Enjoying the story? Support it with Power Stones for more chapters!
***
"It's been seven months since the last time I came here, when I told you I would become Spider-Man," Peter said, kneeling in front of his uncle's grave, not caring about getting his pants dirty in the grass. "I remember that day like it was yesterday. I was so… confident. So sure that I had everything under control. I remember standing here talking for almost an hour, telling you about my plans, my promises."
He paused, his fingers finding the edge of the headstone, tracing the engraved letters as if he could somehow feel Ben's presence through the cold marble. The words he had rehearsed the entire way there seemed to have fled all at once, hiding in the darkest corners of his mind.
"A lot has happened since then," Peter continued after a few seconds, his voice lower now. "I fully took responsibility for my powers and I saved a lot of people, like I promised. At first, it was just small stuff — muggings, car thefts, helping little old ladies cross the street. Then the bigger things came. I started fighting strong and powerful people. Like, really strong and powerful. People who only I could face because anyone without my powers would have died trying."
"Shocker, Doctor Octopus, Sandman, Venom, Rhino, and so many others. I defeated them once, twice, three times, but they keep coming back. And new ones show up, stronger and more dangerous every time. It's like… like New York is a magnet for lunatics with superpowers and evil plans."
Peter let out a humorless laugh, a bitter sound that quickly died in his throat. "But I'm always there, doing my best to stop them, trying to be the hero you believed I could be."
"But… I don't know if I deserve to use that name. That title. Hero..."
His fingers tightened around the edge of the headstone. "You know what hurts the most, Uncle Ben? It's not the punches, the blows, the broken bones. That passes. My body heals in days, sometimes hours. But what doesn't pass…" He brought his free hand to his chest, pressing it over his heart. "Is this right here. This pain of seeing the people I love paying the price for something I chose to be. For a choice that I made."
Peter lowered his head, his messy hair falling over his forehead. "I've hurt a lot of people along the way. The people closest to me. I'm not going to tell you about each of them because the list is too long and we'd be here all day, but know that I'm very tired of feeling this. Of seeing them worried when I disappear. Of seeing their disappointed faces when I have to run off to hide and become Spider-Man. Of seeing their hurt expressions when I can't keep a promise. Of failing them. Of putting them second."
"Sometimes I get the feeling that the better I am as Spider-Man… the worse I am as Peter Parker. Like there's an invisible scale and I can never balance both sides."
Peter took a deep breath, knowing he still hadn't reached the real reason he was there. All of that — the complaints, the venting, the everyday pain — was just a prelude, a way of postponing the inevitable. "But that's not what I came to talk about. Not today, at least." He hesitated for a second before continuing. "O-okay, here goes. Do you remember Harry, one of my only friends? Son of Norman Osborn, the rich businessman who was always on TV? Yeah. Norman… he was the Green Goblin. One of the worst villains I've ever faced."
"He wasn't just strong or dangerous. He was… insane. Completely crazy, in that way you see in movies and think, 'that's Hollywood exaggeration.' But it wasn't. He laughed while destroying buildings and hurting people. He planned everything with terrifying intelligence, but acted with the impulsiveness of a spoiled child. He didn't care about anything — not his own life, not his son, not anyone. To this day, I don't know the full extent of the bad things he did, but I'm sure they're far more than I'm aware of. Much more."
The wind blew harder, making the dry leaves dance around him.
"Uncle Ben, I… I came here to tell you that I killed him. I killed Norman Osborn." The confession came out in a shaky breath, almost inaudible, as if saying it out loud made everything more real—more final. "It wasn't an accident, nor self-defense. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to pay for everything he did. And now… now Harry doesn't have a father anymore. And the worst part? I don't know if I regret it. The only guilt I feel is for seeing my friend suffer."
His voice broke on the last word, a muffled sob slipping out with it. "I know, I know you always taught me that every life matters. That we're not the ones who decide who deserves to live or die. That killing isn't a solution, it's just more violence in a cycle that never ends. I know all of that. I memorized those lessons. They're carved in here." Peter hit his chest with a closed fist. "But when I look back, when I remember his insane face behind that mask, when I think about everything he did to Harry, to the city, to me… a part of me feels like he deserved it. A part of me looks at the sky that night, sees the explosion swallowing him and thinks: 'Good. He won't hurt anyone anymore. Norman Osborn was too dangerous to stay alive.'"
Hot tears began to run down Peter's face, falling silently onto the grass.
"What kind of person does that make me, Uncle Ben?" The question came out in a groan, heavy with anguish. "What kind of hero feels relief for having killed someone? What kind of man crosses that line, looks at his own reflection the next day, and realizes he doesn't care as much as he should? What kind of MONSTER am I becoming?!"
He remained silent for a long moment, just breathing — ragged, uneven, painful — feeling the cold wind against his damp skin, the tears drying and leaving salty trails. His eyes remained fixed on the name carved into the headstone, waiting, miraculously, for some kind of answer. A word. A sign. Anything that could ease the unbearable weight threatening to crush his chest.
No answer came.
***
The cold wind of the gray afternoon followed Peter all the way back, whispering in his ears as he walked aimlessly through the city. He didn't want to go home and face May, with her worried eyes and her silent questions. He didn't want to lie down in his bed and endure another night of nightmares. He didn't want anything, really.
So he simply walked.
His feet carried him through familiar streets, then through others less familiar, until he found himself standing before a small church made of dark stone, tucked between residential buildings and small shops. An old structure, the kind that seems to have always existed in New York, with stained-glass windows marked by time and a heavy wooden door left slightly ajar.
Peter wasn't particularly religious. Not since the death of his parents. But he had always talked to God when he felt like he had hit rock bottom. And at that moment, the silence of the Lord's house seemed strangely inviting.
He climbed the worn stone steps and pushed the door open.
The interior of the church was just what he expected — rows of wooden pews, a central aisle leading to the altar, colored stained glass casting faint shadows in the dim light, candles flickering in a corner. The scent of old incense and melted wax lingered in the air, mingling with the distinct smell of wood.
'Exactly what I need…' Peter slid into one of the pews in the back, far from the altar. He sat down heavily, his body still aching, and simply… stayed there.
His eyes lost focus somewhere ahead. His mind, exhausted from spinning in circles, finally found a kind of emptiness. He didn't know how long he remained like that. Minutes? Hours? The clock on the wall had read nearly four in the afternoon when he entered, but now the light from the stained glass had shifted, taking on the orange hues of late afternoon.
Or maybe it was just his imagination.
***
Sister Anne Miller had finished her prayers in the sacristy when she decided to take one last walk through the church before heading to supper. That was when she saw him.
A boy. No more than sixteen, seventeen years old, sitting in the last pew on the left side. He was wearing a black suit — well-dressed for a young man nowadays, she thought — but the outfit was disheveled, wrinkled. His tie was crooked, his hair a mess, and his face…
Ah, the face.
Sister Anne had seen many expressions in her years. Pain, loss, despair, regret. But there was something about that boy that made her stop in the middle of the aisle. He stared at nothing with a hollow intensity, his eyes wide, clearly seeing something that was not there. His expression was devastating, the kind seen in those bearing a weight far too heavy for such young shoulders
She hesitated for a moment. Perhaps he wanted to be alone. Perhaps the last thing he needed was an elderly nun meddling where she wasn't called. But something moved her. Something in his eyes, in the way his hunched shoulders seemed to hold up the world.
With light steps perfected by decades of monastic silence, she approached. When she reached the pew where he sat, she settled beside him — not too close, not too far. Simply present.
For a long moment, she merely observed the boy's profile. He didn't even seem to notice her presence.
"Son? Are you alright?"
Peter blinked. Once, twice, three times.
It was as if someone had flipped the switch of his consciousness back on. His eyes, once dull and distant, slowly gained focus, adjusting to the reality around him. He turned his head and saw the nun at his side — black habit, white veil, deep wrinkles marking a face that must once have been beautiful, silver-rimmed glasses resting on her nose.
"Ah." His voice came out strange, as if he had forgotten how to use it. "Yes. I… yes, I'm fine." Peter tried to offer a smile. He failed miserably. "Everything's perfect."
Sister Anne tilted her head, studying him from behind her lenses. Her faded blue eyes, though aged, remained sharp. "Perfect," she repeated, without judgment, only observation. "It's an interesting word. Do you know where it comes from? From the Latin 'perfectus,' which means 'complete,' 'finished.' Something that needs nothing more." She paused before continuing. "Looking at you, my son, I can't help but think that perfect is exactly what you do not seem to be right now."
Peter opened his mouth to respond, to repeat that he was fine, that it was just exhaustion, that she didn't need to worry. But the words did not come. Instead, he simply looked away, fixing his gaze once more on some undefined point ahead.
Silence stretched between them. Sister Anne waited. Over the years, she had learned that sometimes the best thing to do was simply to be present. To offer company without demanding anything in return.
"Would you like to talk?" she finally asked, with the same gentleness as before.
Peter shook his head. "No."
She nodded, understanding. "That's alright. Talking isn't for everyone, and not every moment is the right one." She adjusted herself more comfortably on the pew, her hands resting in her lap. "May I sit here with you for a while? Silence is easier to bear when it's shared, don't you think?"
Peter didn't answer, but he didn't say no either. And for Sister Anne, that was enough.
***
Disclaimer: This story and its characters belong to Sony Pictures and Marvel Comics (Disney). This is merely a fanfiction written by a fan, with no intention of infringement.