please, come back. [two] ✔

1

Peter was sleeping on a couch in the living room, with Natasha, Clint, Steve, and of course his parents sitting awake and talking about a lot of stuff. Peter had been going to school for about 8 months now and school was ending in June. Everything was going fine until Peter suddenly started shaking in his sleep.

Peter was laughing with his friends, but the sounds of joy faded away into silence as a pitch black room surrounded him, the only light being the odd red glow illuminating from the walls surrounding him. Help. He looked around frantically and his breathing quickened. Hearing his breaths in his ears he started running, it seeming as if he wasn't moving whatsoever, but when he looked down at the ground, he was. Please. He looked up and saw that suddenly everything was white. White. Get me out of here. White. White. Too much white. Too bright. He could hear the fast beat on his heart in his hears. Peter! Thumpthumpthumpthump. Help me. Peter looked around in search for a door, and let out a shaky breath when he found one, blended into the walls of white. They're going to kill me. He opened it and stepped out, but suddenly he was falling. Falling and falling and falling down into a void of black. Black. Dark. Too dark. Thinking he'd never reach the bottom, he did. He did and he stood up from the goo he landed into, the heavy black help. substance covering his eyes from seeing. Heavy. Help. Too heavy, can't breathe. Help. Like concrete. Wiping at his eyes he felt the surroundings change. Hurry. He was now tied onto a chair, the restraints not giving up. It's going to be too late soon. He looked up to the lamp that was shining the faint yellow glow and squinted his eyes. Hurry. He looked back down, and there they were. Those knives, that razor, that whip. Sharp. Sharp, sharp, sharp. Pain. A man came up to him, his face covered in shadows and picked up something from the table Peter couldn't see, he was suddenly laying down on his stomach. The figure raised its arm and pain shot through Peters back as he screamed out in pain. Pain. Pain. Help. Pain. Too much pain. Help. It went on for what felt like ages until the man walked in front of Peter -who was now again sitting up, his back numb with pain- and smiled. Peter recognized the figure which now had a face. Face. Face. Faceee. Master. The man started laughing like a crazy person and Peter squeezed his eyes shut, opening them again when the laughter was gone. Instead, he was in a white room, with about a hundred people in it, his aunt at the front. "Why did you kill us, Peter?" she asked, her voice monotonous and her face dead. Please... "Why did you kill us?" she asked again, repeating it over and over as everybody else followed suit, repeating the five words. Peter felt his cheeks dampen with tears as he clamped his fists over his ears and repeated to himself "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!", his words and sobs getting louder with each letter, in the end screaming it out as loud as he could. Suddenly it was all quiet. He opened his eyes, the bright light hurting him. H. Standing in front of him was a little girl, about 4. "Death to Germany!" she said in her British accent and waved a flag that had a logo on it he didn't recognize. E. Lowering her hand her eyes welled with tears as Peter grabbed her by her neck and squeezed. L. "Because that's something a four-year-old would say, isn't it?" she coughed out, falling limp and lifeless just seconds after, and with that, she faded away into dust. P.

Peter woke to a soothing voice. "Shh, Peter. It's okay, it's going to be okay." His cheeks were wet and he felt like it was so, so hard to breathe, only sobs coming out. "It's going to be fine." he heard a different voice, soothing nonetheless. He was still breathing rapidly in small breaths, most of them accompanied by sobs. That was the worst nightmare he'd had yet. Slowly but surely he felt the sobs die down, and his breathing return to normal. He sat up, and only now noticed the group of people surrounding him, and he smiled.

"I'm fine," he said, and everybody in the room started talking at the same time about how he clearly wasn't and how he now has to tell them about that nightmare. "Guys, I promise, I'm fine." he still tried to reassure them, but they weren't having it.

"Newsflash, Peter, no you're not okay! There's no way in hell what just happened is okay! Y-you were screaming!" Clint yelled. Tony and Pepper were sitting right by Peter, so he knew the voices he heard were theirs.

"I actually screamed?" he asked, running his hand through his hair.

"Yes." Peter expected a longer answer from Clint, so he opened his mouth to say something but was cut off. "They were like damn torture screams Peter! Torture! You were in pain! I thought you were dying!!!" Peter let out a breath he wasn't holding and looked up at them.

He didn't really portray emotions whatsoever, rarely if at all. So to hear him suddenly cry, it was a shock to them all. "I killed them! I killed them all! It's my fault and my fault only!" he said, letting out sobs once again. Tony held him and Peter leaned into his grip, soaking part of the shirt he was wearing. "And I killed her! I killed May! She would still be alive if it wasn't for me." Tony softly let his hand go through Peters soft curls, resting his head on Peters.

"It wasn't your fault, Peter. It wasn't," he said softly in a fatherly tone. "It really wasn't." Peter pulled away from his father's hold.

"But it was! I was the one who crawled into her room through her window," he said pointing to himself. "I am the one that walked over to her sleeping figure with the intention to kill, I am the one that sliced her throat in her sleep, I am the one that walked away with an emotionless face." he kept saying with the tear stains on his cheeks drying up. "Me. I, Peter Parker. I was there, I did that. I should be in jail but I'm not," The others looked at him with sincere looks. "and I don't deserve to not be in jail. I belong in a building made up of cells, where I don't have freedom," he looked up focusing on something behind his family. "because sometimes I still have the urge to kill someone. To walk up to them and snap their neck in half and look them in the eyes as they take their final breath before their eyes turn dull, and fall limp in my grasp." Natasha looks mortified. This boy, sitting in front of him, was scarred with the fact he had to kill people. "I liked the feeling I got when I killed somebody, and it terrifies me," he said with his voice shaking.

"Oh, Peter. I- I... Do you want to go to therapy? That might help. I know this therapist, Mrs. Thompson, she's really good." Peter shook his head faster than the frequency of a high pitched sound wave, his hair flying around the place.

"Not therapy, please."

You'd think the first chapter of a book would be happy, but nah, that's just not my style.