The days turn into weeks and suddenly it's been almost two months since I last heard from Peter Parker. More accurately, since he heard from me.
The last time we spoke was the day we arrived home from Berlin, and my text message inbox held a notification from Peter - 'i hope you got home safe. thanks for an awesome trip.'
I didn't reply.
Sometimes, on my evening walks around the city or when I'm running minor errands for my father- like getting his favourite bagel from the bakery a block from the subway- I'll see Spider-Man slinging through the city with his webs. Dad has made it my allocated job to collect coffee and snacks while he's working, and I know does it to make me feel useful and to get me out of the Compound while they're all so busy passing through paper work and other boring files about relocating upstate
Usually, just before the sun sets, I'll take the subway until I feel like getting off just so that I can be as far away as I can from the Compound while still feeling as safe as possible. And sometimes I'll see Peter sitting on top of the trains or patrolling around the streets, swinging between skyscrapers.
But I'm too busy for that, now. There's so much going on, yet also nothing at all. It's empty- so empty- without everyone here. Watching Friends and 80s slasher movies without Wanda seems strange and discomforting. Training with Happy instead of Nat isn't as fun- he mostly complains- "Come on, Happy. You've gotta help out, Happy. Get your ass kicked by a fifteen-year-old girl, Happy," he moans every time in that sardonic whine.
Hearing the crackling of Steve's old vinyls spinning on his record player, usually Harry James or sometimes Chet Baker. I always knew he wished he hadn't been put in the ice. He wished he had died properly- and that was that.
That's what I miss. All of it. Even the bickering and the sleepless nights and the quarrelling over the culprit behind the empty milk cartons being left in the refrigerator - Rhodey. It was Rhodey.
Silver linings don't exist, but at least there are less people to watch me smash lightbulbs and fuck with the electricity.
During the nights when my nightmares are too scarring and terrifying- when even the brief darkness of my blinking eyes is harrowing enough to make any sense of rest and sleep laughable- I'll find myself trailing down the hall and into Wanda's bedroom just for a sense of familiarity. I suppose, her old bedroom. It's strange to take in the emptiness of it all; the walls stripped of drawings and pictures of the two of us. No guitar, no black nail polish stains on the cashmere rug. Just a bed and an empty shell of the pre-existing memories; nights spent gossiping about how much Clint could piss us off at times, as well as her strange yet perfect 'friendship' with Vision.
But when the night would draw further and further on; when the cookie dough ice cream had been eaten and all of the classic rom-coms had been watched (usually Bridget Jones' Diary, or Clueless), the conversation would take a turn, and Pietro would be brought up. She'd begin really happy, talking about childhood memories with an pure glint in her eye, and how much love was in their home. How even when her Mother and Father had been killed, she never felt completely alone- she had Pietro through everything. And, fuck, she could hardly bring herself to remember that he wasn't still alive. She'd most likely try to deceive herself and imagine him still being around, leaving his muddy sneakers on the living room carpet or dirty towels on the bathroom floor, and eating his body weight in chips.
She talked about him as if he were still here- but she knew deep down that he wasn't. And nothing would ever be able to fill the gaping holes in her chest- because what he felt, she also felt. And when he left, the pain was insurmountable.
Then she'd wipe away her tears and the mascara dripping down her cheeks, and she'd ask me about Mom, and then it'd be my turn to break. While I never quite went into the specifics regarding my telekinetic abilities the way she was able to- the memories of Killian and the 'meetings' being far too painful to revisit- I'd talk fondly of Mom. I'd reminisce over the way she wore her sunglasses nestled in her hair, and the faint dimples that would show on her clear complexion whenever she'd smile. It is only beginning to occur to me now, how scarce that smile was in the last few years of her life- after London.
We'd envelop each other in the tightest of embraces, as if we were too afraid of losing one another, while humming the tune to 'Blackbird' by The Beatles. Coincidentally, that was an incredibly popular song in both of our households'. More tears would be shed, until we'd eventually fall asleep while dawn would be initially breaking.
I cast my eyes around the room again. The cardboard boxes stacked up against the walls make me realise how much is changing- again.
But I should be immune to change, right?
I mean, I've moved houses more times than I could count on two hands.
But why does the pain of saying goodbye to the Compound feel so raw?
I suppose walking through the doors was the first time I had really felt safe and secure since before London- and in the two years that followed, I had been living through my worst nightmares. And those 'meetings' really are my worse nightmares now.
I suppose my life has been packed up in boxes, too- alongside Dad's and Nat's and Steve's and Wanda's, not forgetting the rest of the team who lived here. I haven't been able to sort through the files about Mom, which I have kept stashed away under my bed ever since Dad photocopied them and gave them to me when I first came to live with him. I know I will have to revisit them soon, as moving day is nearing, despite how much I am dreading it with every bone in my body. I know it's juvenile and completely melodramatic of me, but I think that reading through all of the harsh truths of her death would quite literally be as if I had crawled into her empty casket.
I'd be submerging myself in the memories, knowing the fond ones have lost their sweetness and have now turned bitter. I'd be putting myself through it all over again, and I've not even finished the first round of grief.
The unfamiliarity of the end of the Avengers plagues me even when I'm away from the Compound. I feel as lonely as ever, on my second coffee run of the day. It's not as if we don't have at least thirteen different coffee machines back at home, but Dad thinks it's good for me to get out of the house- considering those that I had once labelled as my friends and family have gotten up and left, it seems about time to start acquainting more people.
I familiarise myself with Dad's order by checking the note typed up on my phone, even though I've been to this same Starbucks perhaps fifteen different times in the space of four days and bought the same black coffee drinks in the same to-go cups. I'm sure I could make his preferred beverage in my sleep, though I mumble the words under my breath over and over until I reach the front of the line.
Venti Dark Roast, no milk, no room, and four of those tiny sugar packets.
Normally, when I really can't stand to stay in the Compound, I come to this coffee shop and sit by the window with a cappuccino whilst reading. Sometimes I read, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I look over the top of the pages and watch all of the people walking by or walking in. They usually sigh heavily with contentment when they get enveloped in the warmth of freshly brewed coffee, especially if it's been raining. I think a coffee shop is one of the only places where it's seen as 'cool' to come by yourself; mysterious and intriguing. At least, that's what I hope. I think I'd never be able to come back if all of the baristas behind the counter had secretly been laughing away at how lonely I seem.
Maybe I'll have to bring someone with me.
Do I even have anyone?
The girl behind the cash register smiles sweetly at me, a flicker of familiarity showing across her face; she knows what I'm about to order.
I'm thankful it's not one of those rainy days when I push through the doors and throw myself back into the bustling streets. At least it's not far from home, so if it were to rain, the paper cups might still be stable enough to drink out of.
I groan in annoyance as the traffic lights turn red and I know I'll be waiting for a while. Traffic in the city is one of the most relentless aspects of living here. And I don't trust traffic lights. Especially after everything that happened in London.
I wait impatiently with the coffee cups clutched tightly in my hands, surrounded by the bustling crowds.
"Bonnie?"
I snap my head up at the sound of my name, to find Ned Leeds by my side.
"It's me, Ned, from Midtown. You came for like a day and disappeared."
His grin is infectious and even manages to spread to my own lips.
"Ned, hey. How are you?" Making small talk is definitely not my forte, but Ned is one of the most charming and warm people I have ever met; he and Peter could talk for a lifetime and never grow sick and tired of each others' voices.
He explains that he has been to visit his grandma and is on his way to the subway and has plans to meet Peter later but he thinks he'll flake out on him because he's been 'so busy with the Stark internship."
"Have you seen him recently? I mean, he told me that you were there on the trip for the Stark internship," Ned explains, causing me to choke slightly on my iced latte, "but have you spoken to him or anything? I don't know, he's just acting kind of weird. Like yesterday, I asked him if he wanted to go see the Empire Strikes Back rerun at the old theatre on 73rd and he said he already had plans, but then he got all secretive and wouldn't tell me what he was doing. I don't know, maybe he's involved in a drug ring, or maybe he's got a secret girlfriend."
"Ned, I can assure you, both of those things are very unlikely." The lights turn green and Ned and I cross the road together, "So, did Peter say anything else about the Stark trip, or..."
I'm almost certain that he wouldn't tell him about my family circumstances, but I still feel the urge to make absolute certain. Just to put my mind at ease.
"Nah, not really. He just told me that you were there too and that it was pretty intense, but the best weekend he's ever had," he explains, noticing my brow furrowing slightly.
'The best weekend he's ever had.'
Even if it consisted of constantly trying to talk me down from anxiety attacks, fighting against the Avengers, and ultimately losing.
As it turns out, chiselled cheekbones and dark waves, along with superhero alter egos can be just as good at distracting me as breathing techniques and counting.
But, 'The best weekend he's ever had.'
He was most definitely referring to meeting Steve. I mean, who wouldn't crumble into a stuttering mess around him. He's Steve Rogers.
"I'll see you later, Bonnie," Ned calls as he turns the corner towards the subway, leaving me in a rather confused state. That's until I remember the hot coffee cups for Dad and Happy in my hand, and follow my usual path back to the Compound.
I still haven't gotten used to the fact that everyone here knows me, I'm never asked for identification, they just know me as Bonnie Stark- Tony's daughter. I suppose that's about as far as my recognition goes; the day I turn up to one of those award shows or big events where people wear suits and dresses or whatever, will be the day time travel is possible.
I tiptoe into dad's workshop, not wanting to disturb him from his work, gently placing his coffee on the desk before heading to the door. Happy bursts in just before my hands brush against the handle, glaring in annoyance at his phone.
"He quit Marching Band. I didn't even know the kid was in it. Tony, for my sake, deal with him," Happy groans as his phone signals a new text message. Peter Parker.
"Yeah, he plays the trumpet," I say, before Dad and Happy turn to me with furrowed brows, "I'm not obsessed with him, it's on the school website. I was doing research."
"Hear that, Hogan? 'Research' she claims," Dad jokes sarcastically, earning the middle finger from me.
"I literally just bought you coffee-"
Tony cuts me off, "Go. Now. Don't you have training with Happy?"
I groan in frustration, "What's the point in training if the Avengers are no more? I mean, we're broken up right? Like The Beatles or One Direction-"
Dad stands up from his desk, taking a gulp from his coffee before planting a kiss on my cheek, "Training. Now," he gestures to Happy before ruffling my hair.
The session consists of Happy complaining almost the entire time.
He groans, "I'm not sure why you need combat training if you're telekinetic." His face is pressed firmly up against the padded floor of the boxing ring, his headgear protecting him from any real harm. I twist his arm further around his back and up towards his should blades, to which he yelps out in pain. Clawing at my fingers, he's decided he doesn't want to practice this particular move any longer, "Okay, Okay. Enough. Let go-"
"Happy, you know why."
I untangle my limbs from his, chuckling lightly at his body clad and wrapped protectively in tight padding. He heaves himself up at mutter under his breath about how humiliating and degrading it is to be beat up by a teenage girl, while leaning against the ropes providing a barrier around the ring. I toss him his water bottle, and we stand together to take a break before resuming the training.
"How is Rhodey? I've not seen him in a while," I ask Happy.
"It's easier for him to stay at the hospital while he's recovering," his tone is somber and pessimistic, unsure whether he will be able to walk properly again without some sort of prosthetic or medical assistance. The physical therapy sessions mustn't be turning out hopeful or positive.
This whole controversy between the Avengers seems unneeded and quite honestly juvenile- and I know it's not, I know it's momentous and major in the terms of our future- but everything has fallen apart. Everything over these fucking Accords.
Though, I suppose it wasn't just that.
Tony and Steve's relationship was balancing on the finest and most delicate of tightropes for the longest of times. It's as if it started off in the beginning as the smallest spark, lighting up the rope; eventually it burnt through and they've been left without nothing at all. After everything they've been through together- it was for nothing at all, in the end.
"I didn't tell Tony, by the way, about Berlin- but he knows," Happy mentions after a while.
"What are you-"
He sighs heavily, "He knows that you and Peter snuck out of the hotel and went roaming around the city. It was in the paper, 'The Astonishing Sticky Boy saves girl from falling to her death.'"
I chuckle in amusement, wondering if Peter would possibly adhere to his new label of 'Sticky Boy.'
Happy and I step back into the ring, adjust our footing and prepare ourselves for the remainder of the gruelling training session. I suppose it's probably a lot more painful and tedious for him rather than me, considering he hardly lays a finger on me.
That's what I loved about training with Nat. It was brutal; but also invigorating and empowering. She'd always push me to my limits- push me further than my limits. She had always known that I'd be capable of much more than everyone expected and she had taken me under her wing and decided to become my new mentor. Out of all of the empowering things she has said to me over the years, a certain quote has shaped me into the version of myself that I am now; 'Just because society tries to force these outdated and false stereotypes on women, it doesn't mean that you have to accept it. They see us as passive and gentle, which gives us a hell of a lot more reason to scream and make noise and be assertive and the fucking bane if their existence. They may see us as sexual objects, but how can we be objectified if we take the power away from their behaviours and views? We have the power- as women- to use our sexuality as our greatest weapon, we can use it to become the greatest manipulators in the world with nothing more than a glance. Make noise, Bonnie; they'll hate it. And that's exactly what we want.'
She was the true leader of the Avengers, and if she were a man, then society would have accepted it a whole lot easier.
The chimes of a ringtone fill the gym and blare loudly over the music- AC/DC have been playing on loop for the past half an hour. I squeeze myself through the elastic bands bordering the ring and grab at my phone, hoping it's Wanda or Nat calling to let me know they're okay. Hell, I'm even hopeful it might be Steve.
Though upon fiddling furiously with my phone in my hand, I realise it was Happy's mobile- no texts or calls from the rest of the team replying to my several queries regarding their health, wellbeing or whereabouts.
I know it's naive and rather silly of me to be hoping for a reply, when I know full well that they're all locked up in a high security jail, now- living the irony of those who were meant to protect the world, now turned criminal. Yet another reason why the Sokovia Accords are the most hated aspect and issue in my life- well, second to Him.
He's dead. Get it through your skull.
"Hogan speaking... yeah... okay, let me- let me just... I'll get Tony-" Happy's expression soon turns antagonised and is followed by him quickly pushing through the doors towards the hallway, discarding our training session and putting an end to the practice.
I exhale heavily and turn to the mirrors covering the back wall, sighing heavily at the sorry state of my cotton-candy curls separated into damp strands spilling from its once tight ponytail.
It's almost a reflex at this point; look in the mirror- sigh, look in the mirror- sigh. Which insecurities can I pick out today? Will it be the freckles covering my nose? The heaviness of my eye-bags? Or will I have one of the moments where I think I'm the hottest bitch in the world, and feel incredibly empowered? I'm beginning to doubt the latter.
It's usually the things that cannot be concealed with a quick swipe of foundation or eyeliner; the mental aspect. Commonly: Why am I so broken? Why can't I just be like a regular person? Why can't I just worry over minor issues, like which boy I'd rather take to Homecoming as my date? Why am I always anxious over when the next lightbulb to explode will be?
Today- I've opted for the mental situation. Why I still haven't been able to forget what Killian did to me even though it's already been several years. Why I let it stain me and leave it's mark, the countless hours spent scrubbing away as my skin to be pointless; I will never get rid of his lingering presence and memories. I have to finally accept that this trauma is more than just skin-deep. It's burrowed far within me, and maybe I'll be able to confront it one day. Or maybe I'll just keep pushing it away and accidentally breaking things and fucking with the electricity with my mind.
I heave my gym bag onto my shoulder and turn the radio off, relishing in the sudden silence. On my way back to my bathroom to take a shower, I see Rhodey and my father together in his office, quietly muttering secretively about something together. Following my usual devious and natural curiosity and ambition, I press myself up by the wall to peak through the gap in the door, though all I manage to pick up on are the words, 'breakout' and 'gone.'
"Are you alright, Miss Stark?"
The familiarly robotic tone of Vision's voice makes me jump out of my skin, hitting my head harshly against the wall as he suddenly appears right next to me. Clearly, he doesn't have the issue of needing to eavesdrop to be up to speed with everything going on.
"I'm fine, Vision, thank you," I whisper while offering him a sweet smile, though my muttered tone clearly wasn't enough to muffle my voice, as dad pulls the door open wider to see me.
"Hey, what are you doing? Are you spying on me? Don't you have a sort of- hatred- against spying? I could have sworn you gave me a whole lecture on privacy just a few months ago," Dad smirks fondly, though his eyes seem busy and preoccupied with stress- as usual.
I stand on my tiptoes to reach up and pull him into a hug, knowing he could never stay mad at me considering I'm his only and most-loved daughter, though he dodges it swiftly and dives out of my outstretched arms. My mouth drops open in fake appall and disappointment, to which he replies with, "You're sweaty, and this blazer is Armani."
"Yeah, as if Armani is a huge strain on your bank account. It's not as if you have twenty of those jackets hanging in your closet right now." I roll my eyes in distaste. I suppose that despite having a billionaire as a father, I still have a certain dislike for the wealthy leaders of expensive companies and corporations- most likely from growing up with a Mom who could barely afford for both of us to eat dinner. But still, I'd rather have a house than nothing at all.
"Get," Dad gestures to the hallway, signifying that I have over-stayed my welcome in his workspace and that it is time for me to leave. However, these rules do not apply to Vision as he simply glides through the thick wall and into the workshop, and Dad doesn't retaliate. I suppose I'm truly not an Avenger- and I probably never will be- despite how much I long for it. For a sense of purpose and value.
—
After washing the chaos of the day from my hair and scrubbed aggressively at my skin in attempt to wash away the trauma and the memories, I ready myself for the evening ahead and take off for the subway- returning to my usual routine of riding the train for a while until I feel like I should get off, and trailing the street until the air grows cold and my fingertips feel slightly numb. No matter how cold or how scared I am, I'd never be able to bring myself to call Happy. Except for the incident of September 12th- what a fucking night.
I still don't imagine I'd ever be able to tell Dad what happened in fear he'll turn full Tony Stark Mode and threaten another dangerous man- we all know how that has worked in the past. I'm most definitely aware of the reasons of my Mom and Dads' reunion. Even if I wish I wasn't.
So, I'll take the train and watch on at all of the drunk college couples kissing as if the world around them has simply faded away through a messy mixture of cheap spirits and affection. And I'll blast Joy Division through my earbuds to make me feel like I'm in one of those coming-of-age movies and to take my mind off my screaming thoughts. And I'll feel completely alone, but the comforting type of loneliness that I'm unfamiliar yet well-acquainted to; the type of aloneness where you realise that everyone else in life has their own thoughts and feelings and journeys and paths and train routes.
And I'll pull my jacket sleeves over my palms when I get too cold and I'll take pictures of the moon when it glistens, contrasting against its navy counterpart and backdrop- the sky deep into the evening, because the sun has already set.
It would be better with Wanda by my side, or Nat. The strong smell of her cigarettes reminding me of home, but not the familiar scent of printer paper and ink and vanilla candles from the compound; the feeling of home. Feeling as though there is nowhere else in the world where you are supposed to be but in this setting and in this very moment. But that's all changed now.
And I'm not too sure what 'home' is anymore.
And I'm not too sure I knew it's definition until a traumatic soirée in one of Killian's experimentation labs ended up with Tony Stark taking me under his wing and throwing me into his chaotic yet very amusing and entertaining life.
The clock on my nightstand reads 11:13pm.
"Antares, if Mr Stark tries to enter my room, use the False Sleeping Protocol," I announce to the A.I running my bedroom and push my keychain deep within the pocket of my jeans- a miniature alarm hooked on to scare off any attackers as well as a small bottle of pepper spray in case of any emergencies.
"Security measures have been put in check, Miss," she replies back in her articulated British accent.
The last thing I need if for Dad to find out that I've been sneaking out the Compound every night for the past two months- he'd go absolutely ballistic. Stressing the importance of my safety and staying alive- but honestly- I feel like I've been through enough to last me a life time.
Although I carry around my pepper spray around all the same.
Being horrendously stubborn is certainly something I inherited from him, and it can even grate on me at times.
I decide to climb out of my bedroom window, coming to the conclusion that using the front doors would be far too risky incase I was spotted, not necessarily by Dad, as I know he'll be working away in his workshop until the break of dawn, but Vision has a habit of taking himself to watching the Compound during evenings and nighttimes. Something about 'experience in safety measures.'
I suspect he's missing Wanda. I suspect we all are.
I toss my bag through the window, to which it hits the ground with a slight thud, before jumping through myself. The grass crunches slightly beneath my boots; turned faintly frostbitten with the early onset of Fall.
The subway is still busy; Friday nights being the perfect opportunity for gigs and concerts and college parties. It's bustling, but not as packed and unmoving as rush hour. I suspect the same stations and carriages will be filled tomorrow morning with those returning home from sleeping with whichever average-looking person they caught eyes with at that party or club, or after a long night of drinking so much alcohol that they're lucky the bottles of Tequila and watery beer didn't end up with a lengthy hospital bill and a freshly pumped stomach.
And the stern business looking office workers- who I imagine haven't touched little more than a straight Scotch in years, let alone a party- will look on with disgust and dismay in their eyes. As if they didn't go through college in order to get whichever boring and soul-sucking degree they have that's got them stuck in a bleak office job, either pretentious as fuck or contemplating their entire existence and regretting not sleeping with that one person at that one party in college that one time, that way they'd have something 'interesting' about themselves, that way they wouldn't be so vanilla.
Just like every other night, I decide on which subway route to take, settling on one which doesn't seem as busy as the others, though enough people that I can watch and fabricate my own versions of in my head.
Are they coming from a party? The movie theatre? Did they just go and see a re-run of Titanic, or are they crying because their significant other has broken up with them suddenly and brutally? Are they happy and in love? Or did they spend the day studying and taking care of themselves? What does their laugh sound like; their smile look like?
It's a grounding technique I swear by during the cruel and stripping bouts of anxiety, it makes me remember that everyone has their own lives and struggles and dilemmas and fears and insecurities. In some ways, it makes me feel less alone.
My love-hate relationship with solitary; she is the drug I crave, yet the addiction I vow to quit.
Pushing my earbuds into my ears as a universal indicator for people not to approach me or attempt to communicate in any way, I fall into a sense of comfort. The subway always used to terrify me; too many people, too much noise, too many bodies and not enough space. I suppose now I am so secretly fond of it, because the presence of people around counteract the loneliness and the emptiness of the Compound.
I shiver slightly and pull my sleeves down to cover my palms, before lightly closing my eyes and taking in the chatter of the drunk youth and the mechanical tone of the P.A system as a light ambient soundtrack layered on top of the music blaring through my headphones. The Ramones begin to play and I remember the bittersweet journey to Berlin.
All of the anticipation and crossed wires have seemed to spiral into this. All of the longing to be fighting beside and simultaneously against the Avengers, without truly realising that it was an ending. The ending to something amazing and terrifying and warm and exciting and—
The girl opposite me has just thrown up, coating her boyfriend's Levi jeans. She sobs all over him, babbling on about how embarrassed and guilty she feels, as well as how badly she just wants Mc Donald's and to go to sleep. He's not as drunk as her, in fact, his eyes don't portray someone intensely intoxicated, not even slightly tipsy. The girlfriend, on the other hand, is swaying slightly from side to side and is struggling with looking in a straight line. Her black hair has turned staticky, her bangs sticking in every direction. Her black eye makeup has smudged and found its way down her cheeks. She's crying now.
But he just kisses her gently on her forehead and waits until she's fallen asleep, which takes a total of fifteen seconds, before asking around through the other passengers for a tissue or napkin, in what I suppose is in attempt to not cause her any further embarrassment.
I close my eyes once more and turn the music up even louder in the brief intermission of silence between songs. I'm not sure how much of the discography of Rumours by Fleetwood Mac passes by, but when my eyelids pry themselves apart and my mascara-coated eyelashes manage to untangle, the couple opposite me have left.
I suppose I probably should, too.
The chill is brutal and harsh, burning my skin slightly and feeling as though tiny ice cubes have been embedded within me. But that's what I wanted, right? To stay cold.
It takes me a while to recognise my surroundings, having only visited this particular subway station a handful of times, before I realise that I have ended up in Queens. I wonder out of the station, feeling the comforting warmth of loneliness. No, I have to stay cold.
I pull down the zipper on my hoodie and shudder as the cold breeze finds its way down my shirt and whips around my messy curls. As ridiculous as it sounds, I've not been able to bring myself to braid my hair since Nat left— it reminds me too much of her. Instead, my hair spills over my shoulders and falls disorderly around my face, curls catching in the wind and tangling in my mascara-coated eyelashes.
I don't know Queens too well, having only visited a number of times, so I follow the route which I remember the clearest- from the subway and down past Midtown Tech. Though I suppose, would getting lost be such an awful thing? I'm usually lost mentally, so what's the difference in losing myself physically?
As I follow the familiar path, and hear the well-known tapping of my boots hitting the concrete sidewalk, I follow my shadow showing on the ground and contrasting against the harsh glow of the street-lamps towards the school. I recognise the once-vivid football pitches, now turned a contrasting and unnerving deep grey from the lack of sunlight. Though the moon reflects off the ground and lights up the concrete below my feet.
The glowing street lamps mimic the stars in the sky as I progress through my route, and into Queens. The streets aren't completely clear, a few drunk and dazed people stumbling through the front doors of the cosy bars lining the long main road, as well as some people cycling and skating by, though soon disappearing into the foggy haze of the surrounding darkness.
I think I recognise the area to be Peter Parker's neighbourhood, though I hardly give it a second thought as the reminders of our trip to Berlin leave my brain almost as quickly as they entered. Then I pass the restaurant- the venue of my previous birthday celebrations with Dad and Pepper. My heart feels as though it's being harshly heaved down inside of my ribcage; it aches.
Though at least my surroundings seem somewhat more familiar than before, and at least I can reassure myself that as long as I know where I am, I'll know my way back to the subway station- just incase I need to hurry home. I suppose on any other occasion, I'd have Happy as my backup and 'safety-net', I'd simply ask him to pick me up and I could be home within the hour. That option has been stolen from me, I couldn't possibly call him at 12:30am. He'd tell Dad and I'd be restricted to the Compound. No fucking way would I be able to cope with being surrounded by so much empty space.
Perhaps I loath loneliness when it isn't a personal choice and it is forced upon me; otherwise, I'd bask in it.
"-Looka' that hot piece of ass-"
I pull my headphones from my ears to and grip onto the strap of my bag, fiddling with the soft corduroy material, skimming over the velvety pattern with my black-polished fingernails in order to distract myself from the anxiety beginning to rise in my chest.
Maybe he's not talking to me. Perhaps he's calling to his girlfriend or significant other.
His footsteps sound heavy and leaden; speech slurred and messy. "Hey- hey... you! What's your name, baby? You're the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen." He attempts to whistle, as if I'm some sort of pet, though he is clearly far too drunk to be able to make the proper sounds. My stomach turns.
He stumbles behind me despite my steps quickening to almost a jog. I can't bring myself to turn around and look at him, incase he catches my eye and takes that as an invitation to get closer and try anything that I'm definitely not comfortable with. Though my silence only infuriates him, as his sickly voice soon becomes aggressive and direct, harsh and raspy.
"Didn't you hear me, dumb bitch? I just gave you a compliment. Now you're supposed to thank me. Ain't anyone ever taught you some manners?"
Breathe.
Breathe.
But the air seems too thick, and the icy breeze has turned into a blaring heat, boiling my blood and seething through my body. I cannot breathe. I cannot speak. I can hardly even stand.
I clutch onto my key in my jacket pocket, gripping it firmly between my finger and thumb, I'm almost positive it's created a permanent indentation in my skin.
"I said-"
The anger and anxiety fuse together and manage to blow my circuits; the wiring of my brain sparking out. I cut him off, "And I'm telling you to leave me the fuck alone. I don't want to talk to you."
Then I'm plunged into nothing but sheer darkness, as the street lamps casting the limited light around me shatter violently. I let my emotions get the better of me, but for the first time in a really long time and possibly for the first time, I don't loath my abilities; perhaps I could use them to my advantage. I can hardly make out the silhouettes of the cars parked on the roads, and upon wiping my head around to locate the man behind me, I find he's disappeared. Completely enveloped in the pitch black.
I can't make out my surroundings.
I hear his footsteps, but am unsure of where.
Then the seething heat takes over me completely, and for once, I don't fight it.