manaborn said: R.I.P i'm going to hell who's comin with meMEME | Accepting!
The last time Peter Parker sees her, she is waving goodbye.
She’s throwing one oddly cheerful arm over her head, a halo of ginger hair that stood as a stark contrast to the dull, lifeless backdrop of winter. She’s smiling, white enamel against pink lips, mouthing something along the lines of ❝ See you later. ❞
He nods from across the street, parting ways with her to make his train back to Queens. He does not prefer to vocalize it from this distance, not willing to draw attention to himself when it didn’t matter. She was the opposite, with hellos and goodbyes thrown over her shoulder at every occasion, generous and warm.
No matter how many times they have said goodbye like this, he is always the last to look away. She turns on her heel, walking away with a gingerly step down the sidewalk, hair billowing in the wind and emerald eyes cutting through the crowds. He spends a few moments watching her petite form disappear into the mass of people, until it becomes a tiny blip in the distance, or whenever she turned a corner. He does not know why, the habit developing out of the smallest sense of paranoia, some minor responsibility he had to complete before he could turn away as well.
When she dies, he can feel this horrifying hollowness burying itself inside of his body, crippling his systems and leaving him without words or happiness.
It’s one week later when he finds the courage to visit her grave. He leaves flowers at her stone, already piled on high with a dozen others, along with teddy bears and pin wheels. He sees a picture frame from her cousin, who howled like an animal until dusk and wept like a child until dawn. He feels the torque inside his chest tighten up, a tension so powerful it twisted his heart into unimaginable shapes.
He recalls eulogies. First from family members. Then friends. Loved ones, among them all. He was asked to speak, but never did: what could he say besides I will miss her, but we all will. She was a gift to the world that left too soon. We all know. Don’t try and prove what is already set in stone.
Her cousin faults himself most. The strength of a million ghosts at his side and he could not stop a simple car accident. He does not hear about the night terrors until later, the muttered apologies that only haunted him in his sleep, eyes that drooped with exhaustion, trauma and loss.
But why blame a hero when you can blame the person who saw her last? He was the one who walked away as an angel departed from this world, a spring in her step carrying her all the way. Her halo of ginger hair grew as dull as the cement she died on, when she left everyone that night.
She is gone, and he is left under a grey sky and cold sun, imagining her arms outstretched, trying to take flight as she left everything behind. He can feel his mind leaving him, replaced by a painful hysteria that sears his blood and causes him to cry ruination.
He stares at stone and dirt, nodding his head as if he was still watching a lithe form weave through a crowded street, even now (especially now) preferring not to vocalize a goodbye he never gave in the first place.
5 years ago with 4 notes
#xanodite #[ RP | DRABBLE ] #[ RP | INQUIRY ] #//huehuehue
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