Spiderson Oneshots

The Moon and her Stars--Peter

Warnings: Self-hate, character suicide and death, language

Peter's P.O.V.

Sometimes I wonder if I was really supposed to be Spider-Man. Was I really supposed to make the web fluid to swing with or did it just happen? Was I really supposed to make myself into some hero because I gained powers? Or was it me being selfish and trying to get Liz or someone--anyone--to notice me? Was I just some silly kid who wanted to be remembered as someone besides the poor, lonely smart kid?

Sometimes I wish that I wasn't Spider-Man. How could I have been so stupid to think that just because I showed up that the world would be better? How could I have been so stupid to think that just because I showed up that I would bring Uncle Ben back? Every time I fail--every time I can't stop a mugging or don't move the bomb or take the bullet--I'm thrown back into remembering that night. I'm taken back, and when I come back to the present, I'm always no hero. I couldn't stop what happened to Uncle Ben, who was I to think I was made a difference?

Rare is a day where I am glad the I am Spider-Man. There are days where I do save people. Days where the old lady buys me churros or days where the parent will thank me for the child's life. Those are the days where everything is really worth it. Then I'll go do something stupid and mess it back up again.

It feels like I'm going in a circle. There are days where I feel nothing at all but pain. There are days where I feel everything--guilt, sadness, pain, and so many others. On the good days, I want to go back to the bad because I know what to expect. From the good, the only thing I know is that it'll always end badly. At this point, I'm not sure which is worse--to feel nothing at all or all of it. Would I rather be overpowered by waves in an endless ocean or dying of thirst?

Except on the bad days, it's no circle. It's a spiral--a downward spiral. It's taking me farther from who I am, and who am I to stop it? Maybe that's my character arc because aren't we all just a character in a story? Of course, however, I've given up hope of a happy ending. I've learned by now that not all stories have those. Not Uncle Ben's nor Mom and Dad's nor Tony's or Natasha's. They were good people, and for a bad person like me, why could I possibly deserve an ending better than theirs? I could have saved any one of them.

I'm a watered-down version of who I used to be. I'm like the punch they serve at funerals that's never good because it's watered down to go farther. I don't laugh as much. I don't smile. I don't hug May. I don't live. I guess I'm not really living without doing those things. I'm just going through the motions like a marionette held prisoner by the things that keep it going.

Who am I, I wonder, but a person designed to feel pain? Who am I, I ponder, but an experiment on how much a person can take? Who am I, I contemplate, but a villain in my own fairytale? Who am I, I surely know, but a mistake?

---~---~---

I find solace in the woods. There are no people to accompany you. No masks to hide behind. A place where there are no questions because there is no one to ask. And at this point, I find questions annoying because the person who asks them doesn't care for the answer. They don't care for me. They are just making conversation to ease the boredom they feel.

I used to be one who enjoyed talking. I was eager to make friends. Eyes wide and a smile stretched until it hurt. I'd crack a joke when no one was listening. I'd answer the questions honestly. But one day, I blinked and saw that no one cared anymore. I was just another conversation, just another moment.

And so I changed.

My eyes were downcast; I didn't deserve to look them in the eye. Hands clenched in my pockets; they didn't care for my hugs. Laughter swallowed back; they made the jokes just to fill the time. Jokes choked down; they hadn't ever been fun anyway. Lips closed, breath stolen before I could use it; I was unworthy. I was nothing more than a mistake and an experiment.