Heavy Healing

25 Peter

They continued to scream at them, louder and louder and the shutters wouldn't stop and he was being carried and humiliated like a child.

His throat tightened and his eyes burned. His body throbbed and ached, crying out with each step Wade took. This needed to stop.

But what could he do? He stuffed his web shooters away so they wouldn't be seen. Yelling wouldn't do anything but make more trouble. They were trapped.

He was trapped.

And they wouldn't stop taking pictures. Thousands and thousands of shutter bursts, some were silent, a testament to the mirrorless cameras some of them had. His gut twisted in jealousy.  What a waste of equipment.

He was ready for this to end.

His chest burned with anger. It bubbled and boiled through him, through his arms, and rushed up to his head.

He hated them. He hated this. These people.

He didn't want them here.

He just wanted them to go away.

He clamped his eyes shut.

Go away. Go away. Goaway goaway goawaygoawaygoawaygoaway.

He felt Wade's balance lurch, and he snapped his eyes open just in time to catch sighed of a hand tugging on the backpack Wade was attached to.

Enough. That was enough.

Anger crawled up his throat and he pulled on Wade's hand, forcing him to release so he could drop to the ground, careful to land on his good leg.

He'd had enough.

He reached for the hand that had caused Wade to stumble first, ripping it away from the backpack containing his prized camera. The bones in the wrist under his fingers shifted under his grip.

"Hey!" The hand's owner objected, pain ringing out through their voice. Good. That's what he deserved. That was his reward for his actions.

He turned and shoved the man sideways into another photographer. The air left them both and their cameras clattered loudly to the ground.

He wanted to hurt them. He didn't just want to push them away, he wanted to teach them, to meld them to his hands. He wanted to break bone and kneed bruises. He wanted them to feel his pain.

Why shouldn't he?

He reached for the next person who got within arms reach and he was less gentle. He experimented and flung them like he might a competitor. Someone he was fighting but still gentle, really. They slammed into a parked car. They whined, unable to breathe. They hurt.

Yes. Wasn't it curious to feel? Wasn't it a unique experience to understand what it felt like to be tossed and flung and hurt for no good reason? The only thing this person was missing from the experience was backlash from society. It was their fault they were hurt. They should have taken themselves elsewhere and never drawn the attention of their attacker.

Him. They shouldn't have drawn his attention. Because he didn't want to play the role of punching bag anymore.

The last few who were following had fallen back but they were still taking pictures, still desperate for that perfect shot. For that incriminating photo everyone wanted.

"The hero you're looking for isn't here to save you from me," he warned with a smile

The smarter of the two he was looking at paused and backed away, his face pulled away from his sight and finger raised as he adjusted the grip of his camera. His weapon of choice. He was going to run.