Surprise

The fluorescent lights of the subway only added to my pounding headache. I could only squint my eyes or I felt like my brain was trying to escape my skull. I wouldn’t usually take the train home, but my usual method of transportation is on the back burner until my body can heal itself. I sat in a tight uncomfortable seat, squished between a businessman who breathed unnecessarily heavily, and an older lady who was crocheting.

My ears buzzed, and my mouth tasted like I had been sucking on pennies. I reached my hand to my face and winced as I tapped my cheekbones. I wonder if it’s already bruised. I try to look at my reflection in the opposite window, but my vision was too blurry. The subway started to slow down. With my stop approaching, I winced as I jolted myself off the seat, steadying myself before my knees buckled from the pain. My head feels so heavy, I rub my eyes and start to weakly walk away.

“Excuse me, you left your backpack,” the sweet lady yelled to me. I turned and smiled, thanking her quickly. I don’t want to be questioned on why I look like shit. I awkwardly knelt to grab my bag, when I saw a small puddle of blood in my seat. Fuck fuck fuck.

I moped it up with my backpack and tried my hardest to not look like I was limping out of the station, even when every step shot excruciating pain up my body. Luckily no one spared me a second glance, I mean what did I expect? This is New York. They’ve seen worse.

The sun started to set, casting an orange glow on the buildings towering over me. Trees swayed in the crisp fall breeze and leaves gently danced around me. It's starting to smell like autumn, at least when you don’t get whiffs or trash and urine. I haven’t gotten home this early in a while...It’s not exactly my choice though. That fight didn’t go the way I expected. Doc Ock pinned me down and threw me out of a window. I can’t tell how bad the gash on my stomach is, but it’s on fire. God, I feel like throwing up. I’m still learning when it comes to fights, but I usually don’t catch myself at such a close call. My stomach churned while the memories of the fight swirled in my head. I pushed back the vomit and tried to think about something else. Please let me think about anything else.

As I approached our beat-down house, my wish was granted. How am I going to get past Aunt May? I don’t feel like finding excuses while blood drips down the back of my legs. I can’t handle seeing her right now, I’ve already got the look of her worried eyes burned into my brain, I just can’t take any more of it. The guilt is already eating me up inside. Ok, Peter.

Snap out of it. I lightly smacked myself on the face, though the cold air made it feel like quite the hit. I rehearsed excuses and explanations in my head before I opened the door, but once it was open, all I heard was silence. Thank god she isn’t home. She must be at Mrs. Watson's next door. I better hurry and bandage myself up before she’s back. Just for extra measure, I quietly tiptoe up the stairs, before entering my room. I sighed and softly closed the door.

“Peter,” I thwiped my head over to see Harry sitting on my bed. Why is he here? He seems annoyed. He’s sitting on my twin bed, his back against the wall. His arms are around his knees. He won’t look at me.

I glance around the room. It was clean, Harry must have been here for a while. Ever since he was a kid, he would clean when he was nervous. I used to think his room at home was always spotless from the housekeeper, but I’ve come to realize that wasn’t the case at all. He can’t sit still when it’s messy. It drives him insane.

“Hey, you scared me,” I awkwardly chuckled, hoping he would explain why he was here, but he wasn’t taking the bait, “how long have you been here?”

“A while,” he spat out.

“You should have called, I would have come home earlier,” I smiled.

“You probably would have made up an excuse to not see me. And I needed to talk to you,” he now was staring at me intensely, analyzing my every movement. I wish he was still avoiding looking at me. I walked as confidently to my desk chair as I could, and sat down quickly, putting in a brave face, though it felt like knives were stabbing into me.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy recently, Har. Have you felt neglected?” I laughed, hoping a joke would lighten the mood, but he still was throwing daggers my way.

“Where were you?" He was pissed.

“I was studying,” We do have a big test this week. This should be believable.

“Without your backpack? “ he scoffed. Shit, I forgot that I dropped my school bag off before swinging back out.

“I was using the computer at the library, so I didn’t need it,” I smiled back, trying to look as innocent as possible. I feed lies back so easily now, but the guilt keeps steadily building inside me. I wish I didn’t have to lie to Harry. It does make me feel awful.

“I checked the library before coming here, and you weren’t there. You weren’t answering your phone either,” his voice started to quiver. “Peter, I’m really worried about you."
I feel terrible. It would be easier to get yelled at, for them to scream at me, and stop caring. I can’t handle it when I can see genuine sadness and worry on their faces. Why is he still clinging to our friendship, even after how I’ve treated him? How can he be okay with this? This isn’t the first time we’ve talked about this since I’ve been bitten. I’m tired of making up excuses. I don’t know how he’s not tired of hearing them. I shook these thoughts out of my head, I can’t let them consume me. I weakly smiled at Harry, though he stopped looking at me, and was now watching the window.

“I’m sorry," I rolled my chair closer to the bed. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I promise you that I’m fine," I shook my hands as if to brush off this situation.

“You’re such a liar," his harsh voice cut through the air. I didn’t know how to respond for a moment. He usually isn't so blunt. Harry always has danced around uncomfortable topics.

“I’m not exactly sure what you're doing," he paused, his voice sounding more desperate by the moment. “Are you involved with a gang? Or are you trying to kill yourself? Maybe it’s drugs. Are you selling your body? Please. I want to help you," he pleaded. He looked away from the window and met my gaze. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed, and his eyes glossy and red. Strands of his copper hair fell into his face. I almost reached my hand out and brushed his curls away from his face, but decided it would probably set him over the edge.

“No, no,” I brushed him off. “I’m not doing anything like that, I promise. I mean, those are all crazy. You’re just jumping to conclusions.” I feel like the manipulator of the month.

He shot me a frustrated look. “Seriously, what is going on? How can you act like you are okay? Have you seen what you look like recently? You have constant eye bags, and you always walking around like you’ve been hit by a truck. We barely hang out, and when we do, you just fall asleep.” He broke the eye contact we were making, and stared down at the floor again. “You look like shit right now. Did you expect me not to notice your lips are busted, and the side of your head is swollen? If I came over any later, I bet it would already be a bruise." He barely looked at my face, how did he notice all of that? He swiftly then propped himself on his knees and hung his torso slightly off the bed. He reached over and grabbed the arm of my chair, and pulled me closer until we were face to face.

I could feel his breath on my cheek. What was he about to do? I can’t anticipate his next move. My face is starting to feel hot. He proceeded to close the gap between us, and I prepared myself. But instead of pulling me into an embrace, he grabbed my sleeve and ripped it up to my shoulder, exposing my bruised arm.

Shit. I shoved his hand away and rolled my sleeve back down.

“You know my luck. I was walking too close to the road, tipped, and almost fell. Some bodybuilder grabbed my arm. He was strong," I shot at him, while I wore a fake smile. Thank god this was my least beat-up arm, I only have a few bruises around my wrist. He stared at me for a few moments before coming close again. Was he going to pull my sleeves back again?? I kick the floor and swivel the chair away.
He sat back on the edge of the bed and plopped his head in his hands. I'm starting to feel bad. He’s just worried about me, and rightfully so. Is he crying? He hasn’t moved. I hope he isn’t crying. Despite the pain, I force myself up and walked closer.

“Harry,” I softly said, “I’m sorry for making you worry. But I’m really fine. Please don’t be upset.”

We spent a few moments in this position, unmoving and quiet. He suddenly pulled his head up and met my gaze. I studied his face. I wish I couldn’t read his mind.
He unexpectedly shot his hand up again. I hold my sleeves with my hands, but this time he pulled my shirt off of my stomach, exposing a nasty scrape that extends from my belly button to my hip bone.
No no no no no! This isn’t supposed to happen!! Don’t I have spidey-senses, why didn’t I see that coming????? What am I going to tell him? I’ll just say I was mugged, that will have to be believable enough. Crap.