Discllaimer : I don't own anything related to spiderman.

PROLOGUE

PETER'S P.O.V

The sky is bleeding. I bow my head and pick up my jacket torn from the last encounter. I look at the mirror. I see my brown eyes stealing glances from myself. I don't know what to do. I jump out of the window beside the movie poster. The rain feels like stinging needles, dropping down my face, drenching my clothes. I do not care. I am already cold. I head to the church.

The church is buzzing. People clad in black move, roam around the front porch. I can see policemen, but it hardly matters. I clench my fists. The sky is bleeding still. I climb onto the church's roof stealthily. I have an order; I do not mean to show myself. I wait.

Then I see a figure, standing alone, running her eyes around nervously, waiting for somebody. I keep watching from a distance. I cannot go close; I have an order. My jaw stiffens and a lump builds in my throat. She is wearing a black overcoat. She has a polka-dotted scarf around her neck. She is holding an umbrella against her collar bone and has her hair falling ever so carelessly over her face. She has her large eyes brimming with tears. She is Gwen Stacy. She searches for the last time in the crowd for someone who never arrived, and goes into the church. I sigh.

After ages she comes out. The crowd is stifling now, as she pushes her way through. I stay where I was, watching. She still thinks the person will arrive. She looks up at the bleeding sky, her eyes so naïve and hopeful. Raindrops fall on her face. I crouch further behind. I feel the texture of the brick underneath my fingers. I claw at them, make a few dents.

Then I go, my heart burning.

The days pass. The sky is bleeding again. I sit beside the window. Raindrops roll down the window pane. I exhale. I remember the figure in the overcoat. I sense a little stab of pain.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The raindrops were much too harder. The sky is thundering. All of a sudden there is a knock at the door. I get up to my feet. I open the door and find a slightly drenched figure at the step. The figure wraps her umbrella and stares at her feet. I know her; she is Gwen Stacy. I know she is devastated; I know she has lost her father. I do not know what to say. I cannot remember a word of consolation. Time stands still. I look at her. I notice she has let her hair down, how she has parted her bangs to one side, how the tip of her nose has reddened from crying. She gazes up and pierces through me. I bring my own eyes down but not before she asks me a question.

'Where've you been?'

I say nothing. I hear my ears ringing. She tells me a million things. She cries. I freeze. I cannot meet her eye. I stare down at my shoes. I open up my mouth to tell her what she needs to hear. No voice comes out. I clench my fists again. My helplessness brings into a strange kind of paralysis. She keeps speaking about things I saw that day, she expects replies but I stand against the door, immobile as if made of stone. She is talking about the funeral; she is telling me how that person never came. A tear rolls down her cheek. Anyhow, I reach out my hand and wipe it away.

'I can't do this anymore.'

She looks bewildered. She thinks she has not heard correctly. I raise my voice. My eyes well up. I feel I am tearing up my skin, cutting through the bone. She sobs. I turn into stone again. With a swift turn she walks down the stairs. She stops once and looks back. She says she knows why I am doing this. I say nothing. She assumes what she says is true and disappears into the rain.

I am at school, poring over a book. The printed letters hold no meaning. The teacher's voice does not reach my ears. I think about the thieves and muggers I deal with all night. I think about the chasing policemen. The teacher slaps me lightly at the back of my head. He knows my eyes are unfocused. The classroom turns at me. I shield my face with the book. I notice she is looking at me too. I stare back. She glances away. The class continues.

The hour ends. I walk out, pulling my hood up. I do not want anyone to see the bruises on my face, nor to ask about it. I know people have started suspecting whether I have involved myself in some sort of gang. I ignore the hushed whispers and stealthy glances across me and keep walking. I reach my locker. From the corner of my eye I can see her standing beside hers. I suddenly forget what I need to take out. Struggling with my mind and with a slow hand, I pull out a fat book. I know she is waiting there, waiting for me to explain the turn of things. Fifteen minutes pass. Neither do I move, nor does she. Then she starts going. At that instant I turn and reach out my hand to stop her. But she goes much too far by that time.

A month goes by. We remain as we were. I sit at a roadside café alone, reading a science weekly and sipping coffee, lost in my thoughts. I see through the glass door. A minute later my eyes fall upon a figure passing by, clad in an overcoat and skirt. She has her hair neatly tied at the back into a ponytail and a rosy blush on her cheeks and carries a bouquet of flowers. I think it is a kind of trance. I think my mind is playing tricks with me. I put the book down, leave the hot coffee as it is and push open the glass door. I cannot help but follow the figure. I do not care whether it is a figment of my imagination.

The figure is not a dream. She goes behind the church into the cemetery. She stops in front of her father's grave. She puts down the flowers. The place is empty, with not a single being at sight. I crouch and hide myself behind a bush. She falls on her knees and touches the grass. Then she cries. Not in soft sobs, but out loud, loud enough for me to hear. It wrenches my heart – the sound of her voice, the loud abrupt hiccups in between the sobs as she cries like a little child lost in a swarm of crowd, bereft of anyone she knows, shouting at the top of her lungs but no one ever looks down. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, unable to bear. I wait for somebody to come, to help her, to console her. But no one does.

I stand up and begin to walk against my will. I put a hand on her shoulder. Her large eyes look up. She does not ask me where I came from or how I knew she is there. For a moment she forgets we are not supposed to be standing like this. For a moment I do too. She buries her face into my chest. I run my fingers through her golden hair. We clasp each other on the windswept ground, as though we will be blown away if we let go. Her sobs reduce to mere whispers. She gazes at me with wide inquisitive eyes. I know I need to explain, but some why I just do not think I have a voice.

The sky is vermillion now. The dusk is descending. The winds are heavy. It has grown cold. I feel the chill down my spine and a surge of realization in my head. I think we have been standing there for far too long. I feel I am betraying myself. My chest grows warm with her head resting upon it. But now I think I have come way too far. I tell her to go home; she replies she is not going to leave me anymore. She says I am hurting her. I open my mouth to speak. And again, no words come out.

Slowly I pull her hand off me. I bring my face close to hers. I can feel her breath on my face and she can feel mine. I cup her face in my palms and kiss her. I do not kiss her – I crush her lips. I smell the scent; taste the flavour in my mouth for the last time. She does not let go. I give her a delicate push and draw my face back. She is slightly embarrassed. Self-consciousness pours over her. She twists her leg to conceal a spot of cranberry juice spilt on her skirt. I pretend not to notice. To my surprise I do not move an inch. Silence grows in between us.

'I should go.'

She nods. I turn my back at her. I trot a few yards, another lump building in my throat. She calls my name. I stop, but I do not look back. I know I will not be able to leave if I do. I want to run back, outstretch my arms. But I keep walking away.

This should have ended here. This should have been what it all was. But unfortunately...