Chapter Text
Why won't Happy just pick up? I know I'm a nuisance and he doesn't like me and I'm annoying and obnoxious but I really need him right now. Please, please pick up.
I am stupid. That is not a thought or a feeling but a fact.
We had a stupid depression test in health and I even lied on it but my counselor still had a meeting with me about my mental health. He just asked so many questions and I was terrified and I didn't know what to do and I just couldn't lie. And then he found out that I cut and now he's going to call May and she's going to cry. I can't handle it when she cries. She's going to be so disappointed and she's going to blame herself and wonder what she did wrong.
I had to actively hold my tears back when I saw that Happy read my texts and didn't respond. I know I'm not supposed to go Upstate today but maybe if I can just go there for a little bit and prepare myself it'll be easier.
He's not coming. If I wasn't such a burden to him before maybe he would have helped me now. Maybe he would come pick me up and everything would be okay. But everything's not okay because I ruined everything. I should have lied more. I shouldn't have talked to my counselor. This. Shouldn't. Be. Happening.
But it is. And it's my fault.
The bell rang. I can't text him again until the day is over. Until I have to go back to the apartment.
…
To Happy from Peter:
Happy, please pick me up. I know I'm a pain and I'm annoying you but I really need to be picked up. Please?
He read it. And he didn't respond.
I could just leave now. Just go and no one would need to know. I could be free. This is my chance. This is it. I can go.
To Peter from May:
Peter, come home. We need to talk.
I started to walk to the apartment. But I knew I would regret it.
…
When I opened the door, she just stood there, not looking at me, not saying anything. I didn’t dare to say a word, wishing that this would all go away, regretting coming here.
“We need to talk,” her voice just sounded sad when she finally broke the silence. She walked to my room, but didn’t enter. I followed her and went in, I sat on my bed. She followed suit, sitting right in front of me. I couldn’t help feeling blocked in.
“I got a call from your counselor,” she started, looking at me with those same eyes she had the day Uncle Ben died.
“What did they tell you?” How much do you know?
“He told me about the depression test…” she took a breath, “and that he asked you if you have ever self-harmed. He told me what you said.”
A numbness consumed me. Maybe it’s better that way. I can’t get hurt if I can’t feel.
“Did I cause this?” She looked me in the eye, I quickly averted my eyes.
“I-it’s just that-I-well-” I didn’t get to even finish a thought.
“So it’s my fault,” it wasn’t a question. A tear fell from her eye.
“Peter, you broke my trust,” What? “And you hurt me, you need to ask me for forgiveness.”
I was wrong, even when you’re numb you can get hurt, you bleed and then you bleed out and you get to die. You just get all the pain amplified after the numbness fades off.
What? Why on earth would I apologize to her? How can this seem right to her?
“I’m sorry,” I tried with all my might to not let my seething anger into my voice.
“I forgive you,” there was no emotion in her voice.
“How did you do it?”
I shouldn’t have come here.
“A blade...from a pencil sharpener,” I whispered. I don’t know if I’d rather cry or scream, but one thing I know is that I have to get out . But she’s blocking the way. I can’t escape.
“Give it to me,” she ordered. Knowing there was no other option, I got up and got my little box in the back of my dresser drawer. The only thing in it was the blade. “I don’t even know how you got that idea,” I heard her whisper.
“You’re not allowed to have hand sharpeners anymore. If you need to sharpen a pencil you’ll use an electric one.” When I sat back down on the bed, she took my blade and put it in her pocket.
There’s other ways I can do it. That’s what I didn’t say.
“I also scratched myself…” I honestly don’t know why I told her that.
“You have to keep your nails short from now on,” she responded immediately, staring at my hands. “Did you do it on your arms?”
“Sorta,” I mumbled, barley understandably. She roughly grabbed my arm and pulled up my sleeve. She inspected it, luckily those scars have faded more than the others.
“Where else did you do it?” She was still holding my arm too tightly. I wanted nothing more than to rip my arm away from her and run away.
I answered honestly, knowing there was no way out of it, “Mostly my thigh.”
“Take your clothes off,” she demanded, standing up.
What? No. You can’t make me show you my body, you can’t, you can’t do that!
“Come on, Peter,” she held no room for anything other than unquestioning obedience.
I slowly stood up, I looked at her once, just to make sure this is what she really wants.
“Take your pants off,” she was losing her patience. I slowly slipped my pants off. “Now the shirt.” I obeyed.
She stood there staring at my almost naked body. She made me turn around. She didn’t ask before she lifted up my underwear to see if there were any scars underneath. I couldn’t fight back. That’s where most of the scars are.
“When was the last time you did it?” She was still staring at my body.
“About a week.” Luckily. You could see the new ones when she lifted up my underwear. The red lines were a contrast to the many white scars scattered there.
“From now on, periodically we will have checks to make sure you’re not doing this anymore. Promise me if you find any other pencil sharpeners you will give them to me. If I find any, I’m getting rid of them.”
“I promise,” I whispered. I lied.
Then she dared to pull me into a hug, me with my clothes off, after she dared to touch me against my will and look at my body. Then she finally left the room. I quickly put my clothes back on.
I remembered I still have one more blade hidden.
I went into the bathroom, without my extra blade. I didn’t turn on the lights. I drowned in the darkness around me. And I let out a sob. I quickly covered my mouth to keep myself quiet.
I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t-I can’t-
My breaths quickened too fast and not enough oxygen was coming in. It only caused me to cry harder. Which made it harder to breathe. It’s an endless cycle. Nausea hit me but nothing would come up.
After who knows how long, she knocked on the door. She asked me if I was okay. I cleared my throat and said yes. I wiped my tears away and took a few deep breaths. I flushed the toilet to at least pretend I wasn’t just sobbing my guts out.
“I’m going to call Tony and ask him to have dinner with you. I have some friends I need to talk to.”
“Are you going to tell him?” Hesitance filled my voice.
“Of course,” she answered as if the answer is obvious.
…
I can’t even have normalcy with Mr. Stark anymore. She didn’t even ask me, she just told him. Now he’ll hate me, he won’t want me around anymore. I disappointed him. He already goes through so much, I can’t add this to his plate. Add me to his already full plate.
“Hey Peter,” though his tone was happy when he greeted me, it was forced. He came, and he’s driving himself. It’ll just be me and him. Aunt May didn’t even say goodbye, but the thought of talking to her again just brings back that dread and that need to escape.
I noticed when Mr. Stark purposely put on my favorite band, even though he hates it.
We drove without talking for a while. Then he spoke, “We can have a casual dinner if you want, or we can talk. Whatever you need.”
What do I need?