don't get a happy ending. Peter knew that he would either spend the rest of his life stuck in a never ending cycle of nothing, or do something about it to make it go away.
The only thing he had left now was self harm. And that just so happens to be the one thing you supposed not to do.
But it's not like he had any other options, so he never stopped, or bothered trying to get better. Why should he? It managed to make the world quiet. Those few blissful moments of quiet were all he had, so he couldn't fathom stopping. The pain was something tangible, a problem he knew he could fix. It was real.
He couldn't find anything to quiet the noise in his head. It was an unfixable problem, and there was nothing Peter hated more than them.
It's also the only thing that gave him some semblance of control over his life. Perhaps that's why he wanted to kill himself. One last thing he could have control over.
From the moment Ben died his entire life had spun out of control. His world shattered, and picking up the pieces left his hands covered in blood.
It felt impossible that no one had noticed. The thing that had left his life spinning out of control had managed to remain completely out of sight to the people that 'cared' about him.
A part of him was relieved, but he also craved for someone to mean it when they asked if he was ok.
There was a small part of him that wanted to keep going, in the desperate hopes that someone would say something. But he had steadily accepted that wasn't going to happen, and felt foolish that he had even considered that a possibility.
He was a fly on the wall. Something people don't notice until it makes too much noise or becomes too much of a nuisance.
That's all he was
That's all he'd been reduced to.
15 years of this shit and that's what he had become.
It I guess made sense he was called Spiderman - no one really likes spiders.
The thought of Spiderman brought a new reason to stay to the forefront of his mind.
'Would everything be ok without Spiderman to 'save the day'
He immediately felt stupid for even thinking it.
Of course it fucking would, how could you be so self absorbed to think that the world is gonna change when you die. You're replaceable, soon there will be someone else to replace you, to fill the gap and go far beyond what you could ever do. The Avengers are always gonna be there. How the fuck could you think that the world is a better place with you in it.
Peter let out a deep breath, before slowly dragging the blade down both his arms, leaving two gaping incisions.
Immediately, vibrant crimson blood began squirting from his arms, the erratic rhythm mimicking the sobbing he didn't realise had started.
Fuck
Was it supposed to hurt this much? Was it supposed to hurt more? Would this be enough? Please fucking let this be enough.
His breathing quickened, he was gasping for air, it was like he was choking. Was it panic, or because of the blood loss?
A million questions were rushing through Peter's head, he didn't have an answer to any of them.
As the puddle of blood beneath him grew in diameter he felt his strength quickly diminishing. With that, came a bone-deep coldness that spread quickly through his body
Fuck
So this is what dying feels like.
Slowly, black began to overtake his vision, as he felt his consciousness get stripped from him.