Notes at the end. (Long but important)
TW: Transphobia, blood, violence, swearing, mentions of death, death
If you find anything else, lemme know.
Enjoy :D
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Peter was quite frankly, screwed.
Everything he thought he knew shattered into an abyss of confusion. Turns out trusting a man he sorta just met, wasn't exactly the smartest thing.
Goddamn it, he should've listened to Elsa.
It felt like only yesterday he was sitting comfortably on the couch watching the highest grossing film of 2015 with his boyfriend and pseudo family, and now he's running for his life as blood drips from his open wound.
He should probably explain, but that would be too much energy and time which he doesn't possess. So why don't i summarise with three bullet points.
- New York
- Rekindled relationships
- Transphobia
If you're still confused, no you're not.
Peter is heaving as he clutches his side, he really shouldn't be exercising, especially after 10 hours in the god forsaken titty tube, but desperate times come to desperate measures.
"GET BACK HERE" echoes from behind him, his legs giving way behind a dumpster.
There's a throbbing behind his eyes, an ache in his chest and regret clawing at his throat.
Spiderman my ass, he feels like a little kid again. Embarrassment flushes his cheeks as though his mum's found him crying in the bathroom again, found the blood soaked through his jeans.
Tears pool. He's not her.
A part of him is remorseful for the girl, defenceless and confused, always uncomfortable in dresses with no words to express why, sorry for the bullying she put up with.
Sorry that he hates her as much as he does. Truthfully he knows she did nothing wrong, knows that he can't blame her for everything, not even this, but it still hurts to hear her name.
It's been months since he got his name legally changed, been months since he was let free, since he felt like himself. And yet here he is, bleeding out in a back alley in New York, apologising to the little girl he let down.
He really tried. He got happy, trying to make up for the years she was in pain. He got a boyfriend who he loves with his whole heart, for the little girl who had a crush on the cute guy in the library. He got the life she would've wanted, lived the life she was scared of, but it's not enough.
It sounds selfish, because truly he's done all he needed to. And sure there's a million more ways he could make it up to the little girl, more lives to save because he'll never save enough. More time with his boyfriend. A year and a half more than he ever thought possible and yet he longs for more. And maybe he's worried for the family he's accumulated, worried how they'll take it. But, with a sigh and a smile, he's ready.
Footsteps echoe towards him, a crumpled heap of black cargo trousers and a binder-covering vest. Light grey soaked red, splotches dancing round the fabric, expanding and spreading.
It's his time.
He looks up, the face of his once father staring down at him.
"Leaving you was probably the best decision I could've made, but Jesus your mother was shit at raising you" he scoffs, spitting and the boy. He scowls beneath his scruffy beard.
"Hey, at least i wasn't raised by a fucking coward like you" there's a thud as the boy is kicked in the stomach.
He smiles. Blood drops from his mouth. He spits, aiming for his so-called father's boots.
"Fucking t***ny"
"That's kind of a weak insult you heartless asshole, if you're gonna attack a dying man, at least have the decency to be fucking creative you basic bitch"
He begins coughing violently, blood spluttering down his chin and tears burning his eyes.
"I- you-" the man stutters out, "you owe you pathetic life to me and yet you have the fucking audacity to talk to your father like that"
"Eh, less of a father, more of a heartless sperm donor who was so horrific at commitment that they could barely choose to be a decent fucking human being for more that 5 minutes every 10 years. Just imagine, being so fucking close minded and dim that even the fucking sun couldn't light up the black hole residing in that empty brain of yours" he smiles, despite still coughing out his lungs. It's becoming increasingly more difficult to breathe, his ribs slowly crushing as blood continues to pool at his side.
He pushes himself upright against the building, his head leans against the dumpster as he clutches his chest.
The man towering above him is too shocked to retort, only muttering out a small "you will always be a girl"
To which Peter simply chuckles, "yeah and you'll always be an unoriginal cunt"
He reaches up and strokes the boy's hair out his face, stepping back as the boy looks up at him.
"Humour me," the boy chokes out, a light cough escaping him. "Why did you leave me? What did I do?" He pauses, looking away for a moment and wiping away a stray tear, "What did she do?"
The man is long since defeated, slumping to a seating position in front of the boy.
His anger fades to sorrow. "I simply couldn't be the father you needed, and clearly you couldn't be the daughter that i needed. But, as much as I'd wish it were true, it was never your fault Pen-"
"-Peter."
He rolls his eyes.
A sigh "It was never your fault... Peter."
The man looks at the heap, looks into the brown eyes he used to coo over.
"One last favour... dad"
"Hmm?"
"Finish it off."
The mans eyebrows contort in confusion.
A smile, blood smeared by his lip.
"I'm ready."
The man lets out a gasp.
There's a beat of silence before the man embraces the boy one last time, reminded of the little girl he cradled all those years ago.
"Tell her I'm sorry, tell them all that I'm sorry" the boy whispers as the man stabs him through the heart, the body collapsing in his embrace.
"I'm sorry..."
"...son"
~~~~~~~~~~~
So that was something and probably VERY overdue. I could say I've been working on this for months and it'd technically be true but realistically I wrote a couple sentences 5 months back and wrote it all at apparently 4:23 this morning.
Couple updates:
- Had PROM, that was cool
- Got COVID again, that sucked
- Kissed my boyfriend, got butterflies
- Talked nights away with a few friends who I don't think I could do any of this without.
- Grieved a ton
- Started to properly recognise and work on some trauma
- Got a scholarship!!! (AND FOUND OUT I WAS ALSO PUT DOWN FOR A DIFFERENT ONE AS WELL :D)
- Said goodbye to a lot of friends but also a lot of terrible people and abusers
- Got a phone, finally
- Moved to AO3 for reading after my boyfriend convinced me (hence why little to no updates)
- Felt comfortable in my skin for the first time in years
- Smiled genuinely
- Been clean for 11 months
- Found people who always have my back
- Watched the sunrise in a bear onesie overlooking my town
- Kissed my boyfriend in the rain
- Relationship with my soulmate for a year and a half after crushing on him for 4 years
So um yeah.
I think I can finally truthfully say that I am ok. I am doing well, as unbelievable as it is. And, yeah, I still have really terrible days, but now I have actual friends who care about me and can help me through them.
So this isn't the end. I don't think I can leave this incredibly cringey and rant-ridden book behind yet. But, it's probably not gonna be updated as much as I'd wish.
Don't get me wrong, I love writing so much, and I'm still thoroughly in the fandom, however a lot of this book was made as an escape, a sort of therapy for little old me (which shout out my other book, "Dear you" for literally being a therapy book about my actual trauma).
I guess it's a good thing that I can't update this as much, it means that I'm actually getting better, which doesn't feel real, but I guess I'm thankful. You all have been amazing, reading the worst angsty and downright poor writing and boosting the confidence of my younger self who felt so alone.
So this isn't goodbye, I can't say goodbye, but this is a till next time. Till my next splurge of inspiration, till my next breakdown, till my next mission to write something ground breaking, though I never will.
- - - - - - - - - -
Shoutout to this comment for making my year...
And here's some general photo content...
As always, Thank you for reading, till next time,
The Author xx
(He/They)