Bittersweet Sixteen
It was a tragedy.
The memories—the guilt—the shame—the weight of the world all weighed heavy on Norman Osborn's shoulders.
He had made one horrible—horrible—mistake, and it was his son that paid the price.
Norman felt so stupid. He'd been careless. And his panicking had made things even worse, lying to the cops about what had happened, because he couldn't be seen as the sort of irresponsible parent that would just forget a small child and leave them all alone, unsupervised.
What had happened to Harry? Who had taken him? Norman didn't know. He was afraid to find out.
He poured all his energy into his work. It was the only thing he had left that made life worth living.
Years went by... Oscorp benefited from Norman's unwavering dedication. He was building an empire, with no heir to pass on his legacy.
His thoughts turned to the past. Back to Harry. It would've been Harry's sweet sixteen today. Norman imagined buying the boy a car. What would it have been like to teach his son how to drive? How frustrating? How frightening? What about all the joy and pride?
His son, his beautiful son... taken from him, far too young.
Norman's thoughts turned to the possibility that somewhere out there... his son could still be alive. Would that be a blessing or a curse? Who had taken Harry? What had they done to him? Those questions ate him up inside.
Norman put all the pictures of Harry back into their box. He went to the locked room down the hall, tucked around the corner.
The room contained the only furniture Norman had kept from the old house. The small twin size mattress on the ugly wood frame. The sheets were crisp, clean, tidy, bright and colorful. There was a small desk fit for a child. Norman set the box down on the desk.
He moved towards the dressers. Drawers with clothes sized for a 9 year old boy. Norman took out one of Harry's shirts, it was threadbare. It was Harry's favorite. He had worn it all the time. And it was so small.
Harry had been so small. He was weak. Defenseless. He was a child.
Norman took the shirt with him as he sat down on the bed. He hugged it to his chest and cried.
7 years. 7 years. 7 torturous years had passed, too slow and too quickly at the same time. Some days Norman held on to the memories as tightly as he could. And some days he tried to forget.
Could he ever forget? Did he want to forget?
If one day he could no longer remember the way the boy looked when he smiled, the sound of his voice and his laughter, every precious little detail... if he ever lost those memories, could he move on? Could he live to do more than work? Could he find love and start a new family?
Or would he throw himself off a bridge.