Spiderson Oneshots

Polaroids and Pressed Flowers--Morgan, Pepper, and Peter

Warnings: Character death and some angst

Peter's P.O.V.

I've always been an imaginative person. As a kid, I loved to go to the grocery store with Mom and make up stories about the people I saw there. The old man in the women's clothes aisle with a sad face was shopping for a wife six feet under. The little girl in the toy aisle was looking at the toys she could never have. The bespectacled teen boy in the book aisle was looking for a book with a character that reminded him of a sister in someone else's care. I never told anyone these stories and let them grow instead within the confines of my mind. When I was in my room, I'd play in fantasy worlds with the people I'd seen. I went on quests. One day I was a dashing knight, the next I was a lonely cashier. I always wanted someone to play with me.

My parents were both well-read people. In our living room, there was a wall of books where I was allowed to read anything except the stuff I couldn't reach. Before I could read, Dad would sit me in his lap and read whatever I asked. One day it could be a book about biology while the next was a fantasy book. When they were busy and we had a babysitter, they would always talk about how well-behaved I was. They said that I would grab a book and just read it. I'd listen when they told me to do anything. I never screamed, cried, or did anything of the sort.

When I started kindergarten, I was so excited to find someone who would play with me. On the first day, I went up to anyone and just started talking. They didn't really talk back. One boy just pushed me out of the way. Another girl hit me. I came home in tears and without a single friend. I found myself talking more to adults, and even then, I could tell they didn't care. Mom and Dad were the only ones who would.

As a kid, I loved baths. There were fun, warm, and had bubbles. All you could want in a person or literally anything else. I took one every night, and it was part of the routine. At eight o'clock, we drew a bath, and I got fifteen minutes. Mom would leave me pajamas, and I would dry off, put them on, comb my hair, and brush my teeth. I'd go to my room and pick out my clothes for the next day. Mom and Dad would come in, tell a story, then kiss me goodnight. For me, baths were like a reminder of home and them.

When I did finally make a friend--a boy named Johnathon--I never stopped wanting to see him. I would beg my parents to let me have him over. At school, I'd practically follow him around until we could play. When my parents did say we could have him over though, he'd never be able to come over. I'd beg him to come over. I never got invited to his birthdays, even though I knew he had one. I didn't want to be his friend anymore.

Adults, it seemed, were my only friends. They listened. My kindergarten teacher, Miss Brennen, was one of my favorite people. She was so nice, and I always tried to help. I was constantly asking what else I could do. It was excessive, but I wanted to repay her for her kindness. But I still knew that deep down, I was the annoying kid. The one who never shut up.

When adults and kids weren't my friends, I had imaginary ones. Sally was one along with Thomas. I'd talk to them, and often, I was crying. I just wanted friends. They always comforted me. I felt so alone. But Mom and Dad were always there to talk to. Mom would have me help her make brownies, and while they baked, she would talk to me. Dad would wrap me up in a big bear hug when he got home from work. If something was wrong, he'd sit me down with his book of proverbs and read them to me. I didn't understand some of them, but he'd explain them. He'd listen as I talked about what happened and tell me a proverb to go with it. But whenever I wouldn't talk, they'd get out the picture books. Those always cheered me up.