How'd You Get This Number? // mamaspider

17 - are you?

Okay, so—I decided I had to head home for a second. Just for a second! I need my stuff since I probably won't have a chance to grab anything anytime soon. I'm not sure if May is home, I don't think she has work today.

Walking up to the apartment door felt kind of weird. I know I should leave and never come back, I don't deserve this from May. I know I don't.

But I mean—if I don't go now, I'm not sure I'll ever get my stuff back!

Maybe this isn't about the clothes and pictures, though. Maybe this is me trying to find some way for last night to not have happened. For it all to have been something made up that I convinced myself was true. May would never hit me. She wouldn't. That feels impossible. So, what if when I walked through that door, everything was back to the way it was. Can't I just have that? At least that?

Pushing the door open gently, I take a quiet step inside. The apartment is still. Silent. Unnerving.

"May...?" I call out, my voice small. Memories of that bottle flying towards my head pass over my thoughts. Thank god my spider senses caught it, otherwise last night might've ended very differently.

I don't get any sort of response, so I simply wander further into the apartment and take a look around. Beer bottles scatter the counter, our tray of sushi is still sitting out, drenching the room in a thick smell of room temperature fish.

She drank more after I left? Didn't she realize the reason I left was because of her drinking?

I hustle to my room to grab my basic necessities and shove some clothes into a garbage bag, setting the bag outside on the fire escape to swing by and pick up layer when I'm on patrol. Grabbing my school textbooks, I shove them into my backpack and go to leave my bedroom. I've got all I'm gonna need.

I stop.

My eyes drift around the room, a sad smile playing on my lips. Pictures of Ben, May, and I are scattered along the walls. A bunch of photos I'd taken from my photography days plaster the edges of my computer screen and the trim of my window sill. The bed is a mess, of course, and tons and tons of pencils, papers, legos, and flash cards are spread out across the floor like a second carpet.

Memories of life before Ben passed dance around my head. May became what she is today because of how she took losing my uncle. Ben never would have wanted this. I think that's the saddest part.

I take a long, deep breath. My senses catch notice of the thick stench of alcohol in the air and I know to stay on high alert. May must be home. I guess I can sneak out through the window...?

I slide the window up, wincing when a slight thump is heard as I lift it.

A delicate voice, "Peter?"

I freeze. Turning on my heel, I see May standing there. She looks horrible—her eyes have red rims around them, bloodshot and weighed down with guilt. May's complexion is pale and clammy, the sickly color contrasting the brightly colored, wrinkled jumper she has on. A high pony holds about half her hair in place, the other half hanging out and draped sloppily across her shoulders.

I don't reply. I simply stand there, looking at her. She takes a step forward and I tense up. "May..." I murmur.

She throws her palms up in surrender. "I'll keep my distance." There's an abnormally long pause. "I'm sorry, Peter—"

"I know." I interrupt, shutting my eyes tightly. "I know you are." You'd think after 3 years of the smell, the stench of alcohol wouldn't make me want to vomit anymore, right? Wrong.

Another pause. "Are you coming back?"

A deep breath, then, "No. I, uh, needed my stuff." My voice cracks as I try to shove my emotions back down.