The Weight of Us ｡ Peter Parker [3]

16 - Back to the Start

Rain poured down from the heavens, dampening New York City in a storm that seemed to last an entire decade. Streets flooded for days, taxi drivers stuck in oceans on the bridges as they carried tourists to and from the airport. New Yorkers attempted to tough out the sheets of rain, but at one point there was no use for an umbrella and eventually, decided to stay indoors where it was calm and inviting. Huddled in my bedroom, listening to the rain on my balcony and watching the grey clouds roll over the houses in the street over, was the only place I wanted to be, and had been, for almost two weeks.

Snippets came and went; like a foggy dream, only lasting a second before the memory was taken hostage in the dark parts of my mind again. I had scrolled through my photos folder on my phone, read the dream journal my aunt had assigned me at one point in my life, and tried my very best to remember my life. But it was so hard, my brain just a shattered mirror, figments left buried under the rubble of my own history.

They told me stories about the days before many heroes had died in a battle. They shared videos and social media posts about days spent at beach houses and school trips. They promised everything would return to me, that it would take time for the memories to come back, but what they did not inform me, was that if the memories came back at all, they would most likely mean nothing to me. Retrograde amnesia was not my friend and sadly, even my own research only made the reality sour; none of these memories, not even the ones found, could replace the dreaded feeling of not knowing my own soul anymore.

Odd things returned to me, at random times too, like when I was in the middle of brushing my teeth, or folding laundry. One second, my mind would crack open, a fractured memory about Harry Osborn and my first kiss with him in a closet at some fancy party leaked through. In the next second, nothing but his face would remain, not even the feeling on his lips pressed to mine. These memories could have been from somebody else's life, and I wouldn't even know.

Somes things were easy, not even touched by my brain injury, that had apparently, occurred while I was wearing some high functioning suit designed by Tony Stark, in some underground train station with dead faces from another world. I could remember my friends; Mary Jane Watson, Gwen Stacy, Harry Osborn. I could remember the car crash with my brother, but not the ending. I could remember what I wore to a middle school dance and what song played when my parents told me about their breakthrough at Oscorp. I could remember standing at a science fair, my pathetic second place ribbon in my hand and my heart full with one boy, who stood by his uncle with the biggest smile on his face, his volcano beating mine. I could still hear my brother's voice in my ear, words to live by.

You're smart, Flo. Smarter than me, just know that. I don't want you to ever throw your life away, not for anything. Not even a boy. Promise me that, okay? Promise me you'll be clever when I'm not around. Do you promise?

It was strange, all these random thoughts, but none of them connected, not cohesively. Everyone kept on saying time was the healer, but weirdly enough, when I stared at myself in the mirror now, seeing my bloodshot eyes and the faded bullet hole scar that sat on my abdomen, from a night I barely remembered, I had to question something. Did this person, Florence Parsons, even want to remember everything?

A knock broke through my thoughts, my fingertips dropping my shirt back to my skin as I hurried from the bathroom. Standing in the doorway of my bedroom was a familiar face, her bright red hair plastered to her forehead from the rain, but her eyes held the greatest truth. Mary Jane Watson was my friend, and I knew that.

"Hi," Mary Jane shoved out a photo album. "I found this in my drawer at the apartment. Harry's been helping me move in his stuff, and I thought this might help, with you know..." Her kind voice drifted off.