ᴀ sᴘɪᴅᴇʀᴍᴀɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ sᴛᴏʀʏ

𝟻. ғᴀʟʟɪɴɢ

ヾ(≧▽≦*)o

My nerves highten as we get closer and closer to the tower in which I call home and Peter picks up on this and gently takes my hand in his. My stomach twists when he starts stroking his thumb on my hand in an attempt to comfort me and I can't help but smile at the action.

The ever growing tower comes into view just a couple blocks away; my breathing picks up and I feel my vision start to go. They're all going to be so mad. They're going to shout. I hate shouting.

𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬

"Иди сюда сейчас же, ты уродливая сука" (come here now you ugly bitch) As quiet and fast as possible I make my way over to her and I can feel my legs shaking and my palms sweating. The smell of alcohol reaches me before she comes into my eyesight, almost like a daunting warning of my impending torture.

I finally reach her and my breath hitches but I'm not able to get a single word in before there's a stinging sensation on my cheek, followed by a kick to the stomach. I double over in pain as I gasp for air, begging for oxygen to reenter my lungs. What did I do wrong?

"Avrora.. Hey!" A voice calls from the distance, who's calling me?

𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬

"Avrora, please breathe!" My hearing begins to come back and I realise it's Peter's voice calling out for me. I follow his breathing and after a few minutes my nerves begin to calm down.

"Are you okay, Rory?" His voice is gentle and laced with sympathy and concern, but I don't respond, just staring into the distance. The memory replays in my head over and over for what feels like hours, getting longer and more detailed each time.

A car swerves around a corner and pulls up beside us but I don't even lift my head.

"Peter!! Peter is she okay?" A frantic voice almost shouts, sprinting towards us.

"I-I don't know Mr Stark, she's breathing somewhat normal now but she won't talk o-or even move! I don't know what to do" Peter almost sobs, his words hitching every now and then.

No no no. Not my dad. He's going to shout, I can't. I can't.

My breathing stops completely and I feel my hands subconsciously clawing at my throat, begging for air to go into my lungs. The next second there's a strong pressure on my hands as they get pulled away from my throat and I pick up on faint mumbles in the distance, but I can't understand what they're saying as the sounds of kicks and slaps echo around me.
All of a sudden, the memory comes back to me in full and my vision blurs.

ᴛᴏɴʏs ᴘᴏᴠ
I stare at my daughter, laying in a bed hooked up to oxygen with tear streaks staining my cheeks. This is one of the many places I never wanted her to end up. Ever.

Peter had texted me just before his internship, informing me of the situation and I raced to them as fast as I could but just minutes after I arrived she passed out with no warning. The images of my only daughter, sitting against a wall clawing at her own throat, haunts me like an old record player, playing over and over.
I grabbed her hands as soon as I noticed what was happening but it was already too late, her small fingers were covered in blood and her throat in claw marks thanks to her newly manicured fingers. Luckily, Bruce reassured me that there was no permission damage but I still worry nonetheless.

Peter hasn't left her side since we arrived here, refusing to even let go of her hand and I feel a bit of comfort knowing that she had someone looking out for her despite the fact that she shouldn't have been that nervous in the first place. She was so scared to come home that she had such a severe anxiety attack that she landed in hospital. Why was she that frightened?