Kid, tell me what happened: The Sequel

Happy Birthday

Happy birthday to you

A seventeen year old boy, or twenty-one if you count the five years he spent dusted slips through the shadows, scurrying quickly, but not quick enough to raise suspicion, grime and dirt littering his face, much like the numerous red-tainted scars that decorate his body. His stubborn curls that used to be smooth and fluffy are oily and messy as the boy makes a sharp left turn and darts into an alleyway. 

He keeps moving quickly with a hand aggressively burrowed in his pocket, and the other fastened with an iron grip over a small cardboard box laced with a single white string. He dips his head down to avoid eye contact that New Yorkers either love or hate to bring, but at his age and with the face he has, would attract all types of unwanted attention. 

Which is the last thing Peter Parker needs at the moment. 

Because if anyone found out where he was, they’d probably scream and run to the authorities who’d search and seize every single chance they had to take down the famous killer of the “new Iron Man”, Quentin Beck. 

Right from the very damned moment when JJ Jameson uploaded that (edited) video of him, everyone quickly turned their backs on Spiderman, even his own Aunt May. The only ones that knew his innocence was Nick Fury, Maria Hill, MJ, Ned Leeds, Happy Hogan, and the dead Quentin Beck. 

He couldn’t even go home. Right after the video played, a swarm of police officers took off towards him, and Peter could hear the rattling of their guns before they could make their weaponry announced to the enhanced teenager. 

He tried to go home but found May with heartbreak and fury in her eyes as she started yelling at him that she didn’t raise a killer, not even giving him a plausible second to explain to her what really happened. She was supposed to be the one person who never made him feel alone and guilty and to the verge of sobbing until death came to collect his broken soul, but here he was. All he could do was swing away when a NYPD squad kicked down the door of May’s apartment, not theirs’, but May’s. 

No time to grab cash, a change of clothes, anything. 

No time to even contemplate where he would go next. 

No where was safe. 

And he was just a lonely soul with guilt that didn’t belong on his shoulders. 

And the only person who could make everything go away was buried six feet under.

Peter envied him, he was gone, and the world kept moving. Peter wished to be in Tony’s place then he’d have no struggles except for the eterna of hell he’d find himself in. 

He just kept swinging and swinging until the bright blue sky blended to a dark black that made the deepest, darkest thoughts lurk towards the frontal lobe of his brain, and his adrenal glands release panic that inched around his veins. 

Happy birthday to you

The boy finally stopped when he jutted out a wrist that missed it’s calculated target and was sent tumbling and crashing into a dumpster, cushionyish plastic softening the blow but increasing the tears in his heart. 

He winced, choking back a sob that threatened to escape his quivering lip, slowly getting up doing his very best not to make any sound and draw any attention to himself. He found himself in front of a dingy laundromat with no one inside and an abandoned hoodie and black pants. He quickly picked it up, and entered the laundromat, and hand-washed the clothes, since he had no change to grab from May’s outburst. 

He kneeled over changing, doing his very best not to combust into a fit of sobs as he slipped into camouflaging clothes, suit tossed into a dingy bag he found lying around. He quickly took off as adrenaline crashed and exhaustion seeped in, searching for a suitable place to rest his overwhelmed brain and weary limbs.