[14]

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CRASH.

I felt like a rag doll as I fell, a broken marionette, fallen limp against the cold ground after my master had become too frustrated with my lack of flexibility. I was fine, truly there was nothing broken and no major wounds blooming across my skin, but red-hot shame stained my cheeks and my body was still burning with fire. The shame of falling so easily was what hurt.

Resisting the urge to cry out in new pain, I staggered to my feet, dodging a hit just before Inga's hands could reach me once again. Still, the effect of throwing myself out of the way almost immediately threw me off guard and still caused me to stumble, making my defences wide open. Like I fool, I slipped and struggled to stand and she had all the opportunities needed to strike her final blows, rip me to skin and bones and misery.

Inga pulled at my vulnerable torso, a low groan echoing through the room as my back muscles shrieked in new pain. I did not have the time to fight back before she was holding my arms down me still, face two inches away from mine. Her always-stained red lips had saliva beads bubbling and her breathe stank. I did my best to not gag.

"You're still too slow," she spat, droplets of saliva staining dripping down my cheek in an area I could not reach with hands held back. It dripped slowly, and I grimaced, holding back the urge to gag. Her taunts were a slow, careful song, perfectly performed in Russian and the poisonous rather of Inga Kuznetsova. "Once again, you failed. You fall too fast and give up too easily. Fool of a soldier, wasting time."

Our fighting was supposedly for practice, but none of that past hour had been for me or beneficial. No, it was her playtime, her being the spider and me a docile fly, drugged up and waiting for her to wrap me up and be drained of blood and energy. I fought, but she was always stronger, always faster, always ten steps ahead of me and anticipating any move. It was as though she was an enhanced clone of my own self; no matter what I did, she already knew and had already a counterattack loading up.

"Let me go."

She released my wrist and watched as I rubbed them in agony, a flicker of a smile on her face. "I still do not know what was seen in you. There were much better girls, yet you were the replacement. Your teacher is a идиот."

"You would be dead without my help."

Her laugh would never cease to scare me, and when it hit my ears in a shrill cry, I flinched and resisted the urge to cover them. "I doubt that. Now, clean up."

Shooting a glare at her turned back, I staggered up and gripped the coffee table tightly, wincing as my back lit up in pain in a billion different places. I would have to get used to the pain, for it wasn't like I could easily pull off a random back injury at school, but that didn't stop the eruption of wounds all down my spine as I struggled to make my way across the room. I just had to hope that the Parker boy wasn't planning on staging a fight session today, otherwise, I was more than doomed.

...

It was weird, actually being inside where the boy lived. I had visited it many-a-time before, sure, but that was from his fire escape, dangling and watching him for a few snatched moments before it was a worry of getting caught. I didn't know much about his building other than that small room, and everything was different on a totally normal side.

He lived in a small apartment, nothing ridiculously fancy, with long white doors lined up in rows across from each other, plain and all matching the one across from it. The carpet was worn, and I observed in great distaste that stains littered some of the walls as I hurried up the stairs and the way the putrid stench followed me and seemed to only grow worse as I got higher up. However, for some strange reason, the Parker boy's door was spotless and clean - a pleasant surprise to the other less meticulous disasters around. Not that that was that fascinating or something to report back to Inga about, but it was something to note about the boy.

Little Spy | Peter Parker ✓Where stories live. Discover now