𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐈 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐀𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔 | Peter Parker

thirty one

At least she's not alone.

Sometimes she forgets that she's not the only one suffering. Sometimes the reminder that there are people who understand her escapes through the crevices of her mind.

Because Akira, Ned and Peter were there, too. Chocking on lake water, clothing set nearly set on fire and mini missile attacks, they experienced it. They lived in that horror as much as she did. They're still living in it as much as she is.

So much so, a mutual feeling of compassion weaves into the atmosphere when they're together. They hang out a couple times a week; always at someone's house and never in public. They don't do much. Sometimes they do nothing at all. But the love and support is there, just as it's always been. If anything, it has grown stronger. They'd survived a trifecta of terror together. They were bound no matter what.

In some ways, the thought soothes Amala. When the sky gets too dark and nothing can light it up, she knows they're right with her — wading through the night's tar.

It's better to suffer together than to suffer alone, right?

Six weeks pass and Amala has the worst nightmare yet.

Like every time before, it's beginning is the same. She's in a car and she feels tense. A sudden, blinding light crushes into her and it goes skidding against the pavement. A shadow dents the car and stops the skidding. She has no idea who they are but she sprints towards them anyways. She runs right through them. As usual.

Then, she's in a bubble of liquid, struggling for an escape. She swims and swims but to no avail — there's no way out of it. Tentacles of fire wrap around the bubble and the water is warm. She screams for help. It's swallowed by the current.

Ejected into the clattering streets of London, soaking and afraid, heavy wind howls in the sky. Debris and the like soars in the air and Amala joins them as she gets tossed off her feet. She sways violently and the world changes direction. Her feet ache for the ground. Only when she's spat back into the floor, does she realize where she is. Metal doors, artifacts, rectangular cut-out. Her eyes barely have time to adjust before a cannon-like sound rips through the air and a bullet soars from the nozzle of a drone. She closes her eyes and waits for the world to go quiet. It never comes.

When she hesitantly opens her eyes, she's no longer in London's vault. Instead, she's on top New York's tallest skyscraper. Cool wind hits her face and fluffs up her hair. She looks around. Lit up buildings stack against each other like a sparkly game of Tetris. Even from this high up, Amala can still hear cars honking and driving on the streets. Something feels off, she can feel it. Instinctively, her palms rubs along her sleeve. Soft cotton makes contact with her skin and her body sinks into it; she's wearing Peter's hoodie.

As though she may have summoned him, Peter appears right in front of her. He's clad in his Spider-man suit — the spandex material hugging his figure nicely. His mask is off, revealing a calm face. Amala immediately calms down at his presence. Peter slowly walks up to her. She opens her mouth to say something but no noise comes out. Confused, she tries again as Peter takes a step closer — his expression is neutral. Again, no words come out of her mouth. Panic begins to rise in her throat. Peter doesn't notice her change in demeanor and if he does, he doesn't show it. As he keeps inching closer, Amala tries to move. She can't. Her feet are stuck to the ground. Alarm bells ring in her ears. Peter is close enough to touch yet she stands still, hands at her side. Her expression widens. It takes mere moments  for the course of someone's life to change. For Amala, it took seconds. One minute she was on the roof with Peter, the next she was free-falling into the sky, her chest burning behind Peter's touch. Fear sinks into her like an anvil. She falls faster. In her final moments, Amala spares a glance at the sky. Peter meets her eyes. They're empty.