I stood over his body, my hands would not stop shaking. I had done it, I killed him. I didn't know what to do with myself, I had gotten what I wanted, and yet a sickening feeling filled my stomach. Blood dripping from my gloved hands, soaking into the fabric as a tear ran down my face. I shook it away, I wanted this. I needed this. It had to happen. I wanted to take off his mask. See his face one more time, but I couldn't, the boy I once laughed with.. the boy who was once my friend. Dead. And I was his murderer. I pulled my grey and white mask bag over my face, a few of my spiral curls stuck to my face from the mask. I didn't care to much, I had to get out of there. Fast. I could hear the sound of his guardian walking towards the room. I quickly sprung to the window and looked back at the boy one last time before jumping out of the window, swinging out of sights, the silk webs stuck to the walls. I came back to my place; worn out, old, beat up. No one to come home too. As always. I threw off my mask and plopped onto the bed in the corner where I burst out into tears. I couldn't stop. I stopped about a minute later. The grief that filled me was gone. Instead the feeling inclination filled me, I smiled to myself, a iniquitous, wicked smile. I did feel satisfied with killing him. And I would kill again.
The next day on the news it would read Spider-Man is dead. Spider-Man was murdered.
And I would know that, I was the one who did it. I killed Peter Parker.
Me
Payton Bryant.
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