Evil Hate Cow # 1 (perch_and_creep) wrote in dolltongue,
Evil Hate Cow # 1

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bluwyndfaerie part 3

author: bluwyndfaerie
fandom: spider-man the movie
disclaimer: marvel owns these characters not blu, not me. blu has kindly allowed me to host some of her wonderful fics and poems here. To read her other work please follow the link to her ff.net account.
feedback:feedback for blu
website/homepage:bluwyndfaerie's other fanfiction

Note: This is a song-fic. The song is “Deny” by Default.

Disclaimer: “Spider-man” and all related characters aren’t mine. “Default” isn’t mine.

The Puddle by Blu Wynd Faerie

rated PG


Help me; I cannot make it better. I already pleaded with you, on my knees, crying into your stomach and sobbing your name in choked, scratchy gasps. Harshly, I received a silent nod and a sorry glance. My empty hands attempt to clasp you close, but, each protest was futile. My attempts, each fruitless, have left me unable to think and inhale and live. Breathless, I stumble down a corridor, but all the doors are locked. I am unable to function without you, and that wounds me with myriad lances. I burn. I begin my sad decay, starting from the inside out. I fade gradually into a black tunnel, unreachable, but that is where you cast me. Isn’t that where you want me?

Today I woke up and you were gone

The whole day wondering what I did wrong

Puzzled and half dead from my worry, I demand myself to fix whatever it is about me that is in need of repair. Though any creature has something lacking, such as patience or confidence, I find nothing major to be faulty. Is it my face, my stubbornness, my dreams, my dripping, honeyed essence? I don’t know. What do you want of me? Why can’t you love me? I am frustrated that I am not perfect, like you deserve. Bitter at myself, I shrink back into a calloused shell.

I watch everything pass me by as I grip my iron-railed balcony with two fists, as if the world might stop if I cling hard enough. Things seem to freeze as your scent, a knee-weakening perfume, permeates me and your eyes flit past me like a moth’s wings.

And, in an instant, the moment is lost as the masses churn and swallow you whole. I turn away, feeling as if your absence might rip me open like a soft shelled crab. I recoil as if my fingers had burned on a piping hot stove. Heavens above, if this is a lesson, I’ve learned it. Do not punish me any longer. I’m going insane without my love.

It's like I'm falling from a mountaintop

My heart keeps pounding and it won't stop

I tell myself that to fall prey to you is worthless, and that I shouldn’t waste my time with you. But I can’t help it. Why do you have this effect on me?

When you enter a room, I feel your presence, a startling neon lure I can’t ignore. Crazed, delirious, I keep struggling for you, thrashing within, and yet trying to keep up my chin in the process. You don’t want me anyway, but you certainly don’t want me to be an airhead, heartsick, fluttering eyelashes yanking on repulsion. Trying to remain composed and cold, and perhaps a little distant, I turn away, tears stinging my eyes. Do you want me like this, a rock-hard statue?

Can you see this hell I'm living?

I'm not giving up

It is very difficult to seem brave, independent, full when you’re in a free fall to your rot. I know, because as the surroundings waste away around me, my balcony seems to vanish and I am spiraling into the depth of all that loneliness, clawing to the surface. I hate to surrender to what you do to me. Am I weak? Is that it? I never meant to be. I thought I was strong when I stood up to all the walls in front of me. How much more must I give and be?

It’s a whirl. Between trying to ignore you like I did so many times before and not making a fool of myself, an inner section of me is weaving her own spell. Somehow, she’s kept strength throughout the trial. Hidden in the recesses of all my being, she draws out like wire the cords that keep me in one piece. And she’s flinging out the lines to you.

Will you crawl to me?

Will you fall with me?

I can’t force you. As you pull against my tide, resisting, I scramble to hold you with me. I break away as my fingers slip off. As we tumble downward, I ask if it was you clinging to me or the other way around. In your eyes, I see blue that seems to envelope every atom of my being. If you mean that much to me, I must be something to you.

I'll never crawl to you

I've done it all for you

You fake looking through me as if I’m a sparkle of glass. It’s so obviously an effort to make light of this situation and run away. I know you see me like you’ve seen me nearly every day of your life. Am I a nothing to you, a speck of blue lint in this great wild plan of the world? I can’t be. I might be too stubborn or too ugly or too weak, but I am at least something. Aren’t I?

Well don't deny

The hand that feeds you needs you

I know that I am something to you, just as you are something to me. A million memories, fractions of timeless minutes, flash past us both, and I hope you can see as clearly as I can that something significant is there. Do you call this just a fling, something trivial? I could watch you sleep from my second-story window, and I could see your lights flash out. I used to hold the bus for you sometimes when you were late, just because you were my neighbor and I thought that was reason enough. I shared secrets with you, and I was there for you when you were aching. Does that mean nothing to you? Or was I mistaken to think there was something there before? But you supported me, too, right? It was something reciprocal, something beautiful and rich and necessary, the both of us lifting up each other until we stood on impossibly tall mountains. And without each other, I think we both are losing our wills. Why did things change? Your eyes are tired, and they never were before. Or is something else catching up to you? I don’t know. You never even say “Hello,” to me anymore.

Oh, god, I'd die to try to

Finally please you

Don’t throw this away. It would be such a waste of perfectly usable wanting and longing. Can you deny the connection we had as you slip into your oblivion? Are you going to let those things whisper away? I recall us holding each other, smiling at each other across a crowded room, silent meetings through the glass panes and across the white, stained picket fences. I can almost see photographs of myself scattered across the floor to make a red carpet. It’s your call. How can I convince you that the past is so important because it will build our future more than anything else can?

There goes a piece of me

Will I cease to be?

When you refuse still, I am swallowed down the blood-stained drain. The pain continues, unending, and I don’t see any horizons in sight. I find myself suddenly doubting everything. Has my time with you been a lie? I thought that we were at least friends, and that relationship changed me. Was I affected by something that wasn’t even there? I’m not sure about anything anymore.

I've never lied to you

Fought, bled and died for you

I hear a fiddle plucked across the expanse of the room. Pianos hum lazily. I waver unsuspectingly. I cling to the silk around me that is my identity, because I think and I hope that there’s at least something left there. And even still, there are flecks of you inside of my aura. We are not free of each other yet, thankfully. Aloof, I shuffle through the party room, pretending that I’m not looking for you.

And, where I least expect you, there you are, bumping into me with a cough and scattering like glass shards across marble. I snatch your hand. It is worn, like mine. There were sacrifices made on both parts. I always knew it.

Well don't deny

The hand that takes you breaks you

Why do you seem hurt suddenly by my touch? You shiver under my warm skin. Am I so cold now? I grudgingly let go of you, but I never will release you. My moves are choppy. For the first time, I look up. Your eyes are glazed over like the ice that I am. Through those windows of opportunity, you watch me breath in, sharply, startled. Your face jerks away from mine as if I am painful to look at. Am I so foul to you that you cannot stand to meet my gaze? What’s the matter with me?

Oh god I'd die to try to

Finally please you

Can you look at me, please? Can you acknowledge me? When I see you, how could I not suspect that there is something behind that face, something untold? Do you really think that I believe that you are real? Can you stop faking whatever lie you live, this twisted state? Would you show me that I was something to you once upon a fairytale? Damn you, what do you want of me? Tell me, damn you.

There she goes and I'm on the ground,

I'm on the ground,

I'm on the-

Damn you for making me love you, and then not returning it.

Well don't deny

The hand that feeds you needs you

Without warning, my hands are on your face, on your arms, on your shoulders, in your hair, buried in your clothes. Perhaps my touch does sting you, but I don’t think that’s important. All I know is that my acidic addiction is taking its toll, and I need you wildly. My fingers graze over every inch of you, tasting, remembering. I am purposefully forgetting so that I might have an excuse to return. Upon the identity of thumbprints, I add a little flavor that belongs to you. My palms press into your coat.

I have been very numb for very long. Is that why I don’t realize that your hands are on my back, on the back of my neck, over my mouth as I gasp, shocked? This bittersweet romance, this flighty pastime, is dangerous, deadly, a bronzed vixen for the two of us. Your skin across mine tells me that no one gives a damn anymore. You still can’t look at me, but your touch looks at me in a different sense.

Oh god I'd die to try to

Finally please you

Is this it? As our lips surround each other, as we forget everything else for just a soft, quick moment, as I think my prayers have been answered, I wonder if I fit the puzzle for you, if that made everything right. Did I manage to light that candle at long last?

My fingers close on nothingness. I look up and you retreat, walking backwards, staring at me, eyes finally meeting mine, though distant, your mouth agape. Your crystal eyes are a little dazed still, but the cracks have faded and they never have seemed so full of glitter. You don’t see the line in the sidewalk, and you step down oddly and trip, landing on your rear in a puddle, making a large golden splash.

And we both laugh. I feel peaceful. Has it been so long?

Will you crawl to me?

Will you fall with me?

Well, we both know that I’m not perfect. In fact, I’m not close. I have come up short in the eyes of many, dropping all the eggs on the floor and helplessly watching them shatter. No, I’m not your all-star, but I want to be your star, be as close to perfect as I can be. Can’t you push aside all those nagging doubts and see that little shimmering angel inside of me that’s working so hard to snare you? You’re not perfect either, and I love you anyway. Perhaps it’s why we go together?

I’m trying to drag you down into my weakness. I cannot suffice, but when you don’t think you can, either, I won’t care. We loners can ride off into our own distorted sunset, knowing that we’re not getting any higher.

I'll never crawled to you

I've done it all for you

Give in. We can be small, helpless, and faulty together. I want the comfort of your kiss, if nothing else.

Not Enough

Rated PG13

The week has been very glum. Perhaps it’s just me, but have the last few weeks just been the saddest, coldest weeks in all of New York’s history? It has poured for seemingly days on end, blurring the view outside my apartment window and making all the colors fade together like a wet painting. Is this a new record for the state? Maybe the only records are being made inside of my heart.

I yank the curtain closed on the rainy city because I hate what it has done to me, or, rather, what it had made me do to myself. If I was a heartless man, careless about what happened to New York, I could abandon my post as Spider-man. But, no, I am a human, and I have guilt and emotion. My heart anchors me to Spider-man, away from Mary Jane. The chain just doesn’t reach that far.


The curtains are ugly. I stare at them for a while, just not paying attention to what I should be doing: homework for my classes. The room is dark now, unlit by the light from outside. I feel like some sort of a hermit locked in his shell, aloof from the world. My comparison is pretty accurate, actually. I am just that, apart from everyone else, because of who I am. And I hate it more than I hate anything else in the world. Life is so unfair.

“Mary Jane,” I moan to myself as her essence invades my brain. Her red hair, her brilliant smile, her smooth skin, the way she takes my hand in her own, the hugs she saves for me alone – all these things get under my skin because they are no longer in my grasp.

I could write a sweet song just about the color of her eyes. I could spend my life just in that moment right when her lips met mine for the very first time. I could use up all of eternity in that second when she first smiled at me when I was six years old and I did not know at such a young age the power of one girl. All the time I could take just to do these things would not be a waste of forever; that’s how much I love this talented, amazing young woman.

And I am alone forever.

I still recall the taste of your tears, echoing your voice just like the ringing in my ears.
My favorite dreams of you still wash ashore, scraping through my head 'till I don't want to sleep anymore.

My pen drags along the page. I shake my head. I cannot concentrate, and thus the name “Mary Jane” is scrawled across the lined notebook paper as a result of my incompetence. I slam the book shut. I cannot finish this unless I do something. Something drastic must happen, or else my homework and my life will be incomplete.
The telephone is on the wall. I get up and tread towards it in my white socks cautiously, as if it might jump out and bite me. It’s just a telephone, I remind myself. I reach out and grab the object in my sweaty palms and stare at the green lit numbers with a blank expression on my face. Her phone number just escaped my memory. Why must I always be so stupid? I fumble for the Post-It notes on the wall in a desperate attempt to find Mary Jane’s number.

There it is, looming on the paper at me. It’s so difficult. I don’t know what to do, who I am, what my options are. Why am I here? I hate everything in that one moment as the paper stares at me with its blocky writing that is my own, as the room darkens more around me, as the dial tone drones on and on in my ears. I want to cry. I want to kill something. I want her so badly.

Come on, tell me

You make this all go away.
You make this all go away.
I'm down to just one thing, and I'm starting to scare myself.
You make this all go away.
You make this all go away.
I just want something.
I just want something I can never have.

I bravely press the numbers. Someone picks up immediately. “Hello?” answered the most honeyed voice I have ever heard. I nearly sob at the sound of her innocent voice asking for a name to fill the void of silence I have made. My mind begs forgiveness from her soft gentle lips for everything. I am hopelessly in love, aren’t I? Maybe I’m just hopeless.

“Hello?” she asks again, confused and somewhat irked. I have not yet spoken.

“Mary Jane?” I ask softly. Her name sounds so good on my tongue. Just saying it brings back a barrage of painful memories. I can just suddenly think of nothing but kissing her, over and over again, leaving her breathless and shocked and wondering if it’s really my shy self taking her so lovingly, so deeply, so passionately. I can remember nothing but the way she tasted, the way her mouth dovetailed onto mine, the sighs deep in her throat. Oh, bittersweet nostalgia, don’t do this to me. Oh, please.

“Yes, I’m Mary Jane. Who’s this?” she asks me. I bite my lip. I am losing my nerve, slipping away from her voice into my sadness and my despair. Someone up above has abandoned me for months now. Give me strength now, please, to make up for what you never did before.

Somehow I spit out broken words. “It’s me, Mary Jane. It’s me, Peter,” I answer dumbly. My heart is in my throat. I can hardly speak as the tears well up behind my eyes to leave me blinder than ever to the world.

“Peter!” she gasps, the thrill edging into her voice. Oh, don’t do it, Mary Jane. Don’t make me cry in front of you. I am not a strong man. You might think I am, but I have a soft spot for red-haired girls who are as near to perfect as humans can be. “I haven’t talked to you in a while.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say more calmly than I thought I would. “How’s life been treating you?”

“Okay,” Mary Jane tells me. There’s a hint of hesitation in her voice. I know she doesn’t like to lie to me. “I’ve been auditioning, and waiting for replies from the agencies and such.” And I’ve been waiting, too, waiting for you my whole life. But I can’t say it. I never can. I never will.

“I hope you get a part,” I say.

“Thanks,” she giggles. “Oh, and I have such great news!”

“What’s that?” I ask her.

She gives a genuine laugh as she holds in her secret. “You have to guess.”

Oh, God. Don’t flirt with me. “I can’t guess. I’ll never guess. You know I’m bad at these.”

“Oh, fine! I’ll tell you. I’m going to be starting classes with you at the university!” she squeals.

Out goes my stomach. Well, life just got about a thousand times harder. Does this mean that I have to face you every single day, so close and yet so far, unable to show emotion and unable to hold you? Does this mean that I must hold my tongue every time I feel a strong need to confess my love for you? It will be so hard. And, yet, for Mary Jane to be so close I could touch her, maybe her scent left in the room afterwards will leave me on a dazed high long enough to dope me up and make me forget I ever lived.

“Cool!” I say with cheer “And, so, how’ve you been?”

If only you knew, Mary Jane. How many nights have I woken up with the sheets tangled around my waist and legs, choking on oxygen because I am alone? How many days have I sat trying to think about everything but you, yet ending up with only you on my mind? How many moments have I spent reliving the brief romance we shared, with me in my silly suit and your arms wrapped around me? Every night, every day, every moment, I have thought of you, so far away on the other end of the city and the other end of the world and the other end of my life. No, I haven’t been good, Mary Jane.

“Alright,” I fib. “It hasn’t been the best, though. You know, after Harry’s father died, the apartment just has been pretty gloomy.”

“Yes. I’m sure these rainy days don’t help, huh?” Mary Jane says quietly. I can see her in my mind smiling in that comforting way of hers, the one that says everything will be alright.

“No, they don’t.” Don’t even mention the rain, Mary Jane, I beg her in my mind. It just reminds me of feeling her lips on mine for the very first time like some fantastic dream, like some piece of heaven. I shiver involuntarily as my heart thunders even more out of passion. I love her so much. I hate what she has made of me.

You always were the one to show me how. Back then I couldn't do the things that I can do now.
This is slowly taking me apart. Grey would be the color if I had a heart.

“So,” she says awkwardly, “any particular reason you called?”

“To hear the sound of your voice again,” I say without thinking. I could shoot myself right about now. It would be far less painful.

Mary Jane laughs a little. “You’re too sweet, Peter,” she coos. I could drown in that sound of my name being spoken by her. Is it just my imagination, or am I shaking? I hold out my right hand and watch it twitch with curiosity. How can such a simple, Neanderthal sound - my simple, ordinary name - be so graceful and beautiful when spoken by her? She weakens me slowly, like a melting ice cream cone in the sun. The feeling is watery and uncontrollable. I just might break down. I hope she doesn’t say my name again. My eyes close against my will and I slide to the floor with my feet curled under me.

“Peter? Are you okay?” she asks me. How does she know? Can she hear my voice cracking and my eyes watering up like Niagara Falls? Can she hear my world crashing down on her pedestal? Are the little pieces scraping up her toes like they scratched my face? I am sorry I made you into a shell of who you were. I am sorry that I hurt you.

“Why do you love me?” I croak.

I feel inhuman, savage, a beast thrashing about clumsily in her wild, magnificent circle. I am undeserving, I think. I wish she would hate me right now. I wish she would tell me to rot and die so I wouldn’t have to hear her sniffling voice on the other end suddenly start to cry out so fiercely and stutter, “Because you’re Peter Parker, that’s why. I love you because you’re perfect.”

“No. You’re wrong,” I deny. “Can’t you just let me go?”

“I can’t, Peter. I just can’t,” she sobs. “Oh, God, Peter. I’m sorry that I ever said anything. I’m sorry for doing this to you, for making you uncomfortable, for being too honest when you don’t love me! Oh, Peter! I-”

I shatter and cut her off rudely. “Don’t ever think that I don’t love you,” I respond automatically. I cannot bear for her to think badly of herself as undeserving, as not worthwhile, as unlovable. She can hate me and spit on me all she wants to, but I won’t let her do it to herself.

“Not in the way I want you to love me,” she clarifies.

“You don’t know the whole truth,” I say. She silences immediately. My breath hitches in my throat. Oh, I need all the strength I can get right now. I am definitely trembling. I am cracked open, fully exposed. “I do love you, Mary Jane. More than you’ll ever know.”

She is quiet for five seconds. In those five seconds, I die a million times as my heart thumps and plummets downward each time. I throw dirt on my own grave. “You love me,” she breathes, unbelieving.

“I do. I love you so much, Mary Jane.” My sobs are silent so that she cannot hear me. Is this the part where I break her heart all over again? How did I go from trying to avoid her to confessing how much I love her? Where did this all come from? I want to hang up before I can crack her shell open once more and poison her inside.

She begins, “But you told me-”

“-that I all I could offer was friendship?” I finish. “Yes, Mary Jane, it’s true. As much as I love you, I cannot love you. I can’t explain why, but I am forbidden to love you. It’s as simple as that.” I choke. “I’m sorry.”

“‘It’s as simple as that!’? You make no sense, Peter! That’s not simple!” she objects feverishly. “Why can’t you?” She is angry now. I can almost feel her shaking her fist at me and bashing me across my feverish face in her pain and anger.

“Don’t ask.”

“Too late,” she retorts, clearly not controlling her emotions. “I need to know, Peter. You can’t leave me hanging like that, not able to understand why you can’t be with me. It’s not fair, Peter, for you to keep me in the dark! Oh, Peter, please! Peter!”

“Stop!” I cry out suddenly. “Stop saying my name. Stop making this harder for me, okay? You can’t understand. You aren’t allowed to understand. It’s not enough for me, either. It’s not enough for me to sit hopelessly at home and think about you and remember the minutes I shared with you. It’s not enough for me to imagine what life would be like with you in my arms every moment, every second, every breath. It’s not enough to recall the brief time, an eternity too quick, when you kissed me and pieced my world together and I turned away from everything I ever wanted, the perfection I saw in the depths of your eyes. It’s not enough to fantasize, to pretend, to socialize with what can’t be. Stop making this harder. It’s hard enough, Mary Jane.” Oh, Mary Jane.

I am crying. I am screaming. I am shaking and I am all over the floor with my back to the wall and my seizing right hand all over my face smearing the tears. God has abandoned me here on my living room floor.

Come on, tell me

You make this all go away.
You make this all go away.
I'm down to just one thing, and I'm starting to scare myself.
You make this all go away.
You make this all go away.
I just want something.
I just want something I can never have.

“This has to do with you being Spider-man, doesn’t it?” she says blankly.

“Yes,” I answer before I can even realize what I have said. Did she just take advantage of my carelessness, my thoughtlessness, my weakness at that moment? “I mean, no! What are you talking about?!” I correct myself.

“I’m not stupid! You couldn’t hide it from me,” Mary Jane scolds me. “That night in the alley, when you saved my life as Spider-man, I felt really alive for the first time. That first time I kissed you in the rain, I knew I could never be that happy again. And when I kissed you again, it was the same thing, that same feeling. How could I not know? How could I forget what it was like?”

“You can’t forget,” I whisper back breathlessly. “I never will.”

“Is Spider-man not allowed to have a girlfriend?” she asked. I would laugh if I remembered how. But it’s far too serious to laugh, far too important to joke.

“He’s not, no,” I say, plucking at the buttons on my shirt. “He’s not allowed, or else she’d get hurt. Someone would use her against him. He can’t put anyone in that kind of danger. He wouldn’t feel right doing it.”

“I don’t care,” she says. I love her for her determination, and a part of me despises the fact that she can use herself so well because it will only lead to her own suicide, her own destruction. I feel so cruel to treat her like this, like a baby that cannot understand her choices. She is a grown woman, but I want to pamper her and shield her like a father or an obsessive lover. I knew she would not stand for this treatment.

“I do,” I retort. I’m in pieces at this point.

“I can’t respect that,” Mary Jane replies like I knew she would. “Peter, I love you. Isn’t that enough?”

Oh, it ought to be. But life is never that simple, is it? No, life is a bitter warrior, a vengeful Amazon pitted against little lost boys like me who once believed that love could conquer the world; she thinks we Lost Boys of Never Land need a lesson. She destroys our innocence, our naivety, our faith in humanity and the world and God. Love is enough to keep us together, drawn to each other by instinct and passion, and yet it keeps us apart; if I didn’t love her, I would never feel obliged to guard her day in and day out. What a cruel twist! Either way, I lose. I am helpless, and I feel it.

“I wish it were enough excuse, Mary Jane. But life doesn’t make excuses for love.”

“I don’t give a damn! Don’t you see? Life may not make excuses for love, but I do. A minute with you is better than a lifetime without your love. Let me into your heart, Peter. For God’s sake, please.”

I’m all choked up. I can’t bear to hear her talk any more. This is pure death, pure hell, pure shit. So tainted, I am useless to her, only the hammer that slams down to break and break and break until we both crack. “I did. You’ll never leave it.”

“You’ll never leave mine.”

“I know.”

Mary Jane is very fed up with something. She kicks something, and I hear something break. “You are being unfair. Something’s being unfair, anyway, whether it’s God or fate or coincidence. You’re killing me.”

“I’m killing myself. This isn’t easy for either of us. Mary Jane, I want you here, right now. I want you with all of myself. I have loved you always, ever since I first met you, and, ironically, when you love me back, I must turn you away. Oh, I’m going insane just sitting here, thinking of you, dreaming about you, imagining you. It hurts to love you so much, Mary Jane, and to be unable to have you at all.”

She falls silent briefly, and I know she is thinking. She was always so smart. “Peter, could we cheat on the system, just for today? Please?” she asks in that tone that just about makes me melt inside.

“What are you talking about?” I ask hesitantly. Do I even need to ask? I know where she’s headed with this. She’s about as desperate for me as I am for her. I hadn’t thought about her writhing in her sleep, hating what she cannot be to me, loathing what she has and longing for a fate that belongs to no one.

“We want each other, we love each other. If we just give each other one day together, maybe that will be enough to sustain us for a while,” she says softly. A shiver zips up my spine and down again. What is she suggesting? My blood runs colds. One day, together with her, is that all she wants? I keep seeing green eyes in my mind staking us out and murdering her so I wake up with her blood in my bed with me, splattered on my hands.

“It’s still us together. Anyone else would still know we loved each other for even just one day,” I argue against my heart’s desire. I think she must hear the frustration in my voice, the despair, the hatred of all that has been and the anticipation of even just one day with her. It itches, burns, stings deep inside of me in a place so far inside I did not know it was even there. I did not know I went that deep.

“One day,” she whispers. It echoes over and over again until it numbs in my brain. One day, one day with Mary Jane, would slide a little piece of my large broken puzzle back into place. The day has so much potential. A whole entire day of kissing and holding and watching and losing myself Mary Jane, being allowed to love her by God and kismet and myself, is not perfection. It is not eternity with her, but it is still a day.

“Come here now,” I respond.

In this place it seems like such a shame. Though it all looks different now, I know it's still the same
Everywhere I look you're all I see, just a fading fucking reminder of who I used to be.

The doorbell rings a few minutes later. I am right there at the door, and I fling it open. It slams into the wall, but I could care less but to see Mary Jane there standing before me like a fallen angel with her tearstains and her coat already off. She steps into the room confidently and kicks the door closed behind her. I have never seen her look so determined, so passionate, so radiant and beautiful even in these last few moments of my real true life.

Mary Jane unceremoniously throws her previously-removed coat onto a chair without breaking contact with my eyes. She is so close. My insides race in circles. Instantly her arms are around my neck, my hands grasping her waist for my life. “I love you,” she says warmly as her gaze reaches into my soul past my eyes.

“I love you,” I echo back. To her face, I have confessed. For one day, I can love her. For one day, I can be with her. For one day, for my last chance, for my last real chance at living the life I wanted to lead, Mary Jane is mine. I will not waste this day. It begins now.

I sink into her mouth. She envelops me. Our hands invade personal space that is no longer personal. “Peter,” she says, and now I am glad that she doesn’t hate me, and now I can enjoy how she says my name, and the way I say hers. Now I am glad that I decided that living was better than dying, that being alive and alone was better than dead and alone, because it turns out that some things can change for a day. “Mary Jane,” I say about fifty times. “Mary Jane, I love you.” I say it because I can, and I need to say it enough to last me for the rest of my life.

The one day is lovely. I cannot think of another way to describe it. Some moments, the seconds freeze and I am suspended in time with Mary Jane, looking into her eyes, standing on the balcony with her and feeling the cold chilly breeze in our hair. Sometimes it is a rush, my lips on her own tasting her poison, my soul in union with her own as we lose ourselves and become each other. Some things I know I will forget; some things I will remember. What I will remember most clearly until long after I die is the silence that falls when she sleeps on the couch and the candles burn on the table against the blackness of the starlight and I know that some moments will never fail to take our breaths away. Her hair is red against the flames and it casts eerie shadows on her face while she is sleeping away and I know her beauty will forever be marred by what we never can be; I will never see her looking so gorgeous, so heavenly, so angelic and careless again.

We are not hesitant. Shy Peter Parker loses that inner quiet for a day. I have never been so straightforward with my emotions. I have never before so dared to be perfect. Mary Jane is the same today. Tongues drag and fingertips intertwine with hair, shirt buttons, and other fingers. Lips mingle and dip and curtsy and waltz and dance over skin and silk and sweat. I was unaware I had the confidence. I am seduced by the concept of one last day, one last chance, one last final breath with Mary Jane exhaling in unison. I cannot hold back, and I don’t want to. Could I if I tried? I do not think that I can ever resist the way she moves, the way she smiles, the way she tells me things in my ear that I waited my whole existence to hear. She is more perfect than I remember, because she is mine, for one day.

But, deep inside of me, one day is only that, just one. It is not enough. I cannot show her everything I want to show her in one day. I cannot be all the man I need to be in one day. I cannot fit all the life I planned out inside my head into one tiny, miniscule, 24-hour day. The clock ticks on the bedside and we watch its hands slide so subtly and we fear its movement, and one day winds to a close as we dread the sunrise. When we can see the bright yet black red sun we are on our sorry way with our tissues clutched in our hands and overflowing from our pockets.

Come on, tell me

You make this all go away.
You make this all go away.
I'm down to just one thing, and I'm starting to scare myself.
You make this all go away.
You make this all go away.
I just want something.
I just want something I can never have

It’s Monday morning. My teacher is handing me back my assignment. “Mr. Parker,” he says in that scolding tone of his that makes his moustache shiver, “I am disappointed in you. You obviously were easily distracted during this assignment. I suggest you pay more attention next time, unless you care to fail my class.” Oddly, he smiles a little, and his eyes lift to the back of the classroom. I turn awkwardly in my seat to see Mary Jane sitting there, looking as confused as I am. Oh, God. That’s right. She’s in my classes now.

I flip through the paper briefly. I neglected to erase the sporadic words “Mary Jane,” “love,” and “sorry” that litter the weak argumentative essay. I hate him passionately for looking at her with that eerie, weird, teacher smile that is just so cocky. I look up to my professor.

“Oh, I see. Yeah. That’s the problem, isn’t it?” I mumble. He looks down at me mockingly. “I’m really sorry, Professor. I was really out of it. It’s a long story, sir,” I ramble aimlessly, as if that might lift my grade from the looming “C-” on the front page.

“Not as long a story as you think it is, son, really,” he says solemnly but with a twinkle in his eyes, like he knows me. Is he implying that maybe I’ll be over this one day? He is stupid and ignorant.

“Listen,” I say suddenly, “you don’t understand, not at all. This is a big deal to me. I can’t let it go. No one can let something like this go, not when they’re this passionate about it. Can’t you see where I’m coming from?”

“What are you talking about? The grade?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Mary Jane.”

He frowns at me. “You’re just a kid, Parker.” But I know I grew up a long time ago. The professor turns to the rest of the class and starts to lecture. I drop my head, embarrassed at my outburst. I feel eyes on the back of my head and twist weirdly in my chair. Tearful, Mary Jane watches me. Did she overhear me? Her eyes are red and spilling, and my heart pumps so hard it might burst open. Scrambling like a mad tigress, she rushes out of the room, knocking her chair over in the process. I turn back to the professor coldly. I cannot go after her.

I just want something I can never have.


Song: “Something I Can Never Have” by the talented members of Nine Inch Nails (couldn’t resist)

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. The song is not mine. End of story.

AN: Let’s make something clear. What exactly happened in that one day is up to your imagination. There are suggestions that perhaps MJ and Peter were intimate in that day. Yet, maybe they weren’t. In truth, I don’t even know. I like to imagine they could have been either or neither or both. The possibilities are endless. Why didn’t I make it clear? For one, it gives it a sense of mystery. That day was theirs. It cannot even be ours, too, even though we’re the readers. To tell what happened would ruin it, right? I’m not the paparazzi! :-P And, in addition, perhaps intimacy offends you. That’s fine with me; thus, this ending satisfies everyone because there is no descriptive intimacy or whatever. No, I don’t write that stuff! :-P Please enjoy and write me lovely comments.

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