teen spirit|| peter parker [1]

three

It was Him.

Pitch black; just his taunting and terrifying sickly drawl filling the empty space.

Too much empty space.

Too much room for grabbing hands and delayed reactions.

But when I open my eyes, the terror drains from me, soon replaced with nerves.

All while I was tossing and turning for endless hours, I was in a cruel limbo, the cusp of sleep and consciousness causing my head to pound with the lack of rest and the amount of stress clinging to me.

"Wake up! Big day today, kid."

I jump out of my skin and critically scan over the door, but there is no one to be seen. That's when I realise Dad must be using Antares to talk to me. He knows I hate that. My room is a space for myself and myself only; a place of peace to ease the stress and chaos of the world around me, which seems to have been crumbing for as long as I can remember.

"I'm not going. Leave me alone. I'm sleeping,"
I snap, nibbling at the skin on my lower lip and pacing around my bedroom, desperately trying to think of an excuse to get out of this. Desperately trying to refrain from bursting another collection of light bulbs.

"Yes, you are. And no, you're not. I'm making pancakes, get your ass in the kitchen or I swear, I'll get Vision to drag you out of your room." He disconnects from Antares and the space around me is flooded with silence, until the inevitable chatter and overwhelming clamour of my thoughts becomes too overwhelming, that I'm willing to do whatever it takes to shut it all out. To separate my mind neatly into files and sections regarding certain subjects and memories, the tune of songs that I'm not certain on the lyrics, the anxiety-provoking task ahead of me, and about one thousand loose ends and problems I have yet to resolve. The trauma and memories of Him to be buried deep, not to be provoked or prodded with even a ten-foot pole. Though I know He'll break free from the restraints soon enough, trespassing back into my life.

He's dead, Bonnie. Let it go.

It's strange, but I quite liked my old school. It certainly wasn't my favourite place, and I would have much preferred to be painting or skating, but it was... tolerable.

I liked being submerged with other people, I liked the bustling atmosphere and the laughter sweeping through the corridors. I liked English class and Chemistry and $1 pizza on Fridays. I liked to shrink down and slip by without people noticing, while knowing I wasn't by myself.

I suppose the loneliness began to eat away at me from the inside, despite being surrounded by hundreds of other people. I suppose it happened without realising. All at once or over time- I'm unsure- but I know that it's still plaguing me.

Over the years, I have conditioned myself to despise loneliness, yet bask in the empty space. Perhaps it's down to the fact that I know it isn't healthy to be alone continuously, though it feels much easier to be by myself instead of dragging others down with me.

Self destruction is desirable to a rotting mind.

I fling the door open and heave myself into the kitchen before collapsing onto a stool at the counter, Natasha beside me and scanning through a copy of The New York Times, a mug of black coffee clutched in her other hand.

Dad pushes a messy stack of pancakes smothered in whipped cream and chopped strawberries over to me while I make myself a cappuccino. Though, once I'm sat down with a knife and fork clutched clumsily in my nimble fingers, the nausea once again rises in my throat, and coffee is the only thing that I could even think about stomaching right now.

Natasha notices my pained expression without tearing her eyes away from the newspaper, "You've got to eat something, Bonnie."

I force myself to take a sip of coffee, the hot liquid singeing the back of my throat and the roof of my mouth, the steam erupting should have been enough to signify its boiling temperature, though I suppose I'm too nervous to care about hot drinks and burnt tongues.