Chapter 1
Peter remembered vividly the day his world came crashing to its feet.
He had been sitting next to May in the car, singing along loudly with her to some pop song that was on the radio.
They pulled up to a stoplight, Peter dancing along to the chorus as his aunt laughed at him. The light turned green, and as their car pulled through the intersection, his spidey sense went off. He looked at May to warn her as a semi truck drove straight towards them.
Glass shattered and metal crunched with the impact. Peter’s head slammed forwards into the windshield, glass shards grabbing at his face. The dashboard collapsed, trapping his legs.
When the impact was over, Peter realized he was upside-down. Their car had rolled over. He glanced at May. Her head rested on the steering wheel, blood dripping from cuts and a bruise developing on her forehead. The airbag was deflated between her chest and the wheel. “May,” he said. “May, I’m sorry.”
Her eyes found his, unfocused and blurry. “Ben?” she asked, delirious.
Peter let out a sob that had been building in his chest. “May, it’s me, Peter. I-I’m sorry, I should h-have seen i-it coming-g,” he choked out. Ambulance sirens trilled in the distance, coming closer.
“Ben, you should see Peter now, he’s grown up so much. He’s such a fine young man.”
Tears streamed down his face.
Tires screeched outside their beat-up car as the medical team pulled up. Someone bent down next to Peter’s window, looking inside and checking the damage. “P-ple-ease, my a-aunt is hu-urt,” he told the man. His head was pounding, stars danced before his eyes.
“Don’t worry, kiddo, we’ll get you out of there,” the medic reassured him.
“But… my aunt…” The medic didn’t respond. Peter’s head swam; the world seemed to spin. “My… aunt…” Darkness began to close in on him, wrapping around his throat and squeezing his lungs. His head lolled and he blacked out.
____
Peter perched on the roof of a building on the corner of Grand Avenue, his hyperactive senses taking in the noises of the night. The city was alive. He breathed in the stale city air… it was home. The electric sensation flickered across his body… his “spidey sense.” He pulled his mask down over his head and leapt off the building throwing a web out to catch himself. He swung across the street, letting his instincts take over.
There… he thought. He dropped into the alley. Shit. Where was he? He heard screeching tires and a car came peeling around the curve. He leapt up and shot a web at the car. He landed on the roof with a gentle thud. He knocked on the window of the driver’s side. The driver swore and swerved but maintained the same ridiculous speed. Peter broke the window.
“Hey, Mr. Criminal? Hey, my name is Spiderman. You can call me Web-Head, you can call me Amazing, just don’t call me late for supper. You get it?” He stuck his hand out. The thug jerked the car and Peter gasped as he nearly lost his head on a lamp post. “Not a shaker, huh?” he asked looking into the window again. “A hugger, maybe?”
“Fuck off!” shouted the thug.
“Look buddy, you’re going pretty fast,” Peter remarked. “You oughta slow down, huh?” The thug tried to hit him but Peter caught his fist and laughed. “I didn’t mean slow down your punches.” His spidey sense went off so sharply he whimpered. All of a sudden he noticed a familiar car pull out in front of the speeding car with him in the passenger seat. His aunt was behind the wheel. His other self jerked and looked up at the oncoming car.
“MAY!” he shouted. He leapt for his aunt’s car. It was too late. Spiderman and Peter Parker blended together and he was back trapped in the car.
“You could have saved me, Peter. Why didn’t you help me?” May asked him, before she went limp and the light died from her eyes.
___
He woke up in a hospital bed, gasping for breath. A brace sat on his ankle, holding it in place. His forehead hurt, and when he reached up, he felt the telltale lumps of stitches holding a large gash together.
Peter took stock of the room around him. It was simple, with blue walls and a bedside table. Sterile. The smell of detergents and cleaning sprays were almost too much for his enhanced senses.
For a few moments, he lay there, contemplating his dream. He was sure it was just his anxiety playing tricks on him after the adrenaline of the crash, but he was shaken. It was just a dream, right?
His train of thought was interrupted by his door opening with a squeak. A pretty, young nurse came in quietly. “Hi, Paige, I’m Jaime.” Peter shifted uncomfortably at the use of his deadname, but the nurse continued. “You’re probably feeling pretty disoriented right now. What do you remember?”
“Umm, there was a crash. Aunt May...” he trailed off before looking at Jaime’s face. “Is she okay?”
“Paige, I’m sorry to inform you that your aunt is dead.”
He froze. Every bone in his body screamed as he heard those words. It’s just like your dream , he thought .
Your aunt is dead.
She’s dead.
She can’t be dead.
“ -- you there? Paige?”
“It’s Peter,” he snapped, coming out of his stupor.
“Okay Peter, Social Services has been called, they should be here soon. I’m sorry for you loss, honey,” he flinched at the nickname, “we did all we could.”
“Could- could I see her?” Jaime nodded, helping him out of the uncomfortable hospital bed and leading him down the hallway, before indicating a door on the left. Peter nodded gratefully as she opened the doorway.
He stopped in the doorway, looking at the bed. May lay on it, cold and lifeless. Slowly Peter walked towards the figure, trying to etch her face into his memory as tears threatened to blind him.
“May...” he trailed off, words failing him. “I’m so sorry. I failed you. I’m so, so sorry.” He sat down in the chair, gripping his aunt’s hand. It was cold and dry, and Peter couldn’t help but think about how wrong the whole situation was.
May is dead.
She can’t be dead.
She’s dead.
____
When the social worker came, Peter didn’t talk. There was no point, now that his only family was gone. He just followed along, too shocked to argue.
Soon, it was decided that he would be put in an orphanage. The social worker took him to his house, where he gathered as much as his suitcase could hold of his old home. He had stopped crying hours ago, but tears threatened to pour over again as he closed the apartment door for what would be the last time.
His silence juxtaposed the swirling thoughts of blame in his head. If only you’d been faster , they told him, spiraling into an almost tangible blanket of self-hate.
Peter was led into a room with a mix of girls and boys. They all looked up at his entrance. One of them, an older girl with long, brown hair, stood up and moved towards him. “This is Pai-, I mean, Peter.” Her eyes narrowed at the near slip. “He’s just lost his aunt, so don’t be too harsh on him,” his social worker introduced to the group. He shifted nervously at the social worker’s words, but the older girl sent him a soft, understanding smile.
“Hi Peter, I'm Sawyer Jackson,” the girl said, smiling. When Peter didn’t say anything, she moved forwards, reaching a hand out for his bag. “I’ll help you get settled in,” she said, sending a glare at the others, who had stood up in an almost threatening way, and leading him to a bed in the corner. He thought about giving her a smile, but felt too numb to do anything but follow.
“How old are you?” Sawyer asked once they reached the vacant bed next to one with dark blue blankets on it. Peter presumed it was hers, and was proven correct when she plunked down and leaned back after setting down the bag she was carrying of his stuff. He didn’t want to talk, though, so he held up a one and a three on his hands, before signing thirteen.
He’d learned sign language when he had been volunteering at a center for deaf people. Deciding it was easier than trying to find words and speaking out loud, Peter signed back, you?
Sawyer scrunched her eyebrows in concentration, and for a moment, he feared she wouldn’t understand what he was saying. Then, she signed, fourteen. Are you deaf? Peter shook his head. “Oh good, because my sign language is really rusty.” He nodded in understanding.
Is there a bathroom?, he signed, I need to change. He’d been wearing his binder for over eight hours. Not too safe.
“Yeah, right over here,” Sawyer said, waiting for Peter to gather up his pajamas before showing him the way.
He locked the door behind him and began changing, avoiding looking at his face in the mirror. Taking off his binder and being able to breathe fully again was like coming up for air after swimming underwater for a few minutes. He slipped on the loosest shirt he had and some sweatpants before leaving. If Sawyer noticed the slight bulge of his chest, she didn’t comment on it as they walked back over to their beds.
“Look, I know saying sorry doesn’t mean much. It’s not going to help the hurt go away. But I am sorry that your aunt died. If you ever need anything, I’m here for you,” she told him. “Anyways, I bet you’re pretty tired. You should get some rest.” She must have noticed his anxious countenance because she reassured him, “No one’s going to mess with you. I won’t let them.”
Thank you, Peter signed before leaning back on his bed and letting the darkness cover him like a familiar blanket.