CHEMICALS

i used to pray for a miracle

Peter Parker knew pain.

In fact, it was an old friend of his. Physical or emotional, Peter was well acquainted with it.

He welcomed pain with open arms – realized long ago, he can't escape it.

However, at this particular night, when Peter was studying with all his might and turned a page in his chemistry book, he winced in surprised. He cut his finger with the paper. It hurt more than he thought it should have. He sighed in disappointment.

What have I done to deserve this?
Have I not been through enough?

Peter Parker was many things, indeed. He was smart – genius.
He was young, talented, and beautiful.

He was the reckless vigilante in spandex, the funny crime-fighter in the streets of NYC. Spider-Man.
He was also a drama queen.

Peter stared at his wound for a few seconds, then returned his gaze to his book. An absentminded glance to his hand reassured him, his skin was smooth and perfect, the sharp red line nowhere to be found.
The perks of being bitten by a radioactive spider.

He took advantage of his enhanced healing abilities whenever he could. After a nasty fight with an underground gang, yes, it was pretty comfortable. He did not have to explain two broken ribs, a concussion, or a gunshot wound the next day to his roommate or his professors when he showed up to his lessons. It was easy.

But he also could slice his wrists to the bone easily with a blade, without found out, without dying.
It was easy too. He was quite familiar with the burning feeling, the white-hot pain across his arms.
And the best? Nobody could find out.

The cuts were deep, but clean and small. Hurt like hell, but could heal in a couple of hours without problem, and most importantly, without a scar.
He was glad, nobody could see them. Nobody could lecture him, try to help him.
He was used to this. The pain, the blood, the release and relief after each... session. He called them sessions.

Nobody could worry about him – he was a great actor. Sometimes too good, he thought bitterly. No one could tell him, that he should get help.
That he needed help.

Oh, he knew that.

But he also knew, he was already beyond help.
He was so fucked up in many ways.

He couldn't help, but smile at the thought. He was so so messed up, indeed.

Peter quickly made a mental note to himself, not to forget his session after learning the next four pages.
Not that he could just forget it. It was his reward.

His well-deserved reward. The pain.
He earned it.

*

Peter woke up with tears in his eyes. He quickly got rid of them, looked out his window and forced a smile on his lips.
He had a nightmare, again. He was used to nightmares too, but that doesn't mean he could forget them so easily.
He occasionally had anxiety or panic attacks too, but nothing he couldn't cope with. At least, that's what the told himself.

He looked into the mirror in the bathroom, studying his expression. It took a few moments to make his smile look natural, but he managed. He did this in the past four years, so it was just the part of his daily routine.

He had to look content most days. Not happy every day, that was not natural, he knew that, but content was perfect and manageable. So he stick to it.
After brushing his teeth he applied the slightest amount of concealer to his undereye.

Yes, he felt like shit – like most days – but that doesn't mean, he had to look like shit. He liked make-up anyways. When he was younger, he often played with his aunt's make-up, May occasionally let him experiment on her face. He had got better each time, and gradually come to like it.
It was not uncommon for a guy to wear make-up, he knew, but there were always surprised glances, disgusted even. But hey, he comforted himself every time, it's New York for fuck's sake. And the 21th century.

So he grabbed his black eyeliner and pressed it to his waterline with secure hands, drawing a slim line. He liked it, it was his camouflage. His mask, which he can hide behind, when he didn't wear his other mask.
It was easy, not too cheesy, but pretty enough to make him feel better.
To make his eyes look bigger, but mysterious at the same time. It didn't took more than a few seconds, the motion was in his hands, like the way he shoots webs in the city, the way he delivers a punch to the bad guys.

Another satisfied glance in the mirror and he was on his way out of his room.
A boy snored loudly at the couch, and Peter threw a blanket over his half naked body when he walked by. The blond boy was his roommate, Harry. Peter liked him enough to put up with his drinking and late night guests.

Not that he didn't bring over guests. MJ was a constant pain in his ass, almost every day, but he loved her anyway. They weren't a couple, but they occasionally had sex. Since their sophomore year. It was a complicated relationship, he had to admit.

Peter stopped by a Starbucks on his way to the university, because he couldn't have a decent cup of coffee without waking Harry up. So Starbucks was it. Then, he met up with Ned, and they continued their way to the building across the campus, the boy speaking non-stop. Peter hadn't finished his first cup of coffee that morning, so he didn't pay much attention to his friend's rambling speech.

The moment they reached the huge entrance, Peter felt his blood freeze. He shook his head, thinking he was just too tired. But in the next moment, he felt his spidey-sense screaming at the back of his head again. His senses went haywire.
His fight-or-flight instincts activated, adrenaline rushing through his veins as if they could replace the blood in them.
Ned looked surprised, when he realized Peter was standing a few meters behind him, almost in shock.

"Hey, Pete– "

Ned couldn't finish his sentence, as he saw Peter dropping his coffee in an instant, and sprinting away from the entrance, to the parking lot. The parking lot, full of students.
Peter felt the danger, felt the panic, moments before the screaming begun.