Peter slunked back to the car, unable to wipe the malice and darkness from his face. Aunt May waited there, a smug grin plastered sweetly on her face. She had won, and she knew it; there was nothing now that could undo the trauma that Peter would go through. He would be broken forever, and it was all because of her.

“How was it?” Her voice is like poison, skimming over Peter’s ears like water. The sound of her gloating voice only filled his ears with static, his vision with red. With a murderous gaze, he turned his attention to her. Gone was his self-deprecating, submissive staring contest with the ground when in her presence. No. Cowardice was replaced with anger. Fear was replaced with emotion. Doubt of himself was replaced with love and loathing and a million other feelings that burned Peter from the core and seeped through every pore in his body.

“I hate you.” Peter’s teeth are gritted, pushed so tightly together that a dentist would cry out and faint.

“You… what?” For once, the superior grin is wiped from Aunt May’s face. Her eyes scan Peter, looking at the boy who went from calm to enraged in a nanosecond.

“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you! I hate what you made me, what you did to me. I hate that I trusted you, that you tricked me. I hate that you couldn’t just let me be happy! What kind of sick, evil monster are you? I’m your only nephew, and this is how you treat me? All I ever did was look out for the family. And all I wanted was to be happy. So, yeah, I hate you!” Maybe it’s a bit much. Maybe it’s overkill. But Peter doesn’t care. All he wants to do is hurt May like she hurt him, to make her feel the same pain that he’s felt for the past few months.

And Peter knows that nothing he says will be able to make that feeling, that unworthy, useless feeling sit in her chest the way she made it sit in his, but damn it, he can try. And so everything spews from his mouth like lava from a volcano. Explosive, destructive, and unable to be contained.

“This is how you feel?” Aunt May says, a fire flickering in the back of her eyes.

“Of course it is. I guess being a lying sadist doesn’t run in the family’s bloodline.” It’s a cold blow, but the wave of surprise that erases the anger from her face, though it’s just for a second, is worth it to Peter.

“My real family is dying down in a stone cellar, and all I have left is you. I’ll be damned if I let that happen.”

“You know, a car crash isn’t a bad way to go.” Aunt May says softly. Peter’s seething gaze turns back to her, and she manages to knock a hint of surprise into it.

“A car crash?”

“If you’re contemplating a way out.” Aunt May shrugs, and leans back in her chair like she wasn’t just suggesting suicide to her only nephew. “I also have a gun in my purse, but that’s a little less… glamorous. Don’t you think?” Peter wants to jump on her. To watch the light disappear from behind her eyes. He wants more than anything for that to be her in the basement under the building, rather than the one person that would willingly die for him. The truth is, he could never bring himself to kill her. No. All he wants is the promise that she’ll be gone forever, never to tiptoe back into his life ever again. And if that means her death, well…

There are worse daydreams he could have.

But even though he wants to keep talking to her, something pulls him. Something in him is calling to him, begging him to grab the gun. And slowly, mechanically, the gun is resting in Peter’s palm as if by magic. It’s heavy and cold, and it whispers in Peter’s ear.

Hissing, squealing. Peter realizes the voice is frigid death, ridiculing him and murmuring sweet nothings in his ear.

Pull the trigger, pull the trigger. It cackles. Quick and painless. You know you want to do it. You’re itching to do it. So just wrap your fingers around the trigger--there you go. Just one little pull. One little squeeze. That’s all it takes to save you from a lifetime of misery and loneliness.

And Peter watches himself place a shaking finger against the trigger. He lifts the gun, watching in slow motion as it moves in an achingly prolonged path towards his temple. The barrel of the gun presses, cold and smooth, against the skin next to his right eye.

The gun suddenly feels as light as a feather, and the cold, numb feeling creeping up his skin turns to warmth the second the metal touches his skin.

It feels like a continuation of his head. Like it was always supposed to be there. That maybe, this was always supposed to happen.

Do it! Do it! Pull the trigger, and end it all! You said it yourself: life isn’t worth living without Tony Stark.

The voice is slimy, duplicitous, and all-around malicious, but Peter has never heard anything sweeter. Nothing has spoke to him in such a way, taken control of him like this before. A tiny warning bell screams bloody murder in the back of Peter’s mind, but the voice drowns it out. After listening to it speak, Peter realizes that it’s not sneaky or conniving. No, it’s smooth, and kind. It’s helping him towards a better life, a better path.

He wished for a life without Aunt May, and this is the highway straight to it.

He takes a moment to look Aunt May in the eyes. He wants to see the way she looks at him. Somewhere, in the deepest part of his brain, he wants to see her cry and grovel. He wants to hear her say that she was just kidding, and that she would never ask him to shoot himself. But all that he sees is the face of someone who has never looked more sure of themself. She gives the miniscule of all nods, and Peter’s grip on the gun tightens.

He decides to count down from five.

Five. He sees his favorite of him and Aunt May. Them laughing over dinner at their favorite restaurant. You can never have that life with her like this. The silky voice of death whispers.

Four. Him and Ned, smiling after building their lego masterpiece: the death star. He won’t even remember you when you’re gone. The memory comes and goes, tainted by the manipulative voice.

Three. Peter and his friends, laughing at a stupid joke he told. The Peter from that memory looks so happy, so unbothered with the challenges of life that he’s now had to face. Things are different now. Why would you want to go back to that life when you know that you’ll never be the same? Is it just Peter, or is this voice starting to get a bit annoying?

Two. Finally, a memory with Tony. They’re at the movies, with Tony comforting him. They’re smiling, taking pictures, and watching the best movie ever. He’s gone, remember? He’s dead. D-E-A-D. No. The voice’s psychotic, brainwashing tone starts to break out again, and Peter can hear it distinctly now.

One. “I just wanted to be like you.” “And I want you to be better.” Being better than Tony Stark, impossible. But Tony wouldn’t take the easy way out. Tony wouldn’t… In a split second, Peter realizes. He doesn’t want to die. He can’t die. Not when there’s someone sitting there, dying in a basement who needs his help. The voice hisses and warbles in his ear, edging his finger closer and closer, pulling harder and harder on the trigger.

WAIT!

But it’s too late. His finger pulls the trigger, and the sound of the gunshot is the last thing Peter hears before everything goes dark and silent.

/AN/ Well, that was a dark chapter. Honestly, I don’t really like writing this sort of stuff. I know, it’s a part of life, but I have too many friends that could be/have come close to being on the receiving end of stuff like this. And so I don’t write this stuff to glamorize it or romanticize it, because honestly it shouldn’t be given any room to be made into something great. I write it because I want to show how it’s easy to slip into the thoughts of how you’re “not good enough” or you “don’t have enough worth”. Because let me tell you, straight BS. Just like Peter, someone will always need him. And I know what you’re saying: “AllonsyPotterNerd! I’m not a superhero! Of course people need Peter, he saves lives!” And yeah, you’re right. But let me raise you this: You’re someone’s superhero. There is guaranteed someone out there that looks at you and thinks how much they would love to be you, or how they’d kill to have your laugh, your smile, your sense of humor. There are people out there who love you, even if you don’t see them. And if you really, sincerely think that there’s no one out there that cares about you, I will laugh in your face. Not because I’m a prick, but because I love you and care about you. And if you contact me, I will shower you with the most love that I am capable. Because no one in this world should ever have to be on the end of a gun, counting down from five, ready to take their life.

Now, after that extremely long and somewhat long-winded rant, I just want to say thank you again. The instagram, like I said earlier, is up now. So if you want to follow it, go ahead! I love you all, and I’m so glad that I got to post twice today. I hope that this cliffhanger doesn’t bang you all up TOO bad. Mwahaha. I am so close to 100k reads, and honestly, I’ve started crying a few times reading your guys’ super sweet comments. I really am so grateful for this journey and for being able to take my writing to another level. Thank you all for coming with me through it, and for reading and commenting things that make me happy to be alive. /AN/