Little Spy | Peter Parker ✓

[44]

WHEN MY EYES FINALLY CRACKED OPEN, the dim light stung and stabbed at them, and I immediately closed them again, blinking away the built up tears from the overexposure. However, once I built up a resistance, I opened them once more and hesitantly took in my tiny prison.

It was not the Academy, that much I was sure of. Other than that, however, the plain, white walls and ceiling gave nothing away about where I was trapped. The clasps that had held my wrists and ankles were gone and I massaged life into them, grateful for the relief that I had somehow picked up while I was out. There was actually nothing holding me down, surprisingly; it was just me, now wearing a stone grey shirt and shorts not unlike our training uniforms, and the cold walls and floors that only reflected a single emotionless colour back at me.

My head fell back against the wall and I sighed, clenching and unclenching my hands in my lap. This was to be my 'cell', I supposed - at least until my fate was decided and my punishment was served. I wasn't sure how long that would be, but this certainly wasn't meant for long-term, as the only way out was the door that stood in the middle of the wall to my right, and it wouldn't be difficult to fight your way out of there. Not that I was eager to do so. Wherever I was and whatever my fate, it wouldn't be long until I knew and it was carried out whether I wished it or not. There was no point in fighting anymore.

By that point, though I had no way of knowing how long I was out, Peter would have taken the small mixture and drank it all and the letters would have - hopefully - been delivered to Tony Stark, and he would have in turn opened them, hopefully. It would all be over there, and he might even be packing for school to prepare for a day of studying for exams. I could only hope the questions wouldn't mess anything up for him, though I knew they were inevitable. It wasn't often a student just suddenly left, especially so close to the end of the school year. At least Inga had been smart to think of an excuse before it all fell apart, but how well it held, I couldn't be sure.

There were undoubtedly cameras everywhere, waiting for me to make a move but I ignored them and just sat there against the wall, unmoving. I found a vague interest in staring at the blank walls around me as if they weren't even there and didn't move from my spot.

I wondered if he would ever remember anything about it. About me, about the true Freya, about anything. I wished he would replay our fleeting relationship the way my mind obsessed over the last, heartbreaking moments together. It was a dumb wish, of course - the poisons were always thorough if they were anything - but it was a hope I clung to, seeing as I had really none left otherwise.

The moments still played over and over again in my own head, at least, and gave me a way to drone out my surroundings and focus solely on that. The touch of his soft lips, the way he held me close and told me that I was worth something, the way that he looked at me - he looked at me like I wasn't dirt on his shoe or a villain, he looked at me like I was Freya. Just Freya, nothing more.

He would never know again how good it felt to tell him the truth. He wouldn't remember anything, and Freya Knight wouldn't be anything but a hallucination to him, a fevered dream after a long night of saving the day. Peter would wake up in his own bed and probably panic, wondering what was going on, and realise that the transfer student from Canada had left, he had taken down a petty criminal, and exams were right around the corner. While he might remember the littlest bits of memories, it wouldn't last - it never would. I would know, for it was the same substance that I, along with twenty-eight shivering, frightened girls, swallowed down and erased my past with, turning me into the villain I was that day. Peter would only ever know of Emily, and unfortunately, that was the way it needed to be.

Though it was selfish, I still wished he would remember me, or at least some element of the real me. I didn't want him to go throughout his life thinking of me as the girl who led him on and broke his heart, but rather the girl who cared too much for him for his own good, for Freya, the broken record who couldn't stop playing the wrong tune. I didn't want him to hate me, although, if he didn't, it would ruin everything else. I would have those memories, but no one else would and no one else would care.