ON HOLD
#𝟏 𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫-𝐌𝐚𝐧
"Witnesses have made statements of seeing you with the wanted vigilante Spider-Man, so what we would like to know is whether or not these allegations are true."
"Half the city of New York has been seen with Spid...
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He didn't answer the phone every time I called him. I called a good four or five times, just worried that he's ended up somewhere he shouldn't have or maybe he got involved in something stupid and is in trouble.
But after I got off of work, I knew I was going to go to his house and make sure he's okay.
Sure, he's a grown man. But he's also a god damned mess. He's lost a good portion of his responsibility and independence when mom died, and I'm worried that he's spiraling now.
The anniversary of her death is approaching quickly. But I've tried not to think about it much, even now as I'm walking up to the house I grew up in. Thinking about her death makes me regret much of my childhood, including how I despised my parents when hit puberty.
Of course, I never truly hated them. I just hated that I was changing, and they knew everything about it while I was in the dark.
But every year on the anniversary of her death, I just stay home and sit there. Doing nothing, just thinking and living silently.
What else can I do?
Cry? I'm out of tears for it, and the events that have occurred recently have made it much more evident that I'll be drained and tired when that day comes up soon.
I don't want to be around my dad on that day, mainly because he's a drunken mess who'd rather drink his feelings than express them. Even to me.
Approaching the same old wooden door that I used to slam to play with the kids outside, it's left unlocked like always. The same screen door is propped open by a big rock, because if it closes and latches, it's a bitch to get open.
The porch is the same as always, nothing crazy or even remotely interesting on the old wood, not even the chair my mom used to read in out here. I wonder where he's put that.
The door opened with a loud creak; the living room perfectly clean minus the empty bottles of beer on the table. At least it's not as much as it was the last time I was here, there's only maybe seven now. They all weren't finished either. Maybe he's laying off of it some.
The smell of men's cologne and faint beer clouded my nose as I shut the door behind me, looking around for any new changes.
"Dad?" I called out, hearing the downstairs toilet flush quickly after.
Oh, thank God.
"MJ?" The same old voice called out as he opened the bathroom door, wearing a worn pair of blue jeans and a messily buttoned shirt. His face is clean with no clear signs of sitting around on his ass and drinking, and his hair is actually combed.
He's started to care for himself since she passed.
"Hey, dad," I gave him a warm smile, genuinely glad that he's safe and okay even though he hasn't said jack shit to me in weeks.
