Grief
Autumn was nearly over in New York and winter was just around the corner. The air felt like the crisp chill of mint, enough to give any pedestrian freezer burn on the inside of their lungs. However the late November cold didn’t stop Harry Osborn from making the trek to the familiar cafe where he, nearly religiously, met his best friend Peter for breakfast every morning. The ritual itself began nearly four years ago and has held up ever since with few interruptions. Pete was late rather often but rarely absent and never either without a proper explanation and apology. It was always a comfort to Harry to know that these small routine meetings were just as important to Peter as they were to him, and for appropriate reasons too.
Harry swiftly pushed open the door to the small coffee shop and immediately went to reserve their usual seats by the window, putting his jacket on one chair and his scarf on the other. Still shivering from the November air, he made his way to the counter and ordered two lattes and a scone. When he got back to the seats and pulled out his phone he noticed two missed calls and a voicemail from Pete.
“Hey Harry! I might be a bit late to breakfast, I’ve been working on my senior project all week but I still need to finish up a few things before the check in deadline today. I’ll be sure to be there though! See you soon, bye.” His voice sounded a bit shaky, but not alarmingly so.
Harry had the same thought as he always does when his friend is late:
Classic Parker
But he trusted him to show up, so he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
By 8:30 he had finished his coffee and Pete’s had gone cold, it was time to get to school anyway.
* * *
The rest of the day was a bit of a blur for Harry, he felt chest tension and his hands were shaking. He was confused by the anxiety symptoms, there was nothing in his consciousness to be anxious about. Still something in the pit of his stomach didn’t feel right.
After all his classes were finished, he took the long elevator ride to the massive penthouse apartment at the top of the Oscorp skyscraper. Something in him just wanted to talk to Peter, like his voice was the only thing that could possibly calm his nerves. He hastily pulled out his phone and pressed the most recurring name in his recent calls. It went straight to voicemail. He felt an unusual crack in the center of his being. Still, he tried his best to remain calm.
“Hey Pete, it’s Harry. I missed you at breakfast this morning. I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out tonight. Give me a call back and we’ll figure it out. Hope to see you soon, bye.”
* * *
It was 7:30pm and still no word from Peter. Harry was beginning to piece together a picture he didn’t want to invision. He made some tea and stretched out on the couch, hoping to get some form of relief.
After fifteen solid minutes of what felt like mental torture, Harry’s phone rang. He ecstatically scrambled to answer but froze when he saw the contact.
It wasn’t Pete.
It was Gwen Stacy.
He cautiously answered the call, only to have his fears nearly confirmed. She was crying, so intensely that whenever she tried to speak her words were lost in the sobs.
After a few seconds of babbling incoherently she mustered out something audible. “H-Harry?”
“What what is it?!” He frantically responded.
There were more loud sobs for a good while.
“Did you hear?” She said through the tears.
“Hear what?!” Harry nearly screamed, heart racing at the speed of light.
“T-turn on the evening news.” She let out one last, shrill sob before hanging up.
Harry picked up the remote, hand trembling uncontrollably. The TV turned on with a click and the local news presented itself in front of him.
The blonde news anchor stood there in her obnoxiously pink dress, so bright in color that seemed like a mockery of Harry’s woe, and as she began to speak he wanted to throw up.
“Tonight’s top story is a true tragedy. At approximately 8:00am this morning one of New York City’s most beloved superheroes, Spiderman, was shot on 5th Avenue in an attempt to stop a jewelry store robbery and later died at the hospital. Upon arriving at the hospital for treatment, however, his identity, long kept secret, was revealed. Spiderman’s civilian identity was 17-year-old Peter Parker…”
At that Harry’s eyes widened and he dropped his tea, shattering the mug to several porcelain shards. His body went numb as his brain desperately tried to process the information it just recieved. He refused to listen to the rest of the story, but he couldn’t turn off the TV, he couldn’t move at all. The blood drained from his face, and tears formed in the corners of his eyes.
This is just a nightmare
A horrible, horrible nightmare
He blacked out.