Spider-Man: Finding a New Home [Andrew Garfield]

24

ACT II.

Finding a New Home

24.

Time-jump

Adalia

          My head feels like it's going to explode. My brain has a heart beat of its own, pounding an excruciating, almost nauseating rhythm that has my stomach in knots. It's as if I've missed out on hours of sleep; more, days of sleep, depriving myself of it, but how can that be? My muscles ache and cry out in pain, and wincing from these aches only makes my brain squeeze and pound similar to the worst of migraines imaginable.

What's wrong with me?

What happened last night?

I remember the dance and seeing Yelena, then coming home after such a spontaneous, rollercoaster of a reunion. Having had enough of the sour night that was supposed to be fun, Peter-Three and I decide to go home. But before we left, I asked Peter-One to use his technology to patch up Peter-Three's bullet graze; my best friend was annoyed by my request, but aided his variant regardless of how he felt about my interest in Peter-Three.

I vaguely recall Peter swinging us through the air and the way he held me. I swear he could feel my pulse thundering away. Peter left me at my door, we said our goodbyes... and that's it. That's all I can remember. Did we kiss? I think we tried, right? I was lingering at my door, saying anything that came to my mind just to make an excuse for Peter to make a move. I was fidgeting, unable to stay put, and so was Peter. I know I called Peter my boyfriend, and he was extra touchy the rest of the night, but he was nervous still. Peter was a rambling mess, and I knew that we were dancing around intimacy. I grabbed his hand and pulled him in. He leaned in and we kissed, again!—or, so I think. Damn it. Why can't I remember last night?

I haven't the slightest why I wouldn't feel normal right now.

Because everything feels normal, so it seems.

From my opened window, I hear the early morning birds chirping away, the usual sounds of my neighbors and their children scrambling around on their floor above me, and the sounds of a grown man yelling at his daughter outside... then it dawns on me. None of these sounds make sense, because one: I never have my windows open during the biting snowy season, especially after the snowstorm last night; two: I hardly hear birds chirping this high up in my apartment complex; three: my neighbors above me have no children; and four: I do not recognize this father and daughter duo, bickering back and forth outside. And perhaps the most frightening realization is the fact that I do not hear my parents in the kitchen, blasting their early-morning Spanish news that always wakes me up out of my sleep.

Now, I panic; my heart races and roils, confusion settling deep in my chest. It's a confusion so suffocating and unnerving that I know with every fiber of my being something's wrong. This doesn't feel right. I don't feel right. Why do I feel so uneasy? I try to move myself awake, twitch my fingers, force my eyes open, but it's become a daunting, head-splitting task. A groan of discomfort tumbles through me as I use every ounce of strength I have in me—which isn't much. The last time I've felt this mentally and physically drained was when I came back from the Blip and went straight into battle. Similar to the battle I fought upon my return from the Snap, I feel depleted of all of my energy. The weight of my body feels heavy, as if I've become several pounds of lead that sinks me into my bed. I wriggle in my bed, only to discover I'm not feeling my mattress or my bedsheets. My bed is a couch, and I don't remember choosing to sleep in my living room after Peter brought me home.