Spiderson Oneshots

Bleeding--Steve and Peter

Warnings: Self-harm and suicidal thoughts

Peter's P.O.V.

The thing about depression is that you don't notice it. It creeps up on you, whispers in your ear, and when you turn to look, it hides. You don't even notice that you're different until it's taken you, and you long to go back and not listen. That's not how life works--life doesn't offer second chances. You're supposed to learn from your mistakes, but what happens when your life is a mistake?

I couldn't bring myself to do anything. My watch beeped--my noon alarm. I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed. Light was flooding through the windows, bathing my room in light that was like happiness knocking at my door as I slammed the door in its face. I didn't remember the lightness of being happy--I'd been empty for far too long to remember. And I was so tired. I didn't really want to move. I just wanted to sleep.

I hadn't slept for days, kept awake by the thoughts that swirled endlessly in my head. Thoughts that questioned my friendships and my allies; questions that brought me to this hopelessness. Thoughts swirled of betrayals and uselessness. I'd not helped. I'd not patrolled. I hadn't been good enough for that.

I always felt empty, like there was a hole in my stomach that only I could see or feel. Everyone went about like it was normal, but it wasn't. The only thing I did seem to feel was guilt--guilt for the lives I could've saved, guilt for complaining about losing my parents when people had lost everyone. I was useless and weak compared to everyone. I knew that the others thought so too. They always wanted me to stay behind, always wanted me to be at school or somewhere else where I wasn't in the way. And when they did talk to me, all I wanted to do was get away. My replies were short and irritated, and they'd grown to leave me alone.

No one seemed to understand how much I needed help. They didn't try to see behind the façade I'd put up. Oh, they'd tried to talk at the beginning, but now, I rarely had a visitor. Most days, I could encourage myself to get out of bed, to go to school and at least pretend like I was okay.

All I wanted was to go on. Go on to another life, another world, another set of repeated words. I couldn't. I was stuck in a loop that couldn't be broken, but for one thing--death. It seemed like heaven compared to this hell. The only reason I hadn't taken the feelings--the ones I'd bottled up for years--and thrown them out the window was because of Aunt May. She was the one who'd lost everything.

Yet, today, and for the past week, Aunt May hadn't been enough. The thoughts had pushed her aside. She'd gotten on fine without everyone else. She'd do fine without me. I held my head, trying to keep the thoughts at bay and the pounding headache they brought. However, as a reed gives way to the flood, my hands could not contain the pain.

My head roared with the ferocity of a charging flood that destroyed all in its path. The pain and thoughts came in crashing tsunamis that couldn't be held back, ones that kept coming and never stopped.

I stumbled from my bed, moving hurriedly to the connected bathroom. I was sweating so much that I didn't feel the cold of the air. The tiles were cold under my feet, and the soles of my feet slapping against the cold surface. I turned on the faucet, letting the cold water run over my hands that I wiped on my face. I couldn't bear to look at my face in the mirror, not wanting to see the ugliness my disorder had created. I didn't want to exist, didn't want to see myself in the mirror. I didn't want anything.

I opened the cabinet, bringing out with shaking hands a bottle of pills that clinked against one another and their cage. I stared at it. This wouldn't hold back my pain. Nothing could but death. Death seemed kind now, like a welcoming embrace I had craved the entirety of my life. With only a few of these pills, I could feel that embrace again. I felt cold now.