The mascara stained tears fall like tsunamis ripping through my cheeks, silent sobs choking me into inaudibility, black splashing against my sweater as the teardrops fall from my face.
"Have you been taking your meds?"
Sometimes I wish that Dad wasn't so concerned with my mental state and well-being; I hate therapy, and he knows it. But he also 'knows' that it will 'help' me 'work through my trauma and past.' I'd rather repress it— easier than confronting it. Pretend it doesn't exist.
"Bonnie, have you been taking your medication?" Dr Greene asks for the second time, growing frustrated with my silence through our session. She's the one that usually does the talking— I sit in silence wishing I was anywhere but her cold and impersonal office. The air stings my nose with the scent of hand sanitiser and bleach. The least she could do is light a lavender scented candle or burn some calming incense, honestly, this room is a panic attack waiting to happen. The black leather chairs seem too professional and subliminally intrusive. Feels like I'm being interrogated.
"Yes," I wipe my eyes, "I put them in a Pez dispenser. Makes them more fun to take. And anyway, I don't wanna be the girl walking around with pill bottles in her bag. It's like I'm asking to be made fun of."
"You shouldn't be ashamed of your struggles, Bonnie," she hums in her condescending tone. "You should be proud that you made it through."
Yes, nothing says 'survivor' like anti-anxiety meds and night terrors.
"Is there anything you'd like to talk about? Your mother, perhaps? Have you been having any more nightmares?"
"No."
All the time.
I contemplate.
"Do you ever get that sad nostalgia for things that you never experienced or that have never existed? It's like, it's always that. Like I'm grieving things that never even lived. Maybe I'm just sad that everyone has moved out or whatever, I don't know. It's stupid."
"It's not stupid, it's perfectly valid. But I think the root of the problem is your fear of abandonment. It started with your dad not being involved until the death of your mother, and now your new family is leaving. You're terrified of being alone, yet you isolate yourself from others so that you never have to feel it. You're contradicting yourself. You know, things aren't scary if you take the power away from it. So, you're scared of being alone— you go for a walk by yourself or turn your phone off for a day so no one can contact you. Do this for, say thirty days— that's how long it takes to build a habit, you'll be surprised."
'If anything, you should fear fear itself, Bonnie. It is the root of all evil.' Wanda's words stick in my head.
"Yeah, right." I scoff.
"You can't heal unless you help yourself."
I don't say anything.
She sighs while scribbling down on her clipboard. "I'm prescribing you fluoxetine for the depression. 20mg dose each day. Here," she hands me a slip of paper with barely legible writing scrawled on the dotted line, "take this to the pharmacy... Or we can arrange for someone else to collect them or deliver them to your address if you'd prefer."
I roll my eyes and reluctantly take the paper from her.
"It will get easier, Bonnie. Healing takes time."
But it's already been a lifetime, it feels.
After picking up my medication, I head into the parking lot where Happy is waiting. I fiddle with the orange bottle in my hand, rattling around the white and green pills. It sounds menacing and taunting, 'you're sick! Pathetic, weak girl. Fragile. Fucked up
brain; you'll never get better.'
Usually, after a therapy session, I lock myself away in my bedroom for the rest of the day and burrow away underneath my comforter. I can't move, talk, function. Picking up my phone feels as though I'm lifting a bus or competing in a weight-lifting competition, even turning on the TV feels draining. I just don't have enough energy to follow along with the basic and easy storyline of Friends. It's just all too much. Staring at the blank ceiling is just about as much as I can manage. Crying feels too exhausting. Just rather lifeless.
Today, that isn't the case. Well, I feel exactly that—
drained, lifeless— but under strict instructions, I have to go to Midtown and watch over Peter. I haven't the slightest idea on how I'll manage to sit through the rest of if my classes and look as though I'm actually engaged in them.
I check the time on my phone— 11:47am, partnered with a text message from Peter.
bug-boy
where are you? you okay?
I don't reply; I'll see him soon so there isn't any point. I heave open the car door with all of the strength I can muster in my fatigued state and slide into the backseat. I can feel Happy's concerned eyes scanning over me in the rear-view mirror, but he doesn't pry, and I'm thankful.
"I got stuff to do but, how about we quickly run by
McDonald's Drive Thru?" His tone is light and positive, contrasting from his usual tense and serious manner. I manage to force out a 'sure' even though I'm not in the slightest hungry. I feel too nauseous, and I'm not sure if that's down to the alcohol from the night before or from the aching in my chest, but I know that if I decline he will grow even more concerned and he'll call Dad, and then Dad will come home, and it'll be blown into this whole drama. It's a McDonald's, for fucks sake.
I rest my head against the window as the engine starts up and the take off down the street. I think Led Zeppelin is playing on the radio but I'm not paying close enough attention. The guitar riffs seem to ring a bell. I gaze out of the window at nothing in particular, only flashes of grey and bright yellow— I'm suspecting taxi cabs— pass by.
All of this over Him. He has ruined me. Destroyed everything I ever had and held close. Myself included. Mom the most significant.
I remember the way she'd twist her hair up into a bun and leave the front parts down to frame her face, she'd always look so pretty that way. So fresh and young and genuine. I remember eating chocolate covered strawberries every Sunday evening and the way she'd pretend the melted chocolate was lipstick and when she'd smear it all across her mouth so that I'd laugh.
But then I remember...
I remember being in the room and her not coming to find me.
That fucking room.
The tiled walls and medical curtains and leather restraints and steal beds. It's all engraved into my brain. I'd count the tiles to try to distract myself. Then I'd count the times I'd screamed out for her to help me and the times when she didn't.
"Yeah, hi. Could I get large fries with ketchup and a strawberry milkshake?" I hear Happy call my memorised order into the speaker before turning to me and whispering, "Do you want anything else?"
"Two McNugget meals? For Peter and Ned— the school food tastes like ass."
"Could I also get two McNugget meals? Yeah..."
And I'm gone all over again. Disconnected. As far as I'm concerned, I'm not even here. Everything looks so far away and hazy, as though I'm looking at the word around me through thick smog. The colours look less vivid than usual, more tired and watered-down. Dull and disappointing.
When we get to Midtown, Happy pulls up right outside of the gates and winds his window down to pass me the takeout bag. "Make sure you eat, okay? I promised your dad that I'd look after you while he was gone and if you get sick, it's my ass that gets it."
"I will, Hogan. I'm okay."
"Okay, good. I'll see you after school," he says before driving away into the usual tedious traffic of Queens.
The wind whips through my curls, though I hardly notice it. I think I could be stabbed through the chest and be completely oblivious; I'm so disconnected. The colours of the painted and decorated walls seem too bright, the floor feels so far away from beneath my feet, and I'm positive that I'm drunk or that I've been spiked with something. Maybe it's stayed in my system for a while.
Stop it.
Stop being irrational. You know what's happening to you. It's nothing you've never experienced before.
"Hey! Bonnie!"
"Shhhhh!" Peter hisses at Ned as they hide behind the corner of the hallway. Ned looks completely clueless, Peter looks as if he's seen a ghost.
"What are you doing?" I whisper, rubbing my eyes to make sure that I'm definitely awake and that this isn't all some kind of confusing dream. I'm awake. Definitely awake.
Peter turns to Ned in a panic, "I gotta follow them. Maybe they could lead me to the guy that dropped me in the lake." My memory is jogged with the events of the night before. Peter Parker in his dripping wet spider-suit helping me stumble home while I screamed the lyrics to I Want It That Way by the Backstreet Boys.
"Stay there, Ned," Peter whispers before turning to me and grasping hold of my wrist, "Come." We tiptoe down the corridor and sneak into one of the workshop classrooms, which is completely empty. Well, aside from the two men pacing the floor suspiciously. They need something; they know it's here.
"I'm sorry. Please, stay here. This is just incase things go south and I need you." He pushes me into one of the storage cupboards beside the door while the backs of the men are turned and they scan across another side of the room. I burrow into the darkness, hardly breathing in fear of being caught. I peak through and watch as Peter slides under a table in order to hide. The men, clearly having grown tired of their unsuccessful search, sigh in aggravation and head toward the stairs. I watch on as Peter shoots something from his web-shooters onto one of the men, and they leave the classroom.
I breathe a sigh of relief as their footsteps become inaudible, and I push myself through the mess of wooden planks and metal pipes at my feet. "What was that?" I ask Peter.
"A tracker."
"A tracker?"
"I need to find the guy who dropped me in the lake— and the source of those weapons. It's gotta be him, I mean it's gotta." He clambers up from the floor and we emerge nervously into the hallway, before finding them to be gone and make our way towards Ned.
"What was that?"
Peter explains the brief outline of what had happened the night before, who the men were, and mentions the tracker he placed on one of the guys, as we walk to the cafeteria.
They both grimace at the smell lingering in the room of old vegetables and polystyrene. "Oh," I hand them the takeout bag, "for you."
Ned's eyes light up and I swear he turns slightly tearful as he repeats over and over again, 'You got us McDonald's? No one has ever done anything like that for me before.' Clearly, the Chicken McNuggets have touched him. Peter thanks me gratefully and gives me a wide boyish grin before we take to our usual table beside the window. MJ isn't there today.
"So," Ned whispers excitedly as he unpacks his meal from the bag, "did you buy this with Tony Stark's money?"
"Ned! You can't ask her that!" Peter says in shock as he stabs his straw into the lid and takes a sip from the cherry soda— which I know is his favourite.
"Sorry." Ned's cheeks flush a light shade of crimson as he directs his attention to the fries in front of him and not mentioning the fact that I am a member of the Stark 'family' again. I force my own meal down, though it leaves a hard-to-swallow lump in my throat that feels as though it is choking me. Then again, whether it's the fries at fault or just my anxiety— it's debatable and unclear.
"Are you guys definately not coming to Washington?"
"Washington? You mean for Academic Decathelon? I didn't know I was invited, I mean, I only went to one meeting." I ask, earning a nod of confirmation from Peter.
"Bonnie, please, we need another alternate and you're ridiculously smart," Ned begs.
Peter explains, "Ned, you know why. I have to be here in case—"
"In case Mr Stark needs you, yeah, yeah, I know," Ned cuts him off. He sighs in defeat and disappointment.
"Actually, I suppose I could be your baby-sitter for the trip, Peter. Y'know report back to my dad," I mention while Peter shakes his head and signals for me to shut up desperately. I get the hint; I don't take it.
"No!" Peter shrieks.
The rest of the school day is almost excruciating. English Literature is even too much for me— and we're only watching the modern day remake of Romeo and Juliet. Peter teases me— apparently 'knowing' that I am 'in love with Leonardo DiCaprio.' I don't react. In fact, I hardly react when the two 'star-crossed lovers' die. Something that would usually land me with suffocating sobs leaves me feeling... nothing. At all. I don't mutter the last lines under my breath as we watch on at the TV screen. Half of the class is in tears, a large group scrolling on their phones, while the rest laugh and cheer Romeo and Juliet on as they reach their fateful end. Even Peter is engrossed in the action, his face concentrated and eyebrows furrowed. I just feel... Nothing. Too caught up with my own mental torture and feelings, I don't choke out a teary and hoarse, 'Shakespeare was so pretentious and overrated,' like I usually would. Nothing.
"Hey," Peter whispers to me while we watch on at the movie. "Ned said that you'd told him you'll help me study for English. Do you still wanna?"
"Mhm. Totally."
"Great! I thought we could maybe meet after last period? May's working late so you could come to the apartment?"
"Sure."
I feel as if I am watching on through a thick glass wall, unable to smash it or break free no matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I pummel my fists into it. My eyes flicker up to the screen as Juliet cries out— fuck, I wish they hadn't— and I see it. I see the number thirteen engraved on the side of the gun that she holds. It had never bothered me before; hadn't even noticed it. Until now.
And I'm back. There.
"Number Thirteen? A success, shall we say? Closest possible, more accurate? Log her down as conclusive then lock her up in isolation until we can run more tests. This is our lucky day, Maya— your lucky day. It finally worked, aren't you thrilled? A success model. If only that smug son-of-a-bitch Tony Stark could see us now."
"No, Killian, no. I'm not letting you take her, you're not doing this. Not her; me, use me." Mom was crying, hitting against the glass divider with her fists.
My cheeks burned as the boiling acid tear tracks streamed down my face, almost corroding streaks into my sweaty skin and leaving its mark permanently.
"All of this hard work, everything that I have done for you, and this is how you repay me, you ungrateful whore. We worked so hard, then you ghost me and run away to London like some teenage girl running from Mommy and Daddy after a fight, thinking that I wont find you, that I won't find her?" He punched his fist against the glass so violently I had thought it would shatter instantly under the force.
"We can try again, there are other candidates, others that come just as close as her. We know what we're doing now and we can do it again. Just let her go, Killian."
"Oh, Maya..." he drawled, "you just can't share with others, can you? Lock up Thirteen. Run test 3.7, let's see how hot she can go. I'd say that I'm sorry about this Maya, but I'm really not. You can have her back tomorrow when we're done with her."
Then I felt the grasp of heavy hands on my arms, shaking me violently, before carting me off to the isolation block while the screams and pleas of my mother blared like a foghorn. Shrill and desperate; her shrieks eventually disappeared as we were both dragged separately from the premises.
But the hands are still gripped around me, shaking.
"Hey, Bonnie?"
It's Peter. It's Peter Parker's hands gently grasping my upper-arms with his concerned gaze clouding into view. I'm not back there. I could almost collapse from the relief.
The cup on his desk begins to shake and bubble, as do the rest of the water bottles and the soda cans in the classroom. They rattle back and forth while some topple over completely and spill into the floor. I freeze. He knows.
He looks into my eyes and he just knows. Right on cue, the light bulbs above us shatter, sending shards of glass clattering to the floor. There's a lot of screaming and cursing, but I don't stick around long enough for the specifics, as I bolt through the door and down the hall. Thankfully, the school bell signals the end of the day and I make it out in time just before the sea of rowdy jocks and cheerleaders floods the hall, swallowing me up into their cluster of overpowered victims.
I'm starting to further prove my theory that staying home after therapy is my best bet. Too many triggers everywhere else. Too many normal people to remind me that I am damaged.
Arriving at Peter's apartment feels refreshing in ways that I had never imagined. The vision of seeing a fully-decorated room that isn't either an office or a science laboratory is liberating. The fragrance of fresh laundry and vanilla fills my nostrils as opposed to the usual inky and chemically artificial scent lingering in the Compound. It's comforting and slightly maternal in its warmth— like a hug enveloping me as soon as I walk in the front door. I can imagine this to be the most lovely place to spend a childhood and grow up.
There's a Tupperware container filled with fresh sugar cookies and a pot of coffee boiling away on the kitchen counter, as Peter empties his backpack of textbooks and flash cards. "Mi casa es tu casa."
I grin at him as I trail over to his copy of Romeo and Juliet on the coffee table. The spine is cracked and the corners of the pages have been worn-down to curved edges instead of pointed. The paper has turned slightly discoloured in its age— clearly 'well-loved' over the years. "So, what do you need help with?"
"Uhh..." he stutters as he traipses into the kitchen and pours us each a mug of coffee. I know he hates the taste, but he'd do anything if it meant it could aid him in the studying process. "Everything, I guess." He chuckles, "It's kinda the only class I'm bombing."
"Well, Parker. If I help you with Shakespeare, you gotta owe me."
"Yeah, sure, of course." He grins at me as he pops off the lid of the cookies and places them in the centre of the table beside our mugs and notebooks. "Shall we start?"
Despite my deep-rooted hatred of Shakespeare and his boring, pretentious work, I find myself enjoying teaching Peter the ins and outs of the two star-crossed-lovers and their struggle with their families' opinions of their love, and how it eventually drove the two to suicide.
Usually, I'd dread the hands of the clock fatefully ticking to half-past four in the afternoon; the reminders of my past daily scheduled 'meetings' with Killian. But as the time reaches 4:30pm and I'm sipping away at milky coffee over Shakespeare with Peter Parker, I can't help but think that maybe this is the first time that I have ever wanted to spend it with someone.
—
As I arrive home, there is a text message waiting for me.
bug-boy
change of plans. we need to go to washington. it's about the weapons and the vulture guy. we've got a lead and they're in maryland. are you gonna come? i kinda need you. also ned wants you to come.
bonnie
seriously? what do you think?
bug-boy
i think that you're excited to spend the weekend with your favourite people on earth.
bonnie
omg
is matthew perry coming too?
bug-boy
no...??
bonnie
looks like i'm not going, parker
bug-boy
please...
i need you
and you'll have to come anyway.
didn't mr stark say that you've
gotta stay with me at all times
because im a 'good influence'??
bonnie
no
bug-boy
im sorry was that too pushy?
bonnie
are you being serious right now?
bug-boy
what if i told you that i'd let you borrow my ipod shuffle or let you control the music on the journey there, May that spark your interest?
bonnie
on the way back too,
then you've got me slightly
more on board
bug-boy
ill call happy
bonnie
fuck.
I toss my phone onto my nightstand and pull open the draw, sifting through the spare lightbulbs and numerous hair ties and tangled wires until I manage to find my boxes of medication and my Pez dispenser.
I empty the pills from the bottle and lift the plastic head from the Pez toy, before slotting in the pills. If I really am going to Washington, I'd best disguise my meds as best as possible. Though I suppose I'll need to keep them far from Peter, I imagine he'd mistake them for the cherry flavoured candies— which I know are his favourites— and end up eating them all. I don't think anyone would want that.
I'm still jittering from my previous panic attack earlier; the lights in my bedroom flickering and buzzing annoyingly as a taunting backing-track to my internal melancholy and anxiety. My hands shake and I miss the slot of empty space to hold the pills, spilling a few over my duvet cover. I sigh and curse under my breath before scooping up two in my hands and placing them delicately onto my tongue. I swallow them down with the water from the glass on my nightstand— the ice cubes melted down into a room temperature solution.
After taking my prescribed dose, I collect the rest of the meds into the dispenser and hide it away into the depths of the drawer beside my bed.
I pick up my copy of 'Further Quantum Physics' that we were given yesterday in Physics class and attempt to secure the information into my brain. It's a struggle, remembering how to make sense of the things that I once found so effortlessly easy, but it is a task that I am unwilling to let get the better of me. I will not be a failure; I will not fail my father and everything that he has worked for, that will one day be mine. Do I want it? Do I...?
Yes, yes. Of course I do.
"Incoming call: Steve's Boyfriend." Antares announces into the silence of my room. I chuckle, forgetting that I had managed to change Dad's name on my A.I.
"Hey kid, how's it going? Is Pete driving you crazy yet?"
My heart almost sinks at the sound of his voice. It sounds tired and strained; we feel the same. Maybe he's avoiding coming home. Maybe the emptiness is taking a toll on him the way it is with me.
"Dad, Parker is the least of my worries. The school itself is driving me crazy and it's only been two days."
"So, are you getting along with him?"
"We aren't talking about this. He's fine, I'm fine. Just drop it. I know you wanted to know about those weapons, to make sure that he's not getting all tied up in something he could do without, and..." I trail off as my phone chimes again. A new message.
bug-boy
please say you'll come to washington. i cant do it without you
I debate momentarily. "And everything is fine. He's dropped it, I talked him out of it. As it turns out, I'm very persuasive." I lie. I don't even feel guilty— yet.
"Oh God, what's going on? What do you want?"
"I got on the Academic Decathlon team. They're going to Washington D.C tomorrow for a competition over a couple days and they need an alternate, y'know just in case, and they've offered the spot to me. Peter is going, too, so I won't be completely by myself." My voice is sickly sweet, thick like honey, hoping I'll be able to drown his rationality with it.
He deliberates, "Not gonna lie, not crazy about the idea of you and Parker going off to another city together, don't want a repeat of Berlin—"
"Dad, I promise that nothing like that will ever happen again, and this is a school function so it's not as if we'd even be able to leave the hotel or whatever. It's tight-knit—"
"The compound is tight-knit, you managed to slip out."
"If we're so tight-knit, why did everyone leave?"
Clearly, the harshness of my words slaps him across the face as I hear a faint sharp inhale on the other side of the phone line. Perhaps I am the only person on earth, aside from Pepper, who can stun my father into silence and to rid him of his usual extreme hyper-verbal tendencies. He doesn't say anything for a while, and I feel awful.
"Yes, fine. You can go, I'll let Hogan know. Make sure you're packed and on-time. I'll talk to you later. Love you, Sparky."
The line hangs up. The high pitched tone grates on me. I didn't think it would be possible for me to feel any worse in this particular moment, in this particular day, but low and behold, I've managed it. I cannot blame anyone aside from myself. I don't usually feel guilty for being so straight-up and stone-cold, but something in me feels horrendous whenever I let myself boil over when taking to Dad.
I quickly text Peter back and let him know that I'm planning on coming to Washington, before an announce that from Happy through Antares sounds into my room.
"Got the call from your dad. I'll drop you off at school tomorrow morning at 8. Sharp. Don't be late."
Naturally, I can't sleep, so I pack. I rummage through the cardboard boxes of clothes stacked in the corner of my room and pull out a range of my favourite shirts and skirts, sweaters and pants, until something pink catches my eye. Wanda's cardigan.
The material is soft against my skin and tickles my nose when I lift it up to my face to catch a sniff of her familiar sweet scent; strawberries and apple blossom. My eyes prick with tears, though I don't allow them to spill over and instead bury the jacket underneath the rest of the crumpled up clothes.
With my suitcase packed to burst, I take the containers from my nightstand and slide my pill bottles underneath my sweater, just in case. My eyes catch onto the extra bottle of fluoxetine, lingering for a second longer than they perhaps should, before my phone chimes with a text message from Peter for what I'm predicting is the thirtieth time tonight.
bug-boy
cool, can't wait. im glad you're coming.