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“I hope this grief stays with me because it's all the unexpressed love that I didn't get to tell her”.
-Andrew Garfield
(about the loss of his mother)
It wouldn't come off. God, it wouldn't come off!
The stain of crimson was just that: a stain. No matter how vital the liquid was or how it was taken, it was nothing more than a mere combination of cells and plasma.
It didn't matter that Peter was the one who drained the life-giving fluid, or that he swung away as soon as his fist left its carnage on its target.
The sirens came not long after, their blaring pitches setting off Peter's already overwhelmed senses.
He curled up against the assault, his breath coming in rugged pants.
Something built in his throat: a raw, animalistic sound that burst out of him, leaving his bloody mouth in a primal scream.
He just hurt someone.
He deeply, deeply hurt someone.
He might have even killed them.
It was an uncontrollable instinct- and affinity for blood. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.
Someone drained the blood of his lover, so he should drain the blood of others’ lovers.
It wasn't like they were entirely innocent.
No, the people he targeted had bloodshed on their hands as well. Perhaps they lost their love as he had, leaving them without a single ounce of hope or forgiveness.
Peter was bitter, he knew he was bitter.
It wasn't an excuse, but he was drowning, drowning in his grief. If his tears spilt over and drowned others- well, that was just how it happened sometimes.
He swung from building to building, doing anything to avoid staying put. Staying put meant his mind wandered, causing him unrelenting grievances.
And, going home- well, he couldn't exactly do that- not with the blood on his hands and the stains in his heart.
The wind shrieked against his ears as his heart pounded in his throat. He couldn't breathe with the weight in his chest, couldn't think with the fog in his brain.
Not trusting his head, Peter let his body move on autopilot, not knowing exactly where he was headed. It didn't matter anyway.
“I love you, Peter!”
“I love you too!”
“If only you had caught me.”
“Gwen, I-” the sob built in his throat.
“Ironic, isn't it, that you couldn't catch your own girlfriend? What kind of ‘hero’ does that make you?”
“I didn't-”
“You're certainly not a hero to me,” Gwen spat before tumbling backward, into the abyss, down, down, down.
Peter shot out of bed, trying fruitlessly to regain his breath. He felt lightheaded, the hyperventilation depriving him of oxygen. It didn't help that his chest felt so heavy.
At least it was just a nightmare, right?
It was just a fantasy, a fantasy like the ones he had in high school, only instead of kissing Gwen, she was-
No, it was real. It was real.
He failed to save her. She was-
How did he end up in his own room? Was his mind really slipping that quickly?
He must have swung back home last night, his mind too preoccupied to appreciate the familiar coziness of his bedroom.
“Peter?” A voice called through the door. “I know you're having a hard time, but why don't you come downstairs?”
Peter didn't respond.
“You know, talking helps with grief.”
Peter sighed, swinging his legs over the bed. His legs felt like jelly, his muscles buckling. His back sagged and his head was heavy. Walking was a chore, but he made it to his door, opening it with a squeak to slowly reveal his Aunt.
He sunk into her open arms, letting his head loll onto the top of her shoulder. He couldn't contain the tears that poured out of his eyes, or the sob that erupted from deep within him, a place as deep as the love he felt for Gwen.
“I'm sorry, Peter,” Aunt May whispered.
Peter's snot ran out of his nose, making him sniffle.
What good did “sorry” do? It was a meaningless word: it wouldn't bring Gwen back, all it did was twist the knife lodged in his heart.
Nobody ever meant it. They could never feel his pain.
“Don't you dare pity me,” was his reaction every time.
Everyday without fail, Peter visited Gwen. Her headstone was beautiful, just like she was.
The flowers on the mound of dirt slowly rotted, wilting and peeling away as the days went by.
As Peter visited, he dropped off new flowers like he used to drop flowers off in her window sill.
It was amazing that such a mortal plant was used to symbolize love, especially when disembodied flowers died. It was ironic that the delicate flowers foreshadowed the finite nature of humanity and the lack of immortality in love.
Everything faded. Everything died.
As Peter sat by her graveside, he confessed feelings that were never said. So much was left unsaid. So much would never be said.
Still, he talked to her.
He sobbed to her.
He apologized to her.
He explained to her how he should have scooped her up and landed on his feet; he should have caught her with multiple webs, forming a hammock to cushion her fall; he should have tied her up and refused to let her go onto the dangerous battle ground.
He should have done this, he should have done that- it was never enough.
“Peter, come eat,” Aunt May begged as Peter slumped into the house.
“I'm not hungry.” He was tired, he wanted to sleep and wake up and find out it was all a nightmare.
“Yes, you are. Here, eat my meatloaf.”
“I don't like meatloaf.”
Gwen's absence ripped a hole, an irreparable hole that could never be filled by food, pity, or anything, for that matter.
He trudged off to bed, not even worrying about brushing his teeth.
He had no reason to smile.
The crime rate increased over the summer.
Today, Peter tracked a thief across the city, backing him into a corner and punching hard enough to draw blood. Despite the gruesome picture he painted, Peter knew he was getting weaker. He had less energy, less motivation.
He left his victim in the dark of the alleyway, swinging towards the familiar grave.
It was an endless cycle: Peter would wake up, beat up some bad guys, visit Gwen and return home to go to bed.
“Today, I beat up a thief. He stole a loaf of bread from a store.”
“Why did you do that, Peter?” He could hear Gwen ask.
“For justice.”
“Really? Or do you just want to make yourself feel better? The people you hurt won't bring me back.”
Peter sighed, shivering against the cold. He didn't bother pulling his beanie more over his head.
Gwen- or whoever the voice in his head was- was right. Why be Spider-Man if he wasn't doing enough?
He should just quit. It wasn't like he had anything left to protect.
Months went by and seasons changed: the boiling heat made way for cooler weather, and the leaves darkened and fell, eventually getting covered by a thick blanket of snow. The snow melted and the grass began to grow back, casting a dewy glow as the clouds built and the rain poured.
The rain cleared, making room for a mockingly sunny day. Peter was eating his cereal (more out of necessity than want) and Aunt May had the television on, the morning news speaking out on the “disappearance of Spider-Man”.
Peter turned the television off, unable to handle the rumors of where the hero went (he was just moping around, aimlessly depressed).
“Too bad about that spider guy,” Aunt May started, “too bad he's disappeared. It seems like everybody really needs him.”
Easy for her to say. Someone else needed him, and he failed. Why should he try and fail again?
Before the wave of emotion could overtake him, Peter walked off in the direction of his room, a place where he was safe.
“Peter, where are you going?”
Why did it matter?
“J-just to eat my cereal.” And cry, maybe punch something.
“Peter… where are you going?” She repeated, her voice wavering.
Shit. There went the waterworks- the familiar stinging behind his eyes and the tightening of his throat.
“I don't know,” he admitted.
“You know, it's been funny. I've been trying to clean up around here and get organized and put Ben's old stuff into boxes, and- and it's so funny that the heavier the box gets, the lighter I feel.”
“You're throwing his stuff away?”
How could she throw away the past? How could she just forget her love?
“No, I couldn't do that. It's part of me. I'm just finding a better place for it. I'm going to take one last look and I'm going to put it where it belongs.”
Was that possible? Was it possible to not forget grief but to preserve it by letting it go? He would definitely feel lighter if that were the case.
He went to his room, set down his soggy cereal, and got out an item he was yet to look at- an item that had caused him much grief and anguish.
Gwen's graduation speech.
With shaky hands, he plugged it into his computer.
Her beautiful face popped onto the screen, bringing her to life if only in 2d. “It's easy to feel hopeful on a beautiful day like today-”
It was true. Graduation was a hopeful day: a day to look forward to the future, to his future with Gwen. He had been naive, too busy to show up to her speech. He should have tried harder, but he took it for granted that she'd be there forever.
“But there will be dark days ahead of us too- days where you feel all alone- and that's when hope is needed most. No matter how buried it gets or how lost you feel, you must promise me that you will hold on to hope. Keep it alive-”
It was almost like she was speaking directly to Peter. It was like she was right in front of him, lecturing him, and for a moment, he basked in the daydream.
He looked at her in front of him and saw her smiling face at the Chinese restaurant he was too scared to go into, in the broom closet of Oscorp where they kissed, her smiling face before her scholarship interview, and at graduation, her hair ruffled by the cap as they kissed.
“We have to be greater than what we suffer. My wish for you is to become hope, for people need that.”
“We need Spider-Man,” the news article had said. “He brings me hope,” another commentator mentioned. Spider-Man was hope. He shouldn't have been, he had failed-
“Even if we fail-” Gwen's timing made Peter chuckle. “What better way is there to live? As we look around here today at all the people that made us who we are, I know it feels like we're saying goodbye, but we will carry a piece of each other into everything we do next, to remind us of who we are and of who we are meant to be. I've had a great four years with you all, I'll miss you very much.”
Peter packed, putting his past into boxes as Aunt May suggested. He packed his old school paper clippings and his family pictures. He packed his dad’s briefcase, and all his pictures of Gwen- well, all but one.
He had one last item to pack: his spider suit.
He stared at it, conflicted. Gwen spoke of hope, of being hope and becoming who you were meant to be. Was Peter meant to be Spider-Man?
He was bitten by the spider, and his blood received the venom as its own, the DNA shifting to accompany the new powers. Only one person in the universe could have had that transition, his father made sure of it.
Peter was that person.
It couldn't have been a coincidence, could it have?
Maybe the universe- the multiverse- needed him. Maybe he was meant to be a hero.
Peter sighed and slipped into the suit, on to his next adventure. Gwen may not have been there physically, but she was with him in the suit, in his mind and spirit.
It hurt to have loved and to have lost, but he had to bring hope and healing to those hurting.
“My wish for you is to become hope,” Gwen had said.
What better way to grieve her than to carry on her legacy?
The grief wasn't ever going to go away, but Peter wished it never would.
After all, grief was all the unexpressed love he had for her, and because he could never fully express all that love, he hoped the feeling remained.
It was what Gwen deserved.