𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀,, hobie brown.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐕.

( gif by hazzawckd <3 )

That night instead of the adrenaline keeping me awake, it was the fear instead. I was a firm believer that aliens existed, ghosts are real, vampires might've once walked this earth and mermaids could be alive; but a man shooting webs out of his wrists in the middle of the night while speaking in a british accent–not that it really mattered what his accent sounded like, just adds to the even more weird experience I had–wasn't on my agenda.

I ended up staying awake for the rest of the night to wait for the girls to come home, huddled on the couch with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and a cup of hot chocolate in my hands, I refused to shut my eyes. After they all came home, I sat them down on the couch and started to explain everything I saw. Thinking they would find my experience also alarming, I was appalled when not a single one of them moved from their spots to say we should be careful; they were calm, as if this happened every other day in their life.

"He calls himself Spider-Punk," Vanity starts off, opening up her tablet to show many art designs she had done of the said superhero. "No one really bothers him. He helps out around the community, keeps the creeps out of our neighborhood and is good at what he does." She reassures me, glancing between the other two as if she was hiding something that only she knew about.

So much for trust. Vanity doesn't say anything, taking her tablet back as she heads to her room without a good night.

I turn to the others, a confused look on my face. "So, he names himself basically after a popular band and no one says anything? That isn't obsessive to you?" I questioned, expecting to get an answer but was left with it unanswered as the other two did the same, both of them saying nothing as they headed into their rooms like what I just said meant nothing. Like a man shooting webs out of his hand was... normal?

Shaking my head in disbelief at the empty living room I stood in, I take one last glance out towards the bustling streets of New York before heading back into my room with the door shut and locked. My stomach cramped and I nearly collapsed to the ground in shock as my face buries into my pillow, it all felt like a dream. None of it was real–like an illusion and I was high of narcotics that made me go lucid. I relived that moment until I was finally knocked out. My dreams were a mixture of a nightmare and a lucid dream. I knew I was awake, but did my body? I wasn't scared of that drunken man on me–well, maybe a little, but that was a normal thing in today's society that shouldn't be, but there was nothing I could do about that.

I was scared of that so-called Spider-Punk.

I got a few hours of shut eye, my mind clouded with thoughts of that crazy man running through my mind. What made me even more mad was how no one seemed phased by the description I gave and comforted me about it, maybe I was being too dramatic about wanting to be comforted, but in my defense. Who wouldn't?