"mistake" • spiderchelle

nightmare in class

TW // if you're a little squeamish, be careful reading this one. it goes a little into detail about "surgery" i guess you'd call it without giving spoilers :)) happy reading

To say Peter was tired was an understatement. He shouldn't have stayed out so late, but crime just didn't seem to stop last night.

He was in AP chemistry when he fell asleep. He already knew everything, thanks to Bruce and his own smarts. The paper they had to do, he finished in no time.

Peter had his head in his arms and was soundly sleeping, but his mind had plans to ruin that.

Peter was back in that room. The cold, dark, and damp room he knew all too well.

His arms were chained to the wall, limiting his movements. He was sitting on the cold concrete floor, all of his bones screaming.

Footsteps. He heard footsteps through on the other side of the door. This meant nothing good.

The door too the room opened, bring in light. Peter squinted at the sudden change, but stood up as fast as he could.

"Time for more tests," the agent told him, unlocking the chains from the wall. "Don't drag behind. He'll hate for you too be late," the agent pushed him towards the door.

Every step Peter took killed him. He could feel his body begging for a comfortable place to lay down and never move again.

Peter was dizzy. The lack of food and water was slowing killing him. He can't think or see straight. He has think about his steps, too afraid to even think of what would happen if he fell.

The agent lead him into another room, then locked the door. There was a metal table, and a metal chair beside it.

"Sit," the agents told him, pointing to the metal chair. Peter slowly walked, wanting to put this off.

When he finally got there, he sat. The agent unlocked his chains, "Don't you dare move." Peter didn't think he could move. Sitting down on something other than the concrete floor, even if it was hard metal, was enough to keep his body seated.

Not more than a minute later, another man walked in. He had a lab coat on, blue rubber gloves, and a smile.

"Peter, hows it going?" he asked, putting his hand on Peter's shoulder. Peter flinched, and shook his head. "No. no," he whispered to himself.

"What was that Peter? No?" he asked. Peter shook his head harder, "N-no, Dr. P-porter," he stuttered, shivering.

"Well, Peter, you better be glad I'm in a good mood," Dr. Porter told the fourteen year old. "We need to get started. This might take a little longer than usual."

Dr. Porter grabbed a knife from the table. He grabbed Peter's arm, causing the small boy to flinch. He took the knife and sliced his arm, watching as his advanced healing kicked in.

"This still fascinates me every time I see it," Dr. Porter said, smiling at the cut. "It's just so, fascinating."

"Anyways, let me start what I came to do." While he examined his tools, Peter was shaking. All Peter wanted was to get the hell out of here and stop the pain. The pain was slowly killing him. The lack of food and water made him feel like death.

Peter felt like he was dying a slow and painful death. A death that starts and feels like it'll never end.

"Here we go," Dr. Porter had a needle in his hand. Without another word, he jabbed it into Peter's left arm.