teen spirit|| peter parker [1]

cемнадцать [seventeen]

I toss my phone away from me, needing to cleanse myself of the stress and toxicity. My chest feels about to explode, as if my lungs are inflating and expanding and putting a stain on my ribcage. I'm sure if I listen closely, I'll be able to hear the sounds of my bones cracking. Like twigs snapping during fall when the air is crisp and harsh yet simultaneously comforting.

I swing my legs across my bed and pull open my bedroom door, quietly making my way down the hall and out through the building so that no one notices nor stops me. I pull my sleeves down over my palms, not expecting the temperature to be as low and as bitter as it is, while I make my way over to the small forest near the facility.

When I get to the heart of the wood, I settle myself and take a deep breath. Maybe if I learn how to control this, then I'll manage to control whatever the hell is going on inside of me— why I feel so angry all of the time, though so empty. Like a can of soda that has been shaken vigorously and bubbled up and exploded out of the can. That's exactly me. Practically a grenade ready to explode.

I close my eyes and reach out my palm, singling out a winding tree branch shaking in the increasing breeze. Placing my utmost concentration on the branch, my head begins to pound, and I'm almost positive the veins in my forehead are about ready to burst and paint the wood in sticky red. And... nothing happens.

There's no gut-wrenching crack as the branch snaps and falls to the ground. No sharp and brutal wind picking up and whipping the leaves from the tree, falling discarded at my feet. Nothing. Nothing happens. Am I broken? Am I broken, again?

I take a deep breath and try again; concentrating so intensely until the throbbing in my head becomes too blinding to withstand. Nothing.

The thing that terrifies me most is knowing that I have no idea or any story of grip on how powerful these abilities are— never knowing if they'll decide to come out and help save lives in the most vital situations or if countless deaths with be on my hands. Never knowing if I'll accidentally send the lightbulbs and electronics haywire again or if I'll manage to get through another day with causing some sort of catastrophic incident.

Now I'm beginning to come to the realisation that on some repressed level, I'm even more terrified of never having that option for the abilities to suddenly kick in and help save a life. On some repressed level, I have been so desperately searching for some sort of silver-lining in the trauma— needing to find a reason for why it happened and why I had been put through so much and been expected to deal with it like some sort of lab rat or experiment. I had been diminished and reduced down to nothing more than a number and a test result. Having to experience hell on earth for so many consecutive years at a time from such a young age, without never having a reason why or some sort of positive outcome feels worthless. Being stripped now of my abilities after the years spent locked in an isolation room awaiting to be tested on once again, seems like a cruel blow from the universe. All I wanted was a silver-lining— albeit a confusing and down-right chaotic one— but a silver-lining all the same. Does my identity truly define me without it? Do I recognise myself? Should I be happy without it?

I sit with my back against a tree trunk as I struggle to expel the overwhelming pain in my head. Has it truly been for nothing at all?

—

Walking the streets of Manhattan, I feel cold. I feel lonely. I feel completely and utterly disappointed. The everlasting leaden feeling remains in my stomach— though I am just glad that I've forced myself out of the compound and am surrounding myself with people. It makes me feel more regular; more normal.