teen spirit|| peter parker [1]

ten ten ten

As soon as my eyes open during the onset of dawn on Wednesday morning, I can't wait until I am back buried away within my bedsheets. Sleeping.

Quite honestly, going to Midtown Tech seems as terrifying and as nauseating as my nightmares.

"Good morning, it is 6am. The weather in Manhattan, New York is 68 degrees Fahrenheit with scattered clouds."

Even the quotes scribbled down onto the post-it notes hanging from the wall behind my bed and only inches from my face don't help me. Carpe diem, and all that bullshit.

As I turn the shower on and the freezing water hits against the my shoulders, I think about the day ahead. Don't speak, don't be noticed— only by him.
And I'll most likely give him shit for the bank robbery. Standard Stark.

It's only for a few days— I repeat over and over again in my head in a rather feeble attempt in convincing myself that it's all going to be okay. I'm smart, I know I'm smart. Correction- was. Equations still swirl together in some sort of unfamiliar language as the trauma has wrecked my brain from working the way it once did. Stick to writing; it's manageable now. I feel like a slight imposter with being the daughter of Tony and the assumed prodigy and next-in-line of Stark Industries while not being as intelligent as him. Though I doubt anyone ever could be.

I am smart, extremely smart, just not necessarily mathematically— not the way I used to be. Perhaps some day I will be able to solve equations as quickly as I used to, though I suppose that that would probably be the day when I finally manage to get over everything that happened to me. That seems pretty far off.

I run the shampoo through my drenched curls and scrub my skin, trying to wash away the fatigue, before stepping out of the shower. I feel just as exhausted as I did when I first woke up. Sleep deprivation, not something I'd ever recommend. Not something I'm glad I suffer from.

I almost manage to braid my hair— very nearly—before shuddering and deciding to leave it hanging down past my shoulders. How pathetic; I can't even style my hair a certain way without remembering the unforgettable absence of Natasha Romanoff. Instead, I stray for something as far away as possible from braids.

Happy doesn't say a word in the car; hardly looks at me. I suppose that he is most likely preoccupied within himself, compiling colossal lists in his mind of all of the things that need to be done before moving day is inevitably brought about. I stare out of the window— which has no raindrops to be seen— and watch as all of the people rush by on their daily commutes, all while Led Zeppelin plays quietly as an ambient soundtrack to my thoughts.

I remember the exact route to the school, and can feel the dread become more overwhelming as every second ticks by. Spending practically every hour in the Compound feels like crawling into an empty casket and laying down, but I could imagine nothing worse than attending Midtown Tech again. It sucks out the tiny amount of life left inside of me. And, it's not even Friday. I can't get $1 pizza. It just seems pointless.

As we pull up to the familiar side street a few blocks away from the school, Happy turns to me, "Have a good day, that's what your Dad told me to say to you. You got lunch money?"

"Yeah, Happy. Don't stress. I'll see you at 2:45, pick me up from here?" I reply back as I climb out of the car. He nods and grunts almost inaudibly, though I take it as a grunt of confirmation and begin my short stroll to the school.

I busy myself with searching through the similar faces of teenage girls with too much lipgloss and teenage boys with braces, all simultaneously looking the same as they walk around in their opposite cliques, clearly on opposite ends of the social ladder. Peter Parker.