Peter's Journal

One Last Retrospective

I charge and scour the area as efficiently as I can. I asked the good Doctor if he could afford one more opportunity to speak to him because I need to him to know what happened. I need him to understand what really happened and why he's felt this way for years on end.

Spider-Man has been around for eight years now. I've been doing this for eight years. So much has happened, and I know the younger me never broke under the pressure because he understood all these things I took on were greater than him. He knew the collective good was way more important and consequential than his temporary well being. He understood that this responsibility he was endowed with from a young age was a result of the powers he gained. Powers he didn't ask for. Abilities he didn't earn. Circumstances that just were.

Call it fate. Call it luck. Call it God's plan. Things just happened. Maybe there was no reason for them to happen. Maybe there was. I know what I have done as Spider-Man. All the good I have contributed to the lives of many whether it be big or small. Trivial or crucial. I've helped people. I've helped people, yet I couldn't save everyone.

And then I find him faced away from me as he hold his fists clenched so tightly, they shake. His mask is on the ground, barely floating on the 2 inches of water that coats the floor throughout this space. The last time I saw him, he was in the 6th grade. He had barely started middle school, and I was leaving to become a high school freshman.

"Hey, mijo," I greet quietly, "I'm um... I'm here. I'm here now, and I know. I'm sorry." He turns to face me, and his face is just stricken with tears. He looks exhausted. His expression screams, "I don't want to do this anymore."

I don't know what to say to him. Where to start. What to mention. What is worth talking about my eight years as Spider-Man? If the three year difference between us still held up, then I know what he just went through. What he's going to go through...

I don't want to deprive him of hope. I don't want to make him believe there was no point of being Spider-Man. That he was naive to be so noble and kind hearted. To believe that there may be a chance that the good he puts in the world be repaid at one point even though he understands that good deeds aren't supposed to be done in exchange for something. Even then, good isn't repaid in full in a material manner because what makes up for the "lack" of material is the ability to feel a satisfaction of knowing someone feels better because of your help.

I fear this because I am afraid that I am going to lose these qualities. He is my past. He is my being. Even when I am afraid, he is the one who takes the reigns. Yes, I have learned to deal with the stresses and traumas in my life as I have grown, but the moment I feel overwhelmed, he is there.

"I thought I wanted this," he spoke, "I thought I was mature enough to take all this on and balance my life." We thought we were unbreakable. But the truth is, him and I know it was too much.

"I'm tired."

He broke.

"I've lost so much already. I lost them... I can't see my abuela anymore. I can't confide in my own mother to comfort me nor my father to defend me. And when I try and fix things, it only gets worse . I'm so alone, I don't know what I did to deserve this"

I embraced him tightly and let him sob unrelentingly.

"It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your responsibility. You weren't supposed to take on so much. I am so sorry that we went through all these things," I wept.

It took me so many years to understand that a lot of what happened to me here at home wasn't my fault. Ever since I was a child. No matter how culpable I felt, I couldn't control what happened. I was only endowed with the responsibility to figure out how I deal with my issues.