Spider-Man | Doesn't Need Help

CHAPTER 1

  I hated stealing. After each time, I felt really bad. It was the result of an attack on someone who had done nothing wrong. I often saw myself as the sinner.

  There were times when I went hungry just to avoid stealing a few dollars or taking something from a store. But eventually, I had no choice. I had to survive. I had just stolen something from a store, though sometimes, in order not to look too suspicious, I played the part of a pickpocket.

  — I'm so sorry! — I said automatically, pretending to be genuinely remorseful.

  In these moments, stopped by the time limit that each individual has.

  A wealthy, older man looked at me with disdain, his gaze full of disgust.

  Was I surprised by his reaction?

  Absolutely not.

  I suspected I might feel the same way if a neglected, dirty, smelly person bumped into me.

  Without saying a word, the man passed by, heading in a direction known only to him. I did the same, started on my way, and only when I was sure I was far enough away, I opened my wallet, took out a hundred dollars, and then threw it in the trash because there was nothing else in it.

  Disgust. That was the only emotion I felt most often. The second one was hatred. Hatred for myself and everyone around me.

  I sighed softly and then entered the store, giving the cashier a pleasant, fake smile.

  I took a few of the cheapest items and calculated how many days they would last me. After a few minutes, I left the store with food for the next two weeks and an apple in my hand, which I was going to eat now.

  I wandered around Manhattan, where I now lived. I hated this neighborhood. Before Adams kidnapped me, I lived in an orphanage in Queens.

  I often wondered what the purpose of kidnapping me was. Of course, I never asked, but I suspected the man did it for his own amusement. After living with him for several years, I realized he was mentally unstable. Killing for fun, abducting a child for no reason, then torturing him—who does that?

  You may ask, what about escaping? That was out of the question. My tormentor had people everywhere, some of whom I had the misfortune of meeting. They would find me immediately and kill me.

  And although sometimes I thought maybe it would be better that way—maybe my psyche was truly suffering—but at the orphanage, if I had to endure something worse…

  Suddenly, I heard screams, followed by a loud explosion.

  I fell to the ground, trying to protect my head as much as possible while something fell on me. All I could hear was ringing in my ears.

  The incident didn’t last long, and after a while, I felt someone lifting something heavy off me.

  I groaned softly as I felt something sharp pierce my thigh. A piece of metal had punctured my skin.

  — Shit. — I cursed under my breath.

  — Is everything okay, young one? — I looked up at the woman who was looking at me with concern.

  I needed to get away from here as soon as possible. My tormentor would be coming home soon. And if I wasn't there…

  — I'm fine. — I replied indifferently, getting up, which I immediately regretted.

  As soon as I stepped on that leg, it felt like cotton, and I fell to the ground. But I was so unlucky that, as I flew forward, the metal piece punctured me even deeper.