Heavy Healing

2 Peter

It was tantalizing to see the success of others, knowing that it really isn't that hard in the grand scheme of things to accomplish these things, but also knowing that failure was the default reality was scary. It made it hard to try to find a new means of taking care of himself even though he needed it so badly.  

He unlocked the door to his building and headed for the stairs, wandering up to the second floor and rounding the corner towards his unit. Peter paused his mental gnashing to pay attention, keeping his footsteps steady and unwavering as he walked down the musty hallway. He had to pass four doors, and he had begun to feel a ping on his radar whenever he passed the unit next to his neighbor. When he paid attention he was positive that there was someone standing directly behind the door as he walked, the stinging sensation of their eyes following him through the peephole inescapable as he talked past, doing his best to look unbothered.

Deep down he couldn't get to his door fast enough. He didn't know who lived there, the unit had been empty as far as he was aware up until a few weeks ago, only he never heard or saw anyone move in. Considering he could hear a fair amount throughout the neighboring units, he certainly should have noticed the noise of someone moving in or out. There was a chance that whoever lived there had been gone for the better parts of a few months, but that didn't really normalize the creepiness of the peephole stalking. 

Peter shivered once he reached his door out of sight of the mystery person, imagining them coming down the hall at odd hours of the day to try and peer into his own home. 

He sighed once inside and locked behind a fairly sturdy door. The paint was peeling, but the door itself was a unit, so he was happy with it. He grabbed his secondary lock and slipped the wedge so it would catch the door if it was opened. It wouldn't stop anyone from getting in if they were determined, but it would give him a few extra seconds and wake him with its obnoxious alarm. He had the luxury of only experiencing it once, and that was because a drunk girl wandered into his apartment. She'd peed herself during the fright, but he got her to the right door and a plate of cookies and a bucket of cleaning supplies the next morning so it wasn't all bad. Cleaning supplies were expensive when you started stacking expenses and he had been washing everything with watered down Ajax soap since moving in so he appreciated the disinfectants and carpet cleaner. 

He set his container of chicken on the counter and tapped the counter.

What to do with himself now? He should be productive. He shouldn't be allowed to feel sorry for himself if he isn't trying to dig himself out of the hole he was in. Right? 

Sure . . .

He had his next donation scheduled, so he should keep the chicken ready for supper and breakfast. That way he'd have it fresh in his system and if he hurt himself tonight, he shouldn't have to worry too much about it rushing through his system. 

He was still a little hungry even though Wade had him eat before sending him out with leftovers, so after purring the chicken in the fridge he went and grabbed a pack of ramen, pulling out a bowl and dumping the contents within before throwing it and added water into the microwave. 

His apartment was quiet and dark. 

Extremely quiet. And cold. 

He hated it here. 

The loud hum of the microwave wasn't something worthy of filling the void of life that haunted his home. It was overshadowed by the lilies sitting by the window and the Thank You cards he didn't have the money to mail out to the people who helped him with May's funeral. He tried to send one a week but sometimes he forgot. That's what he should do with this week's money. He could suck it up and throw ten bucks at cards that ended to be sent.

He groaned to himself and turned back towards his food when the timer went off. He pulled out the hot bowl to let it sit on the stove for a few minutes and cook the noodles, walking over to get a glass of purple kool-aide from the half-gallon pitcher sitting in his fridge. 

He ate his ramen, drank his purple potion, and made a new Instagram account. Maybe he'd start there? But artists were always getting shit on, TikTok would be a better option, but then he'd have to either make videos or edits of his pictures to get attention. 

After a few hours of fucking around on his phone he found absolutely no answers but he had a few accounts opened and all named 'Actualy_Spiderman'. He wasn't certain about the name but it was a bit on the nose and he felt like that was the right choice to make, but by the end of it all he had to move on. With food eaten and dishes washed it was time to do something important. Patrol. 

Special thanks to Patron Poiuytre23 for their pledge. Their support has brought to you this Story via the Katana commission tier. I was given complete freedom with this piece and intend to continue this work in the future.

Until next time
~ Shadow-Assassin