WHEN THE DARKNESS COMES ━ Peter Parker

o3. Lyra Jericho Was Dead

THREE LYRA JERICHO WAS DEAD
( this chapter may contain some triggering
content for those who struggle
with suicide/suicidal thoughts )

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     There was never singing on Lyra's birthday. It was never a celebration in her household, not until they could be sure. It was six in the morning on her sixteenth birthday and she was alone in the dark, the only sound being her blaring alarm and her heavy breathing. She didn't want to check, but she knew she was going to have to.

A knock sounded at the door and the girl jumped, slamming her hand down as she reached for her phone to finally shut off her alarm. This happened every morning on her birthday. A knock at the door from a desperate father who knew neither of them had slept a wink. It was weird to be terrified of your own birthday. Most people were scared of getting older, but Lyra didn't mind that part. Getting older was all she could hope for, but every year she had to find out if she still had that choice.

Her father entered the room without waiting for her to respond. His face was almost pale despite his dark complexion as neither of them spoke. Lyra had always been close with her father, they didn't have much of a choice since it was only them and her grandmother. The only woman in their family that was still alive that hadn't been affected by the curse, but Lyra wondered if even that was considered lucky. Lyra couldn't imagine raising a daughter only for her to succumb to the curse and take her own life.

"Moment of truth?" the man finally spoke, the silence had been too tense for both of them to handle.

Lyra looked at her forearm covered by the sweatshirt she had gone to bed in. It was hot as hell, but she always slept in a long-sleeve so she could avoid seeing any marking by accident. Maybe it was stupid, but it always made her feel better. Especially since the sweatshirt in question had been her mothers -- one she bought when she was in college and passed down to her when Lyra was maybe five or six. It was still a little big on her considering her mother had always been tall, but if Lyra concentrated hard enough it still smelled like her so she kept wearing it.

With a shaky hand, she gripped the sleeve of her right arm in her hand. She knew she would have to pull it up eventually, that this wasn't something she could find a way to ignore, but for just a blissful moment she wanted her arm to stay covered. However, judging by the look in her father's arms, she knew it couldn't stay that way forever. With a deep, shaky breath, she lifted her sleeve.

A scar in the shape of a star shined white where it had not the day before. It rose from the skin with a brutal freshness, Lyra was surprised it wasn't still bleeding from the universal forces that had just supremely fucked her. She wanted to scream, to cry, to weep, but she couldn't move. She opened her throat to say something, but nothing came out. Her father, on the other hand, threw his face into his hands as he left the room without another word. Alone in the dark, Lyra finally let herself cry. Her life was over. Lyra Jericho was dead.