The Truths We Never Told || Peter Parker [2]

twenty-eight: disconnection

"Mads."

"Mads."

"MADS!"

"GAH! Oh my god, oh my god, I'm up! Sheesh..."

Lucas towers over me, staring down as I lay curled up in my bed. The blankets are pulled up to my chin, gripped by tight fingers as I squeeze my eyes shut.
Raising my voice, I grumble, "Did I sleep in? Did we miss your flight?"

"What flight? We're going Christmas shopping, remember?"

"Oh. Haha, right. I'll be out in a sec." I tell him, and as soon as he exits my room, I groan. I wait for a minute before sitting up with a yawn, allowing the floodgates in my mind to open, making room for the rushing tide of events that took place last night to flush back inside. I try to push them out, but it's impossible when I see Peter's face. It's all in my head - his bruises, his black eye...it's all etched into the wrinkles and crevices of my mind. Physically, I wince.

As I had pulled him through the window last night, I couldn't shut up. I kept saying his name and things like, "Peter." "Peter, oh my god." "Peter, Jesus, I thought you were dead." "Peter." "Peter, you're alive. Oh my god." Over and over and over - God, I probably gave the poor kid a migraine on top of the one that had already been pounding in his head.

He was in horrible shape. So beaten up. There were bruises everywhere, his eye was swollen shut and he was bloody. I wanted to cry for him - and God, I almost did. I forced myself to wait until he was gone. In the meantime, though, I held him in my arms and took care of him.

I had fished my makeshift first aid kit from my closet and started working on him - I cleaned the dirt and dried blood from his face, disinfected his scrapes and cuts and tended to his wounds. I used wound closure bandages on his jaw and forehead, I gave him water and food. I gave him aspirin, I rubbed his head and listened to everything he had to say. And after everything, I helped him get home to May.

But I didn't say much when he told me what happened.

Because the entire time, I thought of Lance Alvers. I thought of him and his stupid, smug face - his big, beefy hands that were now prosthetics...how the hell did he even achieve that? And the entire time, I thought of caving his skull in. I thought of pinning his arms and legs to the wall and beating him senselessly, just as he did to Peter. I thought of his screaming, his wailing and his begs and cries for mercy...and then, I realized, as Peter laid his head in my lap,

That maybe I'm a monster.

"Hey. Say something." Peter had said, blinking up at me with his one good eye. Even in his battered, taped up and bandaged shape, he still reminded me of an innocent doe.