All night long, my mind was a battlefield—a realm of endless nightmares, where every fleeting image lurked with menace. I felt myself thrashing beneath the sheets, lost in a fever dream, my body drenched as if the sweat pouring off me could wash away the night's horrors.
In those murky dreamscapes, I saw myself mutating, my hands morphing into monstrous, furred claws, my breathing coming out as ragged, gasping hisses. I was changing—into a spider-like creature, grotesque and alien.
Sometimes I was dying from a single venomous bite, sometimes swarmed by thousands of tiny spiders that crawled across my skin, their mandibles gnawing flesh and bone.
The terror was palpable, so vivid I could almost feel their twitching little legs scraping over me. But everything must end, even this. At last the suffocating grip of nightmares faded, letting me tumble, exhausted and half-delirious, into true sleep—and then, into waking.
Morning sunlight spilled faintly through the cracks in the curtains, illuminating the battered furniture and worn books piled on my desk. I awoke sprawled halfway off the mattress, sticky with anxiety and cold sweat, gasping like a man pulled from the bottom of a dark sea.
Honestly, I hadn't felt this wretched in a long time; my body ached from tossing and turning, my mind dulled by fractured dream memories. Yet amid the heavy weight of dread, one detail stood out—a single fact that made all the risk, all the madness, seem suddenly worthwhile.
I didn't reach for my glasses. For the first time in my life, everything was razor clear—the crack on the lampshade, the faded posters on the far wall, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight. No hunting for blurred shapes, no anxious fumbling for frames before I could face the world.
A thrill went through me as realization dawned. The risk worked. I'd gambled everything, and it actually paid off. A surge of restless, irresistible energy coursed through my veins—so much so that I bounded off the bed, landing on the floor as if gravity had loosened its hold on me overnight.
My reflection in the mirror nearly knocked the breath from my lungs. Staring back was a stranger—a version of me sculpted to impossible standards. I flexed instinctively and gawked.
"Holy shit," I muttered. "Just look at this protein-packed hottie, if you know what I mean." If last night had left me a shivering mess, now I felt like a superhero come to life.
My biceps and triceps were defined, every muscle carved out stark and sharp in the morning light. My abdomen was taut, my posture more upright, my entire physique reshaped—tight but not bulky, built for speed and strength over mass.
I turned, flexed, marveled—this wasn't the frail Peter Parker everyone at school expected. The spider had worked a miracle, and I could barely stop myself from grinning madly at my reflection. For a moment I feared there would be some grotesque side effects, but, except for the visible changes, I felt incredible.
As I fished my crumpled clothes from under the bed—yesterday's jeans and an old blue t-shirt—I tossed them into the laundry basket, letting the mundane routine ground me. But the normalcy now felt like a thin disguise stretched over something unbelievably new and powerful.
I moved to my closet, more curious than ever. I'd never been much for clothes, but now I looked at my wardrobe with new eyes. No, I wasn't a fashionista, but maybe I could make something decent of these options. I sorted through shirts and coats, seeing not their faded fabric but their potential—what I might sew or patch or alter. Oddly, I felt a strange compulsion to create, to construct something unique, almost as if an urge to produce my own "uniform" had sprouted overnight.
Maybe it was the spider's influence. Maybe it was just necessity, or a spark of creativity flickering to life. It suddenly made perfect sense, all those stories of a sixteen-year-old kid stitching a superhero suit in his attic.
Now, I didn't just understand my new capabilities in theory—I felt them buzzing and burning in every cell of my body, vital and ready, like coiled springs waiting to be released. All I wanted was to test the limits—run, leap, climb, push myself until I knew exactly who, or what, I'd become. But there was no time now.
School was about to start and though I desperately wanted to bolt out the window and see what my body could do, the realities of everyday life pressed in.
I grabbed my bag, forced myself to keep calm, and whistled a little tune—sweet and confident—as I made my way downstairs.
The kitchen felt the same as yesterday, bathed in that familiar morning light, the air tinged with the aroma of slightly burnt toast and strong tea.
The family routine was intact, May humming gently as she sliced fruit, Ben rustling his morning paper. It struck me how normal, how safe, this scene was. Why didn't May and Ben ever have children of their own? Was it because I'd ended up in their care so suddenly after my parents' deaths, or was there something more—some unspoken sorrow? Maybe something about their own health, or lives, that made adoption the only path. I'd never really asked; it felt like an old scar, best left untouched.
Still, seeing them move around each other—sharing a brief, soft smile, passing a mug of coffee—I couldn't help but feel lucky to have them. Their bond was unmistakable. Maybe it truly was that rare thread holding two people together, come what may.
"Good morning, dear. You gave me such a fright yesterday; you were out like a light, skipped dinner, how are you feeling?" May's worried eyes met mine, and I instantly forced on a reassuring smile.
"Sorry, Aunt May. I was just really tired yesterday. I feel so much better today. Full of energy, ready for new challenges," I lied, but did it with a confidence that felt alien and wonderful.
"That's my champ" Uncle Ben chimed in from behind his paper. "By the way, son, I need your help today—the garage needs a new coat of paint. You got any plans?" I shook my head, shouldering my backpack.
"I'd be happy to help, Uncle Ben. What time?"
Ben lowered his newspaper, grinning. "Just head home from school and we'll get started."
May pressed a lunch into my hands, smiling. "Don't forget this, dear. And mind you eat it!"
I waved, my heart pounding like I had taken a wild mushroom.
As I left the house, plans and fantasies exploded in my mind. I nearly convinced myself to ditch, to sneak off to an abandoned warehouse, maybe find a secluded rooftop to test what I could do. My old self wouldn't have hesitated, but I'd learned enough caution to stop myself just in time.
My mind wandered on the walk to school—how was it that neither of them even asked about my missing glasses? Serious oversight, or were they just chalking things up to a phase? If anyone asked, I'd have an excuse.
Maybe, just maybe, Parker's luck was finally turning around. As I was busy in my world—everything changed. Time slowed, the world blurred at the edges, and my skin tingled with warning. A deep buzzing started at the base of my skull, quickly rising to a shrill, instinctive shriek in my mind.
I looked up—straight at a city bus barreling down on me. Before conscious thought could kick in, my body snapped into motion. Reflex—pure, burning, animal reflex—hurled me from the road, up and over, landing with impossible grace on the sidewalk.
My heart thundered, adrenaline rushing. The driver had barely registered my presence before I'd taken off running, sneakers slapping the pavement. My breaths came quick and shallow, but for the first time, I realized I wasn't winded in the slightest—my stamina was off the charts. Glancing quickly around, I ducked into a back alley, hidden from passing eyes, each sense wide open, drinking in every smell, every flicker of movement in the shadows.I caught my breath—figuratively more than anything.
These new abilities made me feel invincible, and I wanted to explore every single one. Ahead loomed a high brick wall—twelve stories tall, wide and imposing, like a silent invitation.
I crouched, tensed, then sprang at the wall. My fingers stuck instantly, the rough stone almost inviting. One hand over the other, feet pushing, muscles burning—not straining, but singing. I clamored upward, half-terrified, half-ecstatic. I felt… alive.
As I reached the rooftop, the city unspooled beneath me—an endless grid of possibility. For the briefest of moments, I ran, leaping the gaps, darting across the concrete canyons. Freedom. Power. Joy. Only when the rooftops ran out did I drop down, a couple kilometers from school, resuming the slow walk of a mere mortal. But inside, I was electric, energized, soaring higher than ever
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