The Aftermath of Falling

Superheroes are Afraid of the Dark Too

Sometime in the Middle of April

Peter had been living at the new apartment for almost two months now.

He had climbed into bed after his evening patrolling one night, almost three months after he had last seen Ned and MJ. He told himself that keeping his distance would make it so they would forget about him.

It was a wonder how he had even been able to rent his apartment.
He had said he was 23, because - on a technicality- he should have been because of the blip and Peter was no stranger to fake IDs because of random superhero duties.

But being completely on his own at 17 stressed Peter out more than he could take.

It wasn't the bills or the grocery shopping,he had that covered. Both of his parents, his aunt May and uncle Ben, and Tony Stark had made sure that Peter would be taken care of if anything were to ever happen- and it did happen.

It wasn't his neighbors, they truly were very nice people.

It was being alone at night with himself. That was the scariest thing of all.

In the late hours of the night, when night terrors and flashbacks plagued him, Peter felt helplessly alone. In the dark, the loneliness crept in and sank into his bones. It crawled into his chest and made a home there, filling him with anxiety and dread. He rarely slept, opting to keep his mind busy however he could. He would read, play video games, watch movies, blast music in his headphones, attempt sketching, go swing around the city, but nothing ever truly made the emptiness go away.

He hated being alone and because of that, he hated the dark.

He had thought about getting a dog or a cat, but his apartment didn't allow animals and Spider-Man didn't have time for a pet. He had to be alert at all times and if someone were to ever follow him home, Peter didn't want to have any more vulnerabilities. If he didn't make attachments or relationships, he wouldn't have to worry about those people - or animals- being hurt, right? He refused to lose anyone else.

He frequently woke up sobbing, begging for his aunt- the only person he ever truly remembered as a parent- just to realize that Aunt May wasn't coming. That she wouldn't ever be there to hug him and curl up with him on the couch, that she wouldn't be there to make him tea and silently sit with him after he woke up in a cold sweat from the nightmares. On those nights, he would make himself a cup of tea and hug himself tighter under the blankets. It was better than nothing.

Nights where Peter actually slept were the worst. As time went on, his anxiety about being alone worsened.

He slept less and less, but his body fought him more relentlessly for sleep.

The first time it happened made him think he was dying.

It had come on suddenly. His chest tightened like a tentacle from an enemy, squeezing the life out of him.
He felt his body going numb and his spider senses went haywire. He was gasping for air even though it wasn't actually being restricted. His vision went black, he couldn't even see. His hands were shaking - no, his whole body was shaking, and why was this happening?

That was when the panic attacks started.

After that, his anxiety was high all of the time. The loneliness almost consumed him.

Tonight, his mind swam with doubts. He tossed and turned under the covers, trying to sleep, but too restless to actually do anything about it.

You're the reason she's dead. If you hadn't tried to help those villains, she might still be alive. Goblin wouldn't have been able to kill her. You should have done more.

"Stop," he whispered to the pitch black surrounding him. He gripped the comforter although he knew that a blanket wouldn't save him from himself.

You couldn't even save MJ when she fell. If the other Peter's hadn't been there, she would be dead.

"No, I went to save her and. . . And then Goblin had me and I- I couldn't get to her in time," he objected.

His mind only brought up more reasons as to why he was a terrible person.

You're a terrible friend for erasing everyone's memory of you. Ned is probably so alone, and it's all because you were selfish. He only has MJ now and he's probably still being bullied in school.

After a while, he stopped fighting the noise. He just let the doubts overrun his mind.

MJ is better off without you, she can - and will - do better with you gone. She may actually live long enough to pursue her dreams.

You're a coward.

You're worthless.

You deserve the guilt you feel about May's death. You're the reason she's dead.

On nights like this, he crawled into the bathroom and curled up on the bathroom floor.

The cool tile underneath helped, but it didn't stop the noise in his head.

Worthless.

Coward.

Traitor.

Murderer.

On nights like tonight, he longed for the times he used to curl up with aunt May. He always felt better surrounded in her warm embrace. But now, all he had was the cold, hard ground underneath him and the constant reminder of how he caused his aunt's death.

Tonight had been the worst night by far. He couldn't take the pain any longer.

"If I'm numb to the pain, it can't hurt me," he whispered to himself.

He stood up and threw the drawers in the bathroom open.
He knew it was hiding in here somewhere. Peter dug through the drawers, frantically searching for the item that would save him from the voices in his head.

His fingers finally found what he desired, he closed his hand around the small metal object.

He opened it with a flick of his wrist, the metal glinted from the faint light streaming through the bathroom window.

He had done this a thousand times, over the past few months, this had become the release he relished.

The pain was addicting. He started to press the blade deeper into his forearm this time, but not so deep that he wouldn't be able to patch it up. He knew people would question him, even with those around him hardly remembering a thing at all.

He felt the river of hot and sticky blood before he felt the pain. The stinging of the blade forced him to focus on the discomfort, the noise in his head died down.

With each mark he made, the guilt subsided a little more. He looked down at his bloodied forearms, Peter always felt strangely detached from his body when he did this. He always felt better afterwards, but then his spider senses would go haywire because of a threat. He was the threat. So, he just sat on the bathroom floor as his senses tingled and watched as his blood dripped onto the floor.

Peter's mind was foggy as he robotically cleaned his wounds and bandaged them.

His speed healing seemed to work slower on his self inflicted wounds.

Or maybe he had been doing this with such frequency that the speed healing couldn't keep up.

He didn't know and he didn't care.

Peter brushed his teeth and laid back down in bed, knowing he wouldn't fall asleep for another 3 hours.