Is it normal to think about dying?
Not in a suicidal way—just… in general. Like, is it weird
that death crosses my mind more often than I'd care to admit?
I get that it's not something you're supposed to dwell on,
not unless something's wrong. But I'm not spiraling, and I'm not planning
anything. It's more of a what if than
a when.
What happens after? Does anything happen?
I know how that probably sounds, but no—I'm not religious.
Parts of my family are, though… the hardcore kid. Christians who bring up the
afterlife like it's a weather forecast. Heaven, hell, angels, fire, and
brimstone. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Look, I'm not against believing in a higher power. If it
gives someone peace, great. But when a person builds their entire personality
around what comes after death, it makes you wonder if they're even paying
attention to the life they're actually living.
Then, on the complete opposite end of the spectrum, you've
got my alcoholic relatives—the ones who wish they would die. Not because of
anything noble or dramatic, but because they've pushed everyone else away and
would rather blame the world than take a long, sober look in the mirror.
I get the whole "have a beer after work to relax"
thing. I do. But when it turns into double shots of Fireball and screaming
threats at your spouse every night—there's gotta be a point where even you
realize you're the problem. Right?
Right?
Anyway…
I think about death. More than most people, probably. Not
out of fear. Just... curiosity. Is it like a video game where we respawn? Is
that why we get déjà vu—leftover save files from a past life? Or is it more
like falling asleep—one blink, and then nothing but the dark?
Maybe it's just the way my brain's wired. I've always had
an imagination. Since the moment I could hold a pencil, I've been telling
stories. It's how I deal—with stress, with life, with everything. Some people
meditate. I build worlds.
And maybe, deep down, I always wondered what would happen
if I suddenly woke up in one of them.
I didn't grow up like most kids. I was poor, and I was
fragile. I don't remember the full name of what I had—juvenile osteo-something.
All I know is that I could fall down a single step and break a foot. Not even
exaggerating. I was three when it first happened. One stair. Crack. Tiny cast.
Congratulations, kid—you're breakable.
So, no sports. No roughhousing. No tag, no football, no
wrestling on the trampoline with cousins. I sat on the sidelines with my Game
Boy while everyone else played. It's why I fell into stories—video games,
books, comic books. Worlds where I could be more than what my bones would let
me be.
I was the odd kid. The weird one. Hell, go ahead and call
me the quiet kid. It's not like it'd be the first time. I've literally had a
false gun threat made against me before. Yeah. That kind of "quiet."
When I hit a growth spurt, my body didn't mess around.
Thirty pounds. Every time. Boom—new stretch marks, new t-shirts that didn't
fit. I'm not ashamed of my weight, not really, but I do wish I would've moved
more as a kid. Maybe it would've softened the bullying. Maybe not. Either way,
I would've killed to just walk into a store and find a 2X shirt that fit right.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a shirt in my
size most days?
I shouldn't have to go to Amazon just to find a damn shirt.
My point is—I spent most of my life leaning away from the
world I was in, and burying myself in ones that weren't real. Alternate worlds.
Safer worlds. And now I'm twenty-four, and most days I can barely hold a life
together outside of work.
I want to write. I want to spend time with my family. But
I'm always tired. Doesn't matter if I'm clocked in or on the couch—I never
really feel rested.
Mom says I should take a break from my hobbies and just...
relax. But it's hard to break old habits, especially the ones that helped keep
you sane. Harder still when the thing that exhausts you most is the part you
can't walk away from.
Case in point: the drive to work.
I'm crossing the bridge on the interstate, and on paper it
all seems simple enough. Just another ten-hour shift. Just another round of
dealing with an asshole manager who probably couldn't run a toaster without
supervision. Compared to that, going home sounds like a vacation in Bali.
The radio's on, but nothing sounds good. 103.7's blaring
country music again, and of course it's that one song. "We're all in the
same boat," or whatever the hell it's called. Too chipper. Too fake. I
hate every damn second of it.
I flip between 99.7 and 101.3, hoping for
something—anything—but it's just more recycled noise. Olivia Rodrigo again. The
fifth time this week. I swear the next teenage heartbreak anthem I hear might
be the one that breaks me.
Finally, I give up and open Spotify. The second 'Afterlife'
by Evanescence kicks in, my brain hits autopilot. Amy Lee's voice drowns the
rest of the world out, and for a moment, the weight eases off my shoulders.
The road curves ahead. I lean into it without thinking.
And then the sun disappears—just for a split second—as
something massive pulls into the lane ahead.
A semi-truck. Close. Closer than it should be.
I react—foot slamming toward the brake, hands jerking the
wheel— but it's like trying to move underwater. I'm too slow. The trailer clips
the front of my car, and suddenly I'm not driving anymore—I'm spinning.
The world goes sideways. Colors smear. For a heartbeat, I'm
weightless, floating in a tilt-a-whirl of sound and steel.
Then everything hits.
Pain erupts across my chest as the seatbelt tightens like a
fist. Tires shriek against asphalt. Metal groans and screams and folds. I'm
dimly aware of my own voice, raw and rising in a sound I didn't know I could
make.
The car lurches, twists—once, twice—and then something
gives.
And then it stops.
I hang there, still strapped in, the world sideways.
Blood's in my mouth. The radio's still playing, softly now, as if nothing just
happened.
I'm dangling from my seat like a marionette with its
strings half-cut.
I can't breathe.
Each inhale feels like trying to pull air through broken
glass—sharp, shallow, and wrong. My chest tightens, ribs screaming with every
twitch. There's a catch, deep and jagged, like something inside me shifted out
of place.
Panic kicks in before logic can. I try again—short breath,
sharper pain. Again—worse. My fingers scrabble at the seatbelt like that'll
help, like I can claw the pressure off my chest. The strap's digging into my
shoulder, holding me like a vise.
Why can't I breathe?
The windshield's a spider web of cracks. Sunlight filters
through fractured beams. There's smoke—or maybe steam—rising from somewhere. It
smells like metal and engine oil and something burnt.
I think I hear voices. Or maybe it's the ringing in my
ears.
Everything's fuzzy. Distant. Like my brain's buffering.
I blink. Once. Twice. But the world stays sideways.
"J-Jonny…" I barely gasp out my brother's name. I
promised to take him to a movie this weekend. Another superhero movie that
probably wouldn't live up to the hype, but it didn't matter for him. He enjoyed
those, and I liked seeing him happy.
I was supposed to take him…
But I can't hear anything now. Not the road. Not the sirens
I hope are coming. There's just this high, static hum in my ears, like the
world is muting itself.
My hands won't move. My legs feel like they're somewhere
else.
And my eyes—God, my eyes—everything's getting dim. Like
someone's pulling the curtain down, inch by inch. The light's there, but it's
fading, fuzzed at the edges.
It's cold, no… I'm cold.
Shit, am—am I dying?
No, no, no… I don't want to die, not like this.
No matter how much I want to change the fact, the dark was
still coming, and I don't know how to stop it.
By the time I see anyone coming down the hill toward me,
it's too late. Everything went black.
I should be dead.
That's my first thought—slow and heavy, like my brain's
still booting up and fumbling for a keyboard that isn't there. I should be
dead. I felt it.
I shouldn't be able to hear anything… but I do.
It's not music, screeching tires, or even screaming. It's…
beeping. A steady, rhythmic blip somewhere close by—not frantic or panicked.
It's just there, like a metronome
refusing to stop, oblivious to the fact that time should have. The sound is
practically pounding in my ear drums now, sharp and mechanical—utterly
maddening in its steadiness.
I can't open my eyes. It hurts to even try. My eyelids feel
like they've been sewn shut with wire, stitched down tight by someone in a
hurry, who didn't care about pain.
So, I focus on what I can hear for the moment. There's
machinery around me, that's for sure. That damn beeping, the slow, insistent
ticking of a clock, and a fluorescent hum buzzing over my head, droning like a
fly trapped in a light fixture for days.
None of this makes sense.
I remember the crash. I remember the glass shattering, the
seat belt tightening around my ribs like a fist made of steel. The airbag
exploding with a deafening thump I
felt in my teeth. I remember the sound of my own voice clawing its way out of
my throat. I remember not being able to breathe, my chest caving in, my lungs
folding like paper. Most of all, I remember everything going dark.
That should have been it.
But this… this isn't the end.
It doesn't feel like the end.
Wherever or whatever this is, it's not dark and certainly
not quiet.
I suck in a breath, and my nose wrinkles on instinct.
There's chemicals in the air, sharp and synthetic, the kind that cling to your
throat. It stings, if I breathe too deep. It's like the aftermath of a deep
clean on a Saturday morning.
Everything about it screams sterile, but underneath it…
there's something else.
Perfume. Way too much perfume. I recognize it well enough,
the kind of overpowering floral cloud that older women weaponize on a daily
basis, thick and sweet enough to choke a horse. It cuts through the antiseptic
air like it owns the place.
Someone's here.
I force my eyes open. It's slow. They feel crusted over,
like I slept for a week with sand packed under my eyelids. The light hits
hard—too sharp and white, and for a second, I regret trying to do so. As much
as I'd like to close my eyes, the perfume is too much to ignore.
The ceiling, as I blink everything into focus, is covered
in plain tiles and flickering fluorescent lights—just like I figured. There's a
hairline crack running through the plaster like a half-finished thought, and I
can't help but let out a dry, half-laugh. It kind of looks how I feel— barely
holding together.
It's only now, really looking around, that it clicks.
I'm in a hospital.
So, I guess I'm not dead.
If I am, then the afterlife's got budget issues.
There's movement out of the corner of my eye, just to my
left. I barely turn my head and see someone sitting there. Not facing me. Just
hunched over, elbows on knees, like they've been camping out for days, waiting.
It's a woman. She's staring down at a table on her lap,
eyes flicking between the monitors around me.
I try to speak. My throat fights me on it. Feels like I
swallowed a fistful of gravel. I get one sound out—more of a croak than a word.
That's all it takes.
She jerks up, looking at me. Her voice is softer than I
expected. She's in her late thirties, maybe? I haven't been good at telling
people's ages in a few years—not since twelve year olds suddenly started
looking like twenty-four year olds.
"Peter?"
She sounds relieved, but my eyes narrow at the name.
Who the hell is Peter?
I don't say that. I can't. My mouth still isn't playing
ball, and my head's spinning too fast to catch up.
She leans in, and I catch a better look. From the white
coat, she's definitely a doctor. I've never seen her before, but she's looking
at me like she knows me. Poor lady looks wiped. Dark circles, tired eyes, that
kind of worry that comes from running on empty. And here I am, taking up her
time. Because of course I am. Even lying in a hospital bed, half-dead, I still
feel bad for being an inconvenience. I fucking hate being the center of
attention.
I shouldn't cuss, it's not like I mean to. It's become a
part of who I am, really. Anyway, I don't like the look she's giving me. It's
too warm, too familiar.
My chest tightens. I feel my heart begin to race, and sure
enough, the monitor beside me starts beeping faster, like it's snitching.
Everything feels wrong, not like a nightmare, or even a
dream. It just, it just feels off.
"Wh-who are you?" I ask.
The words scrape out rough, like they had to claw their way
up from the bottom of my lungs. My voice doesn't sound right. It's too light,
too young.
The woman blinks. Apparently, whatever she expected me to
say, it wasn't that.
Her lips part, then press into a thin line like she's
choosing her next words with tweezers.
"I'm Dr. Halperin," she says finally.
"You're in Queens Medical. Peter, do you remember what happened?"
I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. At least,
not at first.
Because yeah, I remember the crash, but Queens Medical?
That doesn't make sense… I wasn't even in New York. I was just entering…
Oh god, my head.
My heart's still hammering and the monitor's ratting me out
with every beat.
She leans in a little closer.
"Peter… it's okay. You're safe."
There it is again.
Peter.
I swallow hard.
Something's wrong. Really, really wrong.
"C-can I…" I start, then stop. My mouth feels
like it's full of cotton and static. "Can I use the bathr—bathroom?"
The words scrape out, brittle and too high-pitched. I sound
like I'm trying to sneak out of class, not figure out if I've lost my damn
mind.
Dr. Halperin tilts her head, that same sad-eyed concern
still plastered across her face like she's trying to keep me calm without
showing just how worried she actually is.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea," she says
gently. "You've been out of it for a while."
"A while?"
My voice is thinner now. My chest's tightening up like a
vise, like someone's pouring cement into my lungs.
"H-how long?"
She hesitates. I catch the flick of her eyes toward the
machines— maybe hoping one of them will answer for her. Then she sighs, like
the truth tastes bitter in her mouth.
"Three weeks, kiddo."
Suddenly it feels like the crash all over again,
unforgiving and heavy.
Three weeks?
That can't be right. That doesn't make any sense.
My head spins again. The hospital room's suddenly colder.
Too cold. I glance down at the blanket over me like I just now remembered I
have a body. My hands—smaller than they should be. Narrower wrists. Arms that
don't feel like mine.
I flex my fingers under the sheet. Slowly. Like I'm
checking if they'll obey.
They do. But they still don't look right.
She's watching me now, but not like I'm crazy—more like
she's waiting. Like there's some answer I'm supposed to give her. Some reaction
she already has a script for.
I don't give it.
Instead, I whisper, "You're sure?"
Her expression softens, but it's not reassuring. It's more
like pity dressed in scrubs.
"I wouldn't lie to you, Peter."
I flinch… actually flinch, because there it is again.
Peter.
Whoever that is… it's not me.
I don't mean to move, it just… happens. Somewhere between
the buzzing in my ears and the pressure in my chest, my legs twitch under the
blanket, and then I'm shifting, swinging one over the edge of the bed like it's
the most natural thing in the world—even though nothing about this feels natural.
Dr. Halperin is up in a flash, fast enough to make the
chair behind her rattle against the wall.
"Peter—wait. Stop," she says, but I'm not
listening. "You shouldn't—"
I don't stop. I can't. I don't even know if my legs will
hold me, but I've got to try. I can't just lie here and pretend this is fine. I
can't pretend like this is real. I don't know why she's calling me Peter, but I
need to move.
The floor tilts the second my foot touches down, like
stepping onto a boat that's already sinking. My knees buckle, and everything
aches in a way that's somehow deep and shallow at the same time. It's like my
muscles have forgotten everything.
She reaches for me, hands gentle but firm, trying not to
spook me. Unfortunately, it's not working.
"Hey–hey," she looks into my eyes, bending down
enough to block my path. "You've been in a coma. You can't just—"
"I need to," I whisper.
It comes out cracked and desperate. It hurts my throat, but
I barely managed to get it out. I don't know if it was loud enough that she
heard me.
But I look at her—really look—and hope that something in my
face tells her what my voice can't. I'm not trying to be brave, stupid, or
dramatic. I just… I can't lay down anymore.
For a second, she just holds my arm.
Then her grip softens. Her lips press into that same thin
line from earlier—calculating, weighing something behind her eyes.
"Okay," she says quietly. "We'll go
slow."
She doesn't believe I'm ready, and frankly… she's right.
But she's also not stopping me.
I grip the side of the bed like a lifeline, grounding
myself as the room spins just enough to make my stomach threaten mutiny. It's
like the whole place just took a lazy tilt to the left, and my insides weren't
invited to brace for it.
But I breathe through it—short, shaky pulls of air—jaw
clenched, blinking hard to clear the static fuzzing around the edges of my
vision.
My hand finds hers—Dr. Halperin's—mostly for balance,
partly because letting go of anything feels like a bad idea right now. She
tenses under my grip, probably worried I'll eat pavement right here in front of
her, but she doesn't pull away.
I reach out with my other hand and grab onto the IV cart
I'm still tethered to. The whole thing wobbles under my weight with a nervous
squeak. Tubes tug gently at my arm like they're not used to this kind of
rebellion, like they'd rather I just laid down and behaved.
Not today. One step, that's all I need.
I just need one step to prove that I'm not dreaming, or if
I am… it's the kind of dream that wakes you up when you fall.
I shift my foot forward. The tile's cold under my toes,
real in a way nothing else has been since I woke up. My knees shake like
they're made of wet cardboard, but I don't drop. Not yet. Not when I'm this
close.
Dr. Halperin is right there, her free hand hovering near my
back, ready to catch me—or drag me back if I go down.
But I don't go down.
Not yet.
Just one step.
It lands shakily, but solid enough that I'm okay with it. I
want to laugh, because it feels and looks like a newborn deer who swears
they've got it under control. My legs feel like they're running on
thirty-second
delays—every muscle answering late, like they forgot the
assignment.
Dr. Halperin moves in closer. She doesn't say anything—just
slips her arm under mine and takes some of the weight like this is something
she's done before. Like she knows better than to argue with someone dangling
off the edge of what the hell is
happening. I don't thank her. I don't have the breath for it. But I don't
shake her off either. Fair trade.
We shuffle forward together, her leading the way like a
chaperone for someone who forgot how to human. The IV cart stutters beside me,
plastic wheels clicking over the tile in nervous little bursts, like it knows
it's not supposed to be part of this trip.
My head feels like it's underwater now. Every step makes
the pressure tighten—like there's a balloon inflating behind my eyes and it's
just itching to pop. The hallway tilts. I blink, trying to get my bearings, but
the walls feel farther away than they should be.
There's pain—but it's not from moving. It's not in my ribs
or my limbs or even from the tight pull of the IV. No, it's that heavy,
sleepdeprived, bone-deep ache I get when everything's too loud and too bright
and my brain's starting to sound like radio static in a fish tank.
Don't tell me I'm getting a migraine.
Seriously.
That's the last
damn thing I need.
I grip tighter onto the IV pole, white-knuckled, like
that's going to do anything but make my joints pop. I'm breathing through my
teeth now—trying to make it slow, trying to not
let her know just how close I am to going limp in her arms.
"You're doing okay," she murmurs. She's trying to
be reassuring, but it's just one more thing for my brain to process, and right
now that feels like asking a busted computer to run Photoshop on dial-up.
I don't respond. I can't.
But my feet keep moving. Somehow.
We make it to the bathroom, and she pushes the door open
with her hip, guiding me inside like I'm some glass figurine she's terrified of
dropping. The tiles in here are somehow colder
than the hallway, and the lighting? Too damn white. Everything's buzzing,
humming, pressing in like the walls are one inch too close to my shoulders.
I stop just inside, gripping the sink to keep from slumping
down the wall.
"I'll be right outside," she says softly, letting
go of my arm.
I nod. Maybe. Or at least I think I do.
The door clicks shut behind her, and for the first time
since I woke up, I'm alone.
Sort of.
The second the door clicks shut, I grip the sink like it's
gonna anchor me to something real. Cold porcelain, metal edges, the faint stink
of disinfectant and too many panicked hands—it all comes rushing in, too fast
and too sharp.
I finally look down at myself. Really look.
My arms are… slender. That's the only word I can think of.
My hands are thinner. Fingers a little longer than I
remember.
My sight's still fuzzy, like I've got sleep stuck in the
corners of my eyes. I blink a few times, hard, trying to will it away. Nothing
clears.
I'm hallucinating. I have
to be.
Three weeks in a hospital bed and my arms got this skinny?
No. That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works.
My heart's beating faster now. I feel it, thumping hard
against my ribs like it's looking for an exit. I glance down again—and that's
when it really starts to hit me.
The hospital gown? It's hanging on me like it was made for
someone else. Someone smaller.
There's no looseness, no sag like my body's trying to catch
up from weight loss. It's just gone.
The softness I carried around like a second skin? Gone. No stretch marks
folding in on themselves. No leftover proof of three hundred pounds.
And my legs. Jesus. My legs are the kind of skinny I used
to give Griffin shit for. Even on leg day, the man had NBA player legs—wiry and
unfairly functional. There was a reason I called him 'chicken legs' after all.
My legs are shaking, but no longer from fatigue. It's panic
now… pure adrenaline
I look down at the little plastic ID bracelet, somehow
knowing what I'm going to see. Despite the fact I know, my stomach still
clenches like a fist as I read it:
Parker, Peter B.
Wh-what the hell?
No. No, no, no. That's not my name.
I whip my head up toward the mirror, and just like that—my
heart drops out of my throat and swan dives into my stomach, taking every last
ounce of oxygen with it.
It's not my face staring back.
The reflection blinking at me looks like he just stepped
out of a movie trailer.
Brown hair, tousled and messy but somehow looks good. Big
eyes. High cheekbones. A jawline that could make razors jealous.
Holy shit.
It's like I'm looking at Andrew Garfield's face. No, wait…
it's not exactly him, it's like I'm looking at a comic book come to life
This can't be real. I'm… I'm in Spider-Man's body. Not as a cosplay, not as a fan film, or even a
dream… because I know when I'm dreaming.
I am literally standing in the bathroom of a real-life
hospital inside the goddamn body of
Peter freaking Parker.
I grab the sink harder. My fingers dig into the ceramic
like maybe I can squeeze sanity out of it if I just hold tight enough. I don't
know if I'm about to pass out or scream or laugh until I puke all over the
tile.
Then it creeps in, the darkness.
I blink hard. Once. Twice. I shake my head, hoping it'll
help. It doesn't. The buzzing's back too—high-pitched and buried somewhere deep
in my ears, like tinnitus from a concert I don't remember going to.
"C'mon," I whisper to myself, like I've got any
say in the matter.
I brace my weight harder into the sink. Try to breathe. But
my chest's too tight, and the room won't stop gently tilting like I'm on a
ferry and the sea hates me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again, willing the
blur to sharpen, but the mirror's already swimming.
My knees buckle, and my hands slip. Whatever grip I had on
the sink is gone. The last thing I feel is the floor rushing up to meet me.