teen spirit|| peter parker [1]

eighteen

ne red d
bonnie pls call me. i am
worried about u.
So is Peter.

bonnie
i'm fine, ned. don't stress.

I check the text message notification on my phone, before burying it back down into the pocket of my jeans. I close my eyes, take another deep breath, and ready myself once again.

And—

Nothing.

And—

Nothing.

I curse myself under my breath until the anger gets the better of me. I drop back down onto my knees and rest up against a thick tree trunk, stationed in the small wooded area behind the compound. I press onto my fingertips to see if even the tiniest rise in temperature can be detected; no. They're normal. Cold.

I've been getting so desperate with trying to gain back some sort of control over my abilities, that I even went to the comic book store by myself and bought a few copies of the comics I remember Peter showing me from his 'research.' So far, my search for clarity has been vastly unsuccessful. It's gotten to such an awful extent, that leaving my bedroom has become a difficult task yet again. I counted eleven light bulbs that I smashed yesterday unintentionally. And I counted zero comic books that contain the same narrative.

I fiddle with the loose thread in the right-sleeve cuff of my sweater. The weather is beginning to get colder as the days progress further and further into Autumn, and I know that the time we have left in the compound is limited to mere days now. Dad is hardly home anymore, as is Pepper; too busy with the move. I only see Happy when he comes to the compound every morning to drive me to Midtown, but I never end up going. I protest to ever showing my face again, but somehow, somewhere in my father's chaotic mind, he believes that I'll eventually give in and go. He couldn't be anymore incorrect.

However, my conversation with MJ has been replaying in my head; putting Flash Thompson in his place is well overdue and would be intensely satisfying. I can't help but begin to debate if maybe I should rip the band-aid off, or if I should flaunt my Stark name. Maybe Midtown isn't as awful as I have built it up to be in my mind. But then again, I don't think I could ever bring myself to see Peter Parker ever again.

Defeated, I pick myself up from the ground and dust off my clothes, before heading out to the subway. Usually, I'd ask Happy for a ride if I wanted to go into the city, but I think there's nothing more therapeutic than sitting on the subway and riding it around New York until I can make sense of my thoughts again. It's a way for me to stop and think without actually having to stop and think.

When the train finally comes, it's busy. There's a group of teenagers sitting across from me, maybe college freshmen, some chuckling away at a shared inside joke, while the other two sit with their hands intertwined and a pair of earphones shared between them, one in each ear. There's an old man reading the same newspaper page over and over again— thick bifocals slipping down the thin bridge of his nose. And of course, the usual storm of business workers, put together in their briefcases and blazers, take to the subway, anxiously patting their feet and checking their watches to make sure they aren't late for any important and confidential meetings or whatever. I couldn't imagine ever having my life so well-put together.

I ride the subway to Queens out of routine— when I used to leave the compound every night and travel around the city into eventually stopping at Queens and trailing the streets until the darkness became too unsettling. I leave the teenagers and old man and business workers as I get out at my stop, feeling slightly nervous in case I end up bumping into a certain crime-fighting spider. Though I'm sure he's most likely at some robotics club or decathlon extra-curricular as a way to kill some of his spare time.