teen spirit|| peter parker [1]

one

AUGUST 2016

B O N N I E

I'm not sure how old I was when the nightmares became more prominent in my life than going shopping with friends or eating ice cream at the beach on vacation while the salty air would sting my nostrils and singe the back of my throat whenever I inhaled too deeply.

Dad said that it could have been when Mom died.

But I know that it was before that.

Maybe it was the car accident.

It was probably the months that followed.

I suppose in the past three-and-a-half years, my brain has subconsiously bordered off into sections of life before Mom died and after. Of course, I still remember her. But I think I'm slowly forgetting how awful things had gotten.

I loved my Mom, and I was proud to be her daughter.

I suppose it's all changed now.

A fresh start. A fresh start.

That's what she would always say to me when things went wrong at work. That's what she would always say to me after Killian had tried to use me as an ultimatum.

"I swear to God, Maya. If you don't let me use her— I'll kill you. Both. The way it was supposed to happen."

She would pack up our limited amount of belongings, and we'd be on our way to our next home.

At the time, I always thought it sounded so classy yet rather eccentric to be a scientist. Though the run-down apartments and damp patches on the walls with peeling paint, while hearing the upstairs neighbors going at it until two in the morning, was definitely the furthest thing imaginable from 'classy' and maybe a little more 'eccentric'. It was lonely and relentless. I know she wanted a better life for me— for us— but we got far from it.

I'd envy the girls in my gym class who would talk about their fancy trips to the Maldives and hundreds of dollars spent on ballet slippers and costumes for dance. Mom would tell me that materialistic items were bullshit.

We didn't need them to be happy.

Then she would push her sunglasses up her forehead and nestle them within her coffee coloured locks, blasting an old Madonna song on the radio with the windows rolled down, before pulling up to the next underwhelming apartment we'd be living in.

Though I had to remember, 'It's lovely.'

Pick out one positive thing in my bedroom, mention the overall positives in the house, and the nearby landscapes, specifically the places to go skating or painting in the park during Summer.

Mom loved that. Mom loved watching me paint, a glass of cheap white wine clutched in her hand as we would listen to old mixed tapes of The Beatles and The Rolling Stones.

And absolutely, one thing I had to remember; never mention Dad.

Don't ask about him.

Just settle with knowing that him and Mom don't speak anymore.

"You definitely wouldn't like him, Bonnie. He is the definition of 'superiority complex.'"

I suppose it is quite ironic; Tony 'genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist' Stark is my father, when I spent my whole life in dingy apartments with the hot water running out, the winter nights being so cold that I could see my warm breath colliding with the freezing air, despite the windows and doors being firmly shut.