Peter drummed his fingers on the chipped Formica of his desk. Calculus swam around him, equations already memorized, yet the numbers felt distant, unreal. He glanced at the clock, a familiar frustration tightening his chest. Two hours until dismissal. He forced his attention back to the lesson, but his mind drifted, replaying the possibilities of tonight. An hour shaved off curfew. A patrol an hour later.
The classroom door creaked open, and Mrs. Watson stood silhouetted in the frame. She moved silently towards Mrs. Balkery, whispering something that immediately softened the teacher’s face. A wave of unease washed over Peter as Mrs. Watson’s gaze settled on him.
“Peter, could you step outside with me for a moment?”
A collective intake of breath swept through the room as all eyes turned to him.
Peter’s initial reaction was a flicker of annoyance. He hadn't done anything *wrong*. Not recently, anyway. The skipped class last semester felt like a distant transgression. Still, a knot of anxiety tightened in his stomach.
Then, a reckless hope flared. Maybe they were going to tell him about his grades. A chance to escape this agonizingly boring class. He grabbed his backpack and followed Mrs. Balkery into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind them. She stopped abruptly, her back ramrod straight. Why in the hallway?
Mrs. Balkery inhaled deeply, her chest rising and falling with a visible effort. Peter’s anxiety spiked. What was happening?
“I… I hate to be the one to tell you,” she began, her voice strained. She stopped, unable to meet his eyes. Peter’s brow furrowed.
“Is everything alright?” He asked, his voice a tentative thread. Her face was a mask of pity.
“It’s your aunt…” she finally managed. Peter’s breath hitched. What about Aunt May?
“Is she alright?” The question tore from his throat, cracking with desperation. He shook his head, a desperate denial already forming. Everything would be fine. Her eyes softened, filled with a sorrow that mirrored his own growing dread.
“I’m so sorry, Peter.”
The words hit him like a physical blow. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor. Mrs. Balkery reached for him, but he flinched away, a surge of shame and helplessness rising within him. He pushed himself up, only to stumble and collapse again, darkness consuming him.
He blinked slowly, adjusting to the harsh fluorescent lights of the nurse’s office. His Spidey-Sense throbbed with the familiar overload. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, but the brightness remained relentless.
Mrs. Balkery hovered over him, a chipped ice pack pressed to his forehead.
“How are you feeling?” she asked gently, her voice laced with concern. He nodded numbly, unable to articulate the swirling chaos within him. “Do you remember anything?”
Aunt May was gone. The realization crashed over him again, a wave of grief so profound it threatened to drown him. Everyone he’d ever loved… Mom, Dad, Uncle Ben, and now Aunt May? The faces flickered in his mind, each loss a fresh wound. Ned? Was he next?
“I’m so sorry, Peter,” Mrs. Balkery repeated, her voice soft. She didn’t know what to say, and he knew she didn’t. No one ever did. He pushed the tears back, but they burned behind his eyelids. He couldn't answer.
“Do you… do you want me to call someone?”
He had no one.
The words remained trapped in his throat. He shook his head, the weight of his isolation crushing him. Mrs. Balkery, sensing his despair, didn’t press further.
She’d checked the school records, finding only May listed as his emergency contact. He was alone.
Mrs. Balkery returned to her desk, leaving Peter to his grief. He tossed the ice pack aside, its coolness providing no relief. He slowly stood, his legs unsteady, and shuffled to the nurses’ cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of Advil, shaking eight pills into his palm. He swallowed them dry, then chased them with a gulp of water. He returned to the uncomfortable vinyl chair and slumped against the wall.
Ten minutes crawled by. Mrs. Balkery returned, accompanied by a woman with a kind but determined face. She introduced herself as Ms. Sacer, from C.W.F.C. – Carmin Westler Foster Care. Peter’s blood ran cold. Foster care? Already? Before the grief even settled, the threat of the system loomed.
He shook his head, backing away until his spine pressed against the wall. No. He wouldn’t go into the system. He’d vanish before they could take him.
“I just want to take you back to my work, show you around,” Ms. Sacer said softly, as if fearing her voice would break him. He shook his head again, his vulnerability exposed.
“N-no. I’m not going there!” The desperation in his voice was raw. Ms. Sacer offered a gentle smile.
“It’s going to be okay, Peter.” He flinched. His own name, spoken by her, felt like a betrayal. He needed to escape. A panic attack was building, threatening to overwhelm him, and he couldn’t let her see him unravel.
His hands began to tremble, and he clenched them tightly. Ms. Sacer noticed the tremor, a subtle shift in his posture.
“I…” He choked, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
He grabbed his bag and bolted, Ms. Sacer opening her mouth to protest but too slow to stop him. He jogged towards the boys’ restroom, pushing the door open and locking it behind him.
He leaned against the stall door, gasping for breath, his legs giving way. He slid to the floor, his heart hammering against his ribs.
She’s gone.
He shook his head, refusing to believe it. This had to be a dream, a nightmare. Any minute now, his alarm would blare, and Aunt May would be in the kitchen, making breakfast.
He pinched himself, nothing. He pinched harder, drawing blood. Still, he was in the stall, on the floor. His arm trembled with the effort.
He didn’t feel the pain. The grief, the emptiness… it was all emotional, not physical. He should be able to feel something. He started shaking again, his clothes constricting his chest. He grabbed at his collar, tearing at the fabric. He reached for his phone, but it wasn’t there. He’d left it in the hallway.
He had no one to call.
He was about to hurl his phone at the wall, but stopped himself. He’d break it. He stood, his knees shaking, and splashed water on his face. He barely managed to walk to the sink.
No, he couldn’t go into the system. Flash would find out.
He cursed himself, hating his own weakness. How could he think of himself when Aunt May was gone?
He looked at his reflection, pale and gaunt, on the verge of vomiting. But what confused him was he wasn't crying. No tears welled up, no grief found release. He looked at the phone. He had one person left.
He scrolled through his contacts, stopping at one name.
Tony Stark!! :D
A flicker of warmth ignited within him. A small, defiant spark of hope. He clicked the name, desperate to hear a familiar voice. He needed someone, anyone, to pull him from the darkness.