Peter's Journal

The Responsibility

The responsibilities that come with being Spider-Man are tough. I never knew how bad it was going to be until I was given these powers. I go around and save others from danger. When I'm without my costume, I attempt to do the same for my friends. They are the reason I am this hero. My best friend is most notable for that. She was the encouragement I needed to go forward in life. She's the reason why I like to help others.

Lately, my own problems have surfaced.  I'm losing my ability to think straight, do anything right, go through a conversation without blanking out, and my powers. Stress is piling on top of me. I took it as a sign that I need to take time off from being Spider-Man, yet I didn't listen to myself. I kept being Spider-Man.

At school, I'm suffering along with my friends. My grades were dropping. I drew too much in class and paid less attention. I'm losing motivation to continue band. Meanwhile, my friends go through their own battles and go to me for help when I can't help myself. I attempt to hide my stress and listen to their situations. After that, I usually come up with the most sensible solution. However, there's only so much I can do even as Spider-Man.

There's a certain conversation I had with a friend. Gossip was going around about her and how badly she was treating others. One of the individuals who she mistreated happened to be my best friend. Everyone had to say something rude about her and even asked if I had to say something about it. I refused to insult anyone. I knew there was something wrong because she doesn't act like that. My best friend and I went to lunch together, but as soon as we getter there, I started looking for her. My best friend asked, "Who are you looking for?" I lied and said, "The clarinet player." "She's right there, Art," my best friend pointed right in front of me. Sure enough, she was in front of me. "I- Hm? Oh, hey Art-"  I panicked and moved away to look for my friend. Then I found her near the double doors leading into the school. She glanced at me and just stood in place contemplating whether to go eat or not. Her face was full of misery and I decided to take her to band hall. We entered the large room and noticed the beginners were taking a chair test. Both of us sat next to each other in front of the lockers. I asked her, "What's wrong? Why is all of this happening?" She didn't answer and kept looking at the flute players. I asked her again a little while later but gave me no response. Then, I suggested we go into the office. She immediately stood up, and I followed her in. She sat on the rolling chair while I unfolded the metal chair. "What's going on? I know for a fact something is going on and you want to say something." I stated. She took a deep breath and exhaled. Her eyes watered and said, "I don't want to go home anymore." Hearing that sentence gave me a painful feeling. " I don't feel safe at home during the weekends. This place was my safe place. Now, it's full of people who hate me," she continued, " I don't even know what I did wrong and I'm upsetting people and getting apologies." I attempted to pick a topic quickly based off of what she told me and inquired about the situation between her and the rest of my friends. "What do you mean you don't know what's going on?" "I'm so confused right now. People been going to me with apologies saying 'I'm sorry'. For what? What did I do wrong? Then, I go home with fear of what could happen next week." "Why are you afraid of going home?" She wiped her eyes and sniffed. "During the weekends...we go take my grandma to the pharmacy and get her medication. While we're there, she always takes a bottle of wine for the weekend. And...and..." She paused and glanced at the floor. "She gets drunk..." I felt a light buzz in my head. "She gets drunk...and acts violently.  Every night she drinks, my mom tells me 'Go to bed and lock your door'." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. This kid went through torture every weekend because of her grandma and never said anything about it. A sentence slipped out my mouth. "My God...How bad does it get?" "It gets to the point where she harms herself on purpose or accidentally. There's blood spurted on the walls and carpet to prove it. There's times she punches the walls next to my room and times where she rearranges her room. I can't sleep without being afraid." "Who else knows about this?" "Just you." There was silence for a moment. "I don't have anyone to talk to about these things. My dad left to live with my aunt and my cousins. He doesn't care about me and doesn't want to be a part of my life. You already know about that. My mom has too much stress from work, so I don't tell her these things." "I'm all you've got..." She nodded. "Have you guys attempted to call the police? Because what you're going through is domestic violence." Silence filled the room again. Then she spoke, "I don't think I'm going to be at home this next week." The bell rang and the beginners put their instruments away quickly. We both stood up, and I offered to hug her. We embraced and left the band hall.

In my last two classes, I fiddled with my web shooters and tried to figure out what to do to make her life better. After class, I met up with her and gave her a phone number. "If something happens, call Spider-Man. He'll swing by," I explained.

Being a hero doesn't always mean a person in a cape or suit with super powers saving people's lives. Sometimes, it's a just a person trying to make other people's lives better than their own.