The unraveling

The descent.

Peter had been getting worse.
He wasn't sure what that meant, really, but he could feel the weight of impending disaster following him at every turn. He could feel himself beginning to unravel.

It had started, with Peter feeling sad. But it had morphed into something much, much worse.

Sadness surrounding his uncles death, the fact that he never knew his parents, the fact that now he has this responsibility and he can't save everyone. Sadness because so many people have died and he could have saved them if he had just done something differently.

This all had morphed into something so horrific that Peter was certain that he was was going to die. He wasn't sure how he would die. But he was plagued with the weight of this feeling of incoming destruction. And he couldn't look past it.

His unraveling.

He could sense the pieces of who he once was slowly chipping away as if dry bits of clay, once moulded to fit his oh so perfect persona.

Well, it didn't used to be a persona. But he supposed that, that was the only truly fitting word for it now.

His unraveling wasn't quick, at least not to Peter, but agonisingly slow.

Maybe that's why no one had noticed anything wrong. So subtle was the disappearance of his threads, that no one could see his tapestry becoming undone.

Or perhaps it was too quick to be seen. He wasn't sure.

(Time was hard to keep track of, these days)

(or, maybe, they just didn't care. And who is he to hold that against them? he rarely feels anything except apathy anyway.)

The feeling of every bit of control and certainty he had held over his life was vanishing.

And it was terrifying.

To go from feeling pure, unbridled love for May or Tony or anyone for the simplest of things. And then to feel, almost immediately after, hot, uncontrolled hatred for those same people for simply asking how he was.

Because, how dare they? Tony never seemed to care before, did he? He simply talked to Peter when he needed him. Surely he's doing the same thing now, right? How dare they treat him like he's stupid. He knows what's going on.

But then again, isn't he stupid?

After all, how pathetic could he be? To turn to something as weak as hurting himself, or to allow himself to get to a point where just looking at food can cause a panic attack

Well, he reasons, it's not actually that bad. He can do what he wants with his body, right?

And, it's not that he thinks he's fat,

(although he has been looking a bit, chubby, lately. Maybe that's why he's been so slow in training recently. Could do with losing a couple more pounds, right?)

No, Peter wouldn't say he thinks he's fat. It's the routine it promises that he's fallen for. The tangible results that are evident every time he steps upon that scale.

It was the feeling of control it promised, that he became addicted to. It was the feeling of control, dragging that thin piece of metal across his skin because he chose to do so.

And it helped with other things too. Peter could barely think coherently anymore. Dissociated from reality, and always within a dream-like state. It helped ground him.

(a dream-like state? more like a nightmare)

Yes. Perhaps he could admit there was something wrong. At least, to himself.

(can't have Mr Stark thinking he's any-more pathetic than he already does, right?)

No, he can manage- and anyway, what would a psychiatrist be able to do that he can't? He knows his issues, realistically. Or at least, what they would classify as issues. He knows what it probably stemmed from. Trauma, right? His uncle dying. All those people that have died under his care. Yes he knows this. He knows that there are probably coping mechanisms he could research online. But so what? He deserves it anyway, doesn't he? After all, he is killing himself. Slowly. He is hurting himself. It's like a penance, for all the deaths that have occurred on his watch.

Anyway, in reality, he doesn't want to stop any of it.

(he's too selfish)

He tried, in the beginning. He actually stopped for about 2 months, maybe even 3. But it was worse afterwards. After that, he lost more blood than he ever had before. He couldn't go a day without regularly dragging the cold metal across his skin.

He still can't. Not usually.

So he doesn't try. It won't work, anyway. And he doesn't have the motivation anymore either.

And still he can feel the darkness ahead. He can feel that it's about to get so much worse.

As much as he may try to justify the fact that, he doesn't want to be 'better'- and that it is some type of penance, he knows that it's all for himself. It's to stop himself from losing control. Because he can't imagine what would happen if he did.

(actually, he can imagine the view from the top of Stark Tower, and how pretty his city would look as he plummets towards the ground)

Peter is unraveling. And he doesn't know what to do. Because he can't go to Stark. He wouldn't care, right?

He'd just take the suit away. He would take spider-man away. The only constant in Peter's life. He would lock Peter in an institution somewhere. And if he didn't, Peter might even be offended. Because what? He isn't sick enough for a hospital? And then, if he did, Peter wonders if that would be the final straw. The weight of Starks knowledge, of how truly pathetic he is would utterly ruin Peter.

Peter can't win.

He couldn't tell Happy. Or Natasha or Bruce or any of them because there is no way that he would reveal his weakness to them. And there is no way they would care.

He can't tell May, can he? She'd just try to fix him. But there isn't anything to fix. She'd try to get him to stop. And he simply can't. It would hurt too much to disappoint her.

(he's already a disappointment)

He can't tell MJ or Ned. He is not going to burden them with his pathetic problems. He doubts that they'd actually try to help, anyway. And if they did, well, perhaps that would be worse. Anyway, they'd probably just be uncomfortable with it all. They wouldn't be able to help. What could they possibly do?

No, Peter isn't going to tell anyone. He isn't going to let any of them find out. He simply can't do it.

So what options does he have? What is he able to do?

(He can do nothing but slowly sink into the abyss, weighted with the knowledge of his failures)

He doesn't need to do anything, anyway. He'll be fine. He is fine. They say he's a genius. And he will keep up this façade, whether he is one or not.

(But his threads are unraveling, and he sure as hell doesn't know how to sew them back together)