When I finally come to, I'm back in the hospital bed—but this time, the world isn't spinning like a roulette wheel. My head still feels like it's swimming, but at least I feel like I have a life vest on. I have to double-check the wristband again, just to make sure I'm not dreaming. It still says Peter Parker on the tag.
It wasn't a dream. I'm really in the body of my favorite superhero. I've dreamt about being Spider-Man so many nights, but I never thought I'd wake up as him one day. My thoughts are clearer, and accepting this reality feels possible now, even if I don't want to. For all the times I joked about trading lives, I was actually good with mine. Flawed? Yeah. But it was mine. I was tired, occasionally got angry, but that's just par for the course.
This... this body, being so light in comparison to the ME I'm used to, it's weird. I don't even know how to describe it other than I feel weightless. I move easier. I can actually lie on my back without my spine yelling at me. That alone is throwing me. In school, I used to hunch over my desk like a turtle, like maybe shrinking myself would make me disappear. All that did was give me a hunchback and extra back problems. I'd almost gotten that sorted out by the time I hit twenty-four, but this is surreal. No pain, no knots... nothing.
Yes, I feel stiff, but I imagine anyone would after what, a three week coma? That's what Dr.... ugh, what's her name? Halperin? That sounds right. Dr. Halperin said I was out for three weeks, or rather Peter was.
My left hand was bandaged, and based on what I knew about Spider-Man meant only one thing...
The spider bite... It happened.
And that's the weirdest part. I've seen every version of Peter getting his powers—movies, comics, fan art, you name it.
Sometimes he passes out overnight and wakes up shredded. Sometimes it hits instantly, like flipping a switch. Sometimes it creeps in over a couple days. But a three-week coma? That's new.
And now a darker thought creeps in. One I really don't want to think about.
What if this isn't regular Spider-Man? What if this is one of the horror versions? You know the ones—Peter starts off fine, but the powers warp him. Turn him into something monstrous...
Man-Spider.
In the version of that scenario I've seen, he kills Aunt May and Uncle Ben.
Please tell me that's not where this is going. Please.
I could spiral into the infinite ways this could go bad, since that's one of the few things I can do while confined to a hospital bed. I don't think I've had a good experience in hospitals. I doubt anyone really has, unless there was a birth involved.
Because of how fragile I was as a kid, I was in and out of the ER more than I'd care to admit. Broken foot, ankle, wrist... ankle again... it was a vicious cycle that lasted up until I was about fourteen.
I even wrinkled a bone in my wrist once. Yeah—wrinkled. The doctor looked at the x-ray and said I'd basically turned the bone into an
accordion. Still not sure how that's medically possible, but given my track record, it felt on-brand.
My bones were basically Play-Doh with a grudge.
Only difference? Play-Doh doesn't scream when you move it.
On top of that, I lost my grandma to lung cancer the day before my ninth birthday.
There's nothing to make light of there.
When you watch someone fade away in real time—tubes down her throat just so she can eat, no strength left to even write you a note— it changes something in you.
She couldn't talk. She couldn't even smile near the end.
And when you're that young, you don't fully understand what's happening. But you feel it. You feel the silence. The helplessness. The way grief swallows the room before anyone even says the word.
I was a lot more aware than other kids my age. Because of the fact that I couldn't be as physically active as everyone else could, I absorbed whatever media I could get my hands on. Death came up a lot, even at that age. I'd lost a couple of dogs before, so I knew what it was like to lose someone you cared about. Despite what anyone might say, they were family.
Losing Grandma, though? It hit different.
I don't remember her voice, and that haunts me every day. There's not a day I didn't want her back. When she was there, things were easier. Not financially—we still struggled—but emotionally? She made the hard stuff feel survivable. Nothing seemed impossible when she was there.
So, maybe that's why I hate hospitals. Because the last memory I have of my grandma is her fading away in one.
Self-wallowing won't do any good, though. I need to figure things out. If I really am in some version of the Marvel Universe, then please— please—let it be one with all the players on the field.
I don't want to be stuck in one of those Sony-brand hellscapes where Spidey's the only guy in tights and the biggest threat is a goo monster with emotional issues.
Give me Avengers. Give me X-Men. Give me options.
Because if I'm in a real Marvel world...
Maybe—maybe—there's a way back.
If I'm not officially dead, maybe I can find some universe-hopping wizard, tech genius, or multiversal GPS to get me home.
Even if I can't go back... I just want to make sure everyone is okay.
It's weird to think that, for once, those impossible escapes from reality—those comic book "what ifs" and multiverse plot twists— might actually be possible.
I used to read those stories to escape the feeling of being stuck. Now I'm in one, and somehow, I still feel it. I still feel stuck, though now it's between two worlds. It honestly feels like a dream I can't wake from. I should be terrified, worried, or even possibly just a tad bit cautious about this. Right now, though... despite all the darker possibilities running through my head, I'm in a world of superheroes. Superpowers are real... and if I really am Peter Parker now, then I should be getting powers of my own.
It's wishful thinking, but if I don't try to think about the possibility of going home right now, I might just lose it.
By the time I finally come out of my thoughts, Dr. Halperin is back and knocking on the door. I feel bad for making her help me to the
bathroom. I shouldn't have been up so quickly, not right after coming out of a coma.
New body or not, it was a bad decision on my part. I'm just glad I'm a lot lighter than I used to be, because I can't imagine she would have been able to help by herself if it'd been my original body.
She's got two people with her. An older man with salt and peppered hair— Uncle Ben I assume—and an older woman with faded reddish-brown hair wearing glasses— Aunt May.
That's going to be weird to get used to, but it's not like I've got much of a choice in the matter. They're Peter's relatives, or I guess they're now mine. It's going to be weird, calling them Uncle Ben and Aunt May. Weirder still, thinking of them as family.
This isn't a game. I can't just treat them like NPCs in a well-scripted cutscene. They've got lives, emotions, and a history of their own. I can't just pull up a codex and see their biographies.
They look tired. I recognize the look well enough. It's the kind of the tired where sleep doesn't help, because it's not a physical thing. They're emotionally drained.
"Hey Peter," Dr. Halperin smiles softly, stepping aside so I can properly see them. "Your aunt and uncle are here."
Uncle Ben gives a cautious smile, walking around to my right. He places a hand on my shoulder, squeezing softly. Even through the hospital gown fabric, I can feel the callous on his hand as it wraps around my shoulder. Despite the fact I know this is someone else, I can't help but see my grandfather in him. I've always seen my grandpa in Ben.
"You gave us quite the scare, Pete." Ben says, and despite the fact he's trying to put on a brave face, I can hear the shake in his voice. This terrified him...
From the moment I watched the first Spider-Man with Tobey Maguire, Uncle Ben always reminded me of my grandpa. He played a similar role to my grandpa... I didn't have my dad around. I was lucky that he was even there for my conception, but beyond that... the closest thing I had to a dad was my grandpa. For Peter, Ben acted as his father figure.
Despite the fact this wasn't my grandpa, I can't lie and say that I didn't feel a bit better with Ben here. It made it a little easier for me to pretend that everything was okay.
"I-I'm sorry," I croak out, my voice straining as I try to answer. It's an awful combination of cottonmouth and this scratchy, burning sensation that even bothers me when I try to swallow. "I didn't mean to sc-scare you."
Ben's hand gives my shoulder one more reassuring squeeze before pulling back. There's something quiet about the way he moves—like he doesn't want to risk startling me, or worse, hurting me.
It's the way you approach someone fragile.
"I know you didn't, kiddo," he says, smile softening just a little. "But when the hospital calls and says your nephew collapsed during a school trip... and he doesn't wake up for weeks, it comes with the territory."
Aunt May steps forward next. She doesn't say anything at first. She just looks at me, like she's trying to memorize every line of my face before I can disappear again. Her eyes are puffy, like she's cried more than once recently, and her lips tremble just a bit before she bites them together.
I'm so busy taking in her appearance that I didn't realize she was leaning down to hug me.
It's awkward with the wires and the IV in my hand and the god-awful stiffness in my back, but I don't move. I just let her hug me, because
something about the way she was holding me—tight, but cautiously as though I might crack—hit me way harder than I expected.
Her voice is muffled in my shoulder, but I can hear her clearly. "Don't ever do that again, Peter. Please."
I don't know what to say.
I'm not him, but... I am.
So I do the only thing I can: I hug her back.
It's a shaky gesture. Weak. But it's enough.
"I'll try," I whisper, because anything more would be a lie.
May pulls back slowly, brushing at her eyes like she's blaming the hospital lights for the tears. She forces a small laugh, and it's brittle around the edges.
"You must be starving. Dr. Halperin said you might be able to start on solid food today. Should I run and grab you something? Or do you still hate hospital pudding?"
The question catches me off-guard.
Does Peter hate hospital pudding? What if I say the wrong thing?
I stall with a smile.
"I think I could eat just about anything right now. Even the pudding." She laughs again—genuinely this time, though still fragile.
"Well, we'll take that as a sign you're on the mend."
Ben chuckles too, but I catch that flicker in his eyes again. The worry hasn't left, and I don't think it will for a long time.
I nod, playing along like I'm just another kid trying to reassure his family. Inside though, I'm spinning. If I'm going to stay in this world... if I'm going to be Peter now... I have to do more than remember my own past.
I'm going to have to learn his.
Dr. Halperin checks her tablet again but doesn't interrupt, giving us a moment. Her eyes flick from me to May, then to Ben, like she's silently measuring something less clinical than vitals—grief levels, maybe. Shock. Emotional strain.
"Well," she finally says, "if you're up for food, we'll start slow. Pudding first, then real solids if that sits okay. I'll go put in the request."
May looks like she's about to offer to grab something from the cafeteria anyway, but Ben gently tugs at her sleeve.
"Let them do their job, hon. Why don't we take a second to breathe?"
May hesitates, then nods, pressing her lips into a tight line. She brushes her fingers through my hair—just a little—before turning toward the door with Dr. Halperin.
And just like that, it's just me and Ben.
The silence stretches for a beat. It's not uncomfortable, exactly. Just... heavy.
Ben stays by my side, but his hand drifts from my shoulder to the rail of the hospital bed. He runs his thumb along it, absentmindedly. Like he needs to keep touching something—maybe just to prove to both of us that I'm still here.
"How are you feeling?" he asks after a moment, voice low but steady.
"Tired." I reply, managing a dry chuckle that sounds more like sandpaper on cement. "I k-know I shouldn't, but..."
I trail off, because honestly? I don't even know how to finish that sentence. I shouldn't feel tired after three weeks of unconsciousness? I shouldn't still feel like a stranger in this skin? I shouldn't be here?
I bite back the spiral, because it doesn't matter. I can't say any of that out loud without sounding insane.
From Peter's perspective, he's been asleep for weeks. But from mine? It feels like I just got here. Like I blinked and the world changed—like dying hit pause on my life and someone else's hit play.
And yet... all things considered, I feel good for a dead man. Not great advertising for reincarnation, but hey—no flaming pits of torment, so I'll take that as a win.
"It's to be expected." Ben says with that calm reassurance that he seems to carry in his back pocket. Even as he offers the words, I can tell he doesn't believe them, not fully. "Lord knows hospitals'll do that to you."
He smiles, soft and crooked, like he's trying to sell the idea that all of this is just a really bad nap in a really uncomfortable bed. I almost want to believe him. It's easier than trying to unpack the existential hell I've fallen into.
I look at him—really look at him—and see the lines around his eyes, the gray creeping into his beard, the tired kindness he wears like armor. I remember this version of Uncle Ben. From movies. Comics. Stories. But this one's different, somehow. Realer. He breathes. He worries. His hand's still resting on the bed rail like it might anchor both of us.
"I'm glad you're okay," he says quietly, like he's afraid to jinx it.
And I almost tell him the truth—that I'm not okay, not really. That I don't even know what "okay" means anymore. But instead, I just nod. Because sometimes, pretending is all you've got.
And right now? I need the pretend to hold a little longer. "Me too," I chuff lowly, unsure whether he can hear me.
When May and Dr. Halperin returned with the pudding, I learned something very quickly. I don't like hospital pudding.
In fact, I might fucking hate it.
The first spoonful hits my tongue with all the appeal of chalk paste pretending to be chocolate. There's this weird, slimy texture that clings to my mouth like it's trying to stake a claim, and the taste? Somehow both bland and bitter, like someone tried to simulate flavor using only despair and expired cocoa powder.
But I already committed. So, I swallow it. Barely.
My face twists immediately. Eyebrows pulling together, nose scrunching like I just licked a tire iron, and my jaw sort of seizes like it's staging a protest. I look like someone just told me Jar Jar Binks is canonically a Sith Lord and I have to accept it.
May doesn't say anything at first. Just watches. Her lips twitch. Then she lets out this breathy little laugh—not quite surprised, not quite smug. Just quietly delighted.
"So... I'm taking that as a no?"
I blink at her, still trying to scrape the taste out of my mouth with nothing but willpower and betrayal.
"It tastes like sadness," I croak, reaching for the little plastic cup of water like it's holy. "Was this supposed to be chocolate? Because I think chocolate should sue."
I haven't been this disturbed since I drank that one "space" flavored Coca-Cola. I shiver at the memory, but the worst part is I can't decide which tasted worse.
May grins, trying—and failing—to look sympathetic.
"I'm sorry," she giggles, and I don't hide my displeasure.
Dr. Halperin hides a smile behind her tablet, clearly enjoying the show.
"You're not the first patient to say that. Unfortunately, the pudding stays until we're sure your stomach can handle more than IV fluids and sarcasm."
"I'd rather eat the sarcasm," I mutter, swishing the water around like it might exorcise the taste.
Ben chuckles softly from his corner.
"He hasn't lost his sense of humor."
May pats my arm gently, trying not to laugh harder.
"Alright, smartmouth. I'll see what I can do about sneaking in something edible."
"If you smuggle in a Cherry Pop-Tart, I'll love you forever," I say without hesitation.
May raises an eyebrow like she's filing that away. "Noted."
I lean back against the pillow, relieved the taste is fading and hoping I won't end up dying again from the pudding. I swear, if this is how Peter went out, I'm gonna be pissed.
I need to get a decent meal in me. Something real. Something with weight and grease and seasoning that doesn't taste like it was filtered through medical-grade regret. I'm a fat kid at heart. Always have been. I don't care what this new body looks like—I can feel the craving in my soul. I need a good, home-cooked meal. Or hell, just a halfway decent burger. Something sloppy. Messy. Dripping with cheese and bad decisions.
Maybe it's the stress. Maybe it's the trauma. Or maybe dying really does reset your metabolism. But right now? Right now, I'd punch God in the throat for a Five Guys double with bacon and Cajun fries.
Dr. Halperin's still tapping something into her tablet, probably noting that I'm lucid enough to complain but not lucid enough to avoid swearing at pudding. "We'll keep it light for now," she says. "Maybe broth later, and if that sits okay, we'll try something more substantial tomorrow."
Broth.
Because nothing says "welcome back to life" like hot, salty water pretending it used to be food.
I close my eyes, breathing out through my nose, trying not to get cranky about it. I know they're just doing their jobs. But it's hard to focus on recovery when your taste buds are filing a class-action lawsuit.
Still, May's watching me with that warm, tired smile that moms have when they're trying to be strong for you, and Ben hasn't moved from his spot—still resting a hand on the rail like he's afraid if he lets go, I'll vanish.
So I bite back the snark. Just for a second. I give them the smile they need to see.
Even if all I'm thinking is: Please, someone get me a burger before I lose my damn mind.
"Peter, I'd like to ask you some questions." Dr. Halperin says, breaking me out of my thoughts. May and Ben take seats, their expressions changing to something more serious.
Dr. Halperin says it like she's asking if I've got a minute to talk about my car's extended warranty—calm, rehearsed, but not entirely without compassion. It's the tone doctors use when they're about to gently unpack the part where your life stopped making sense.
May straightens in her chair. Ben shifts forward, fingers lacing together between his knees. Both of them suddenly look like they're bracing for turbulence.
I nod slowly, propping myself up a little higher against the pillows, the cheap plastic rustling like it's protesting the movement.
"Shoot."
Dr. Halperin glances at her tablet, then looks me in the eye.
"What's your name?"
I almost say my real name, but catch myself at the last second. This is going to be a problem, I can already tell.
"Peter... Peter Parker."
"What's your middle name?"
"Benjamin." I say, looking at Ben.
"Good," Dr. Halperin smiles. "How old are you?"
I hadn't considered that to be honest. If it was like most of Spidey's origins, I'd probably be fourteen, fifteen at most. My voice is light enough that I'm willing to bet fourteen.
"F-fourteen?" I ask, the hesitation in my voice more apparent than I intended. Doc looks at me with a raised brow, scanning over me as though I gave the wrong answer. My heart's pounding in my ears as she glares at me. Hell, I half expect to catch on fire based off of how warm my face just became.
"Where do you live?" she continues, not telling me whether I was right or wrong. That's concerning...
"Queens."
That's easy enough to know... especially since she told me that I'm in Queens Medical.
Dr. Halperin nods, jotting something down with a practiced flick of her stylus. The tap-tap against the tablet screen feels way too official for a question that simple. My palms are sweating again.
Ben shifts beside the bed like he wants to say something, but doesn't. May's watching me like I might float away if she blinks too long.
"What's your street address?"
My heart drops into my stomach... FUCK. I don't know Peter's home address.
I freeze.
"What's your street address?" Dr. Halperin repeats, like it's just another checkbox on her clipboard and not the exact question that could blow everything up.
My brain goes into full DEFCON 1 panic. C'mon, man, THINK. You've read Spider-Man comics since you were a kid. You've seen
the movies. The cartoons. The memes. Just remember—what street does Aunt May live on? Come on, come on, COME ON—
Nothing. Blank slate.
The only address floating to the top of my brain is my old one. The one with the bad paint job and the creaky AC unit that sounded like a dying goat every summer.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
"Uh..."
I can't lie... there's no easy way out of this. Shit... here goes nothing. "I'm sorry, I don't remember."
"Peter?" May asks, her voice swimming with worry.
"That's okay, how about this... what's your phone number?"
has officially stopped responding.
My face probably looks like someone just asked me to recite the periodic table backwards in Swahili. My brain is spinning its wheels in wet cement, and Dr. Halperin is just watching. Calm. Collected. Ruthless.
She asks again, gentle but unwavering. "Your phone number?"
May leans forward a little, her hand brushing my arm. "Sweetheart, it's okay. Just try."
I want to scream. Not because she's being pushy—she isn't. But because I can't. I have no idea what Peter Parker's phone number is. I never needed to know. What kind of nerd memorizes the fictional cell number of a comic book character?
Okay, actually, probably a few of my friends. But not me.
"I—I don't remember that either," I mutter, and this time, I don't even bother trying to fake a headache. I just look at the ceiling like it might give me divine intervention and a data plan.
Dr. Halperin nods slowly, jotting something down again. That stylus sounds louder than it should. Every tap feels like a judgment.
"Memory loss is common in trauma cases," she says calmly, but her eyes flick toward May and Ben like she's already doing mental calculus. "Especially with a head injury. We'll run some additional scans, just to be safe."
May's face crumples slightly. Not panicked—just worried. That quiet, aching sort of worry that moms wear when they're trying to be a wall but feel like a window.
Ben rubs the back of his neck. "He's been through hell, Doc. Isn't this kind of thing... normal?"
"It can be," Dr. Halperin says. She offers a smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "But the inconsistencies are something I want to keep an eye on."
My stomach twists. Inconsistencies. That's a word that sounds way too close to liar for comfort.
She rises from her seat.
"I'm going to give you a little more time to rest. We'll talk again soon." She walks out, her steps annoyingly soft.
May doesn't say anything right away. Neither does Ben. The silence stretches long enough that I feel like I need to say something before the air pressure in the room crushes me.
"Sorry," I mumble.
May shakes her head gently. "You don't need to be sorry for being hurt."
I nod like that makes sense, but it doesn't. Because I'm not just hurt. I'm an intruder in Peter Parker's life, trying to wear it like a hand-me- down hoodie that's two sizes too tight and smells like someone else's detergent.
Ben finally speaks, voice low.
"We'll figure it out, kiddo. Just rest for now."
I let my head fall back against the pillow and try not to pass out from stress. But, there's one thing I have to know, even if it makes them more uncomfortable.
"Hey May..." I call her name, her eyes meeting mine. "Was I right? Am I fourteen?"
She laughs so softly that it's barely noticeable. "Yes, dear... you were right."
"Sweet," I chuckle. "I'm disappointed in myself, though... fifty percent on a test?"
Ben pats my shoulder, and I close my eyes, the dark taking me once more.
The next time I come to, the light slanting through the blinds looks different—sharper, more golden. Afternoon, maybe. My body feels a little less like it's been scraped off a New York sidewalk and a little more like... well, like I might survive this mess.
That illusion dies the second Dr. Halperin walks back in with a clipboard and a face that says she's about to serve up another helping of bad news.
More scans. More questions. A memory test where I forget which president is current and answer with Obama.
Spoiler: It wasn't Obama.
By the time she wraps it up, I feel like someone's shaken my brain like a Magic 8-Ball and the only thing floating to the top is try again later.
Dr. Halperin sits down beside my bed.
"Peter... based on the results, I believe you're suffering from retrograde amnesia. That means your brain is having trouble accessing memories from before the accident."
"Great," I mutter, "so I've got Swiss cheese for a brain."
Ben, sitting nearby with a book he hasn't turned a page in for the last twenty minutes, leans forward. "How long does that kind of thing last?"
"It varies," she says gently. "Some patients regain everything within days. For others, it's a slower process. Sometimes memories return in pieces. Other times... not at all."
May's gone still again. She's got that same statue-stillness she had earlier, the one where you know she's screaming inside but refuses to let it show on her face.
Dr. Halperin offers a reassuring smile, but I can see the caution in it. She's hopeful, not confident.
"I'll monitor you closely. For now, just focus on healing. Stress won't help your memory, but rest might."
"So... until further notice, I'm just a soft-reboot Peter Parker." I try for a joke, because what else do you do when someone tells you your brain's rolled a natural one?
May finally lets out a breath, like she'd been holding it for hours. "You're still you, sweetheart."
"Let's just focus on the bright side. You remember your name, your town, and your age. You recognize your aunt and uncle... that's a good sign."
Dr. Halperin stands.
"I'll let the two of you stay a bit longer. Just don't wear him out too much."
As she leaves, I exhale and stare up at the ceiling tiles like they might hold the answers. They don't give me any. All they provide is dust, fluorescent buzz, and the faint feeling I'm in the worst game of charades ever, and the clue is my entire life.
Still, as weird as it sounds, this retrograde amnesia thing might be the best-case scenario. Well, not for them, obviously. May looks like she's aged a decade in a day, and Ben's pretending that book's got more going on than a blank journal. For me, it works in my favor.
If they think the scrambled mess in my head is just trauma? Then every time I screw up a memory, hesitate on a name, don't know Peter's locker combo or favorite cereal—it all gets swept under the rug. I don't need to pretend to be Peter, I just have to try and remember all the versions of him I grew up with.
I mean, yeah... I am Peter, but I'm also not. I don't need to match his walk, his talk, or nerdy charm like it's some high-stakes impression contest. There's no pressure to suddenly become Midtown High's golden science boy overnight. I get to be a kid with a blank slate.
Which—if I'm being honest—is still better than waking up in a ditch, or y'know... dead.
I let my eyes drift back toward May and Ben. She's smoothing the wrinkles out of her purse strap like she's trying to iron out the chaos. Ben's watching me with this quiet, grounding calm, like he's ready to catch me if I fall again.
They're strangers, technically. But they don't look at me like one. They look at me like they'd carry the weight of the whole damn city if it meant I'd be okay.
So yeah, I might not remember Peter's street address or favorite pizza toppings. But I know this much already: I'm not alone.
The dreams don't come all at once. They drift in like fog—soft and shapeless, full of voices I should know but can't quite place. There's warmth there. Laughter. The scent of something homemade wafting through a kitchen I'll never see again. But when I wake up, it's gone. And in its place is that hollowness. That quiet ache in my chest like someone pressed a thumb into my sternum and never took it away.
I sit up slowly. The room is quiet—too quiet—and empty. May and Ben are gone, probably grabbing coffee or trying not to hover too much. Good. I need a minute to myself.
My eyes land on the bandage wrapped around my left hand. It doesn't itch, but I need to see what the damage is. If this really was from the spider bite, then I want, no, need to see it for myself. It feels like this is somehow going to make it all real for me, but even I know that's not how that works.
It's not going to be a situation where I see a blotchy red spot on my hand, and all my problems are going to get solved. It'd just be nice to know what the hell to expect. Halperin would probably chastise me for removing the bandages, but I don't really care.
Once I get it removed, I pause. I don't know what I was really expecting. Three weeks is plenty of time for a spider bite to
disappear, especially a genetically altered spider that grants super powers.
There's nothing dramatic beneath it. No glowing veins or alien mandibles sprouting from my palm. It's just skin—smooth, clean, maybe a little pale, but it's skin. There's a faint, barely-there mark, like a freckle that lost its way. There's nothing else there.
"...Huh," I click my tongue.
Three weeks. That's what she said. That's plenty of time for bruises and a spider bite to vanish.
Despite that, my gut doesn't buy it.
Do I even have powers? Peter should've felt them in the first few days. The wall-crawling, the strength, the danger-sense. That was the lore. But if that's true, then where the hell does that leave me? What if I'm just... some guy in Peter's skin, minus the package deal?
And more importantly—why the hell am I worrying about that now?
I'm still in a hospital bed. Still in someone else's life. Whether or not I can stick to walls or bench-press a Buick doesn't matter if I can't even walk out the front door yet.
I sigh, shake my head, and start wrapping the hand again. This time it's looser, uneven—definitely not up to medical standards. But unless someone's grading my gauze technique, it'll do.
I lean back into the pillows, closing my eyes, trying to let go of the weight in my chest.
I didn't sleep well in my old life, and even if it's just one time, I'd like to have a good night's sleep.
It takes a few more days before they finally clear me for release, and I honestly can't tell if that's good news or just the universe flipping a coin and shrugging. You'd think I'd be excited—getting out of the hospital, moving forward, being able to see something other than bland walls and over-enthusiastic motivational posters. But instead, there's this weird pit in my stomach, like I'm stepping off the edge of something I can't see the bottom of.
The hospital bed sucked—too firm, too sterile, like it was designed to punish spines—but it gave me this illusion that I was just visiting someone else's life. That I could just wake up, watch the story unfold, and pretend I was behind the glass instead of in the frame. Just some weird little interactive drama where I could poke the glass and watch the plot thicken.
But now? Now I'm being fitted back into Peter Parker's life like a replacement bulb. Slipping into a loose gray sweatshirt that still smells faintly of a detergent I don't remember buying, followed by a polo shirt that's seen better, brighter days—probably back when mall kiosks were still selling "Keep Calm" merch unironically. May insisted I stay warm. She kept handing me layers like I was made of glass and this walk to the car was the Iditarod. I didn't argue. Partly because I'm not dumb, and partly because I think it comforts her to fuss.
And honestly... I'm not sure what's worse: pretending to be Peter, or the fact that pretending's starting to feel like less of a stretch.
I could joke. I want to joke. Say it's all just a bad dream. That I'll wake up any second and find out I'm still in my apartment, still behind on bills, still arguing with my reflection. But the truth is, I'm walking out of this hospital not as me, but as Peter Parker.
And I can't tell if that's a blessing, a curse... or just the start of something I'm not ready for.
Maybe all of the above.
There's a knock on the door as I pick up the glasses. I don't turn— I'm too busy debating whether I should put them on. Peter Parker wore glasses before the bite, and afterward, he didn't need them anymore.
Me? I wore glasses. They were mostly reading glasses to help fix an astigmatism, but I could see without them just fine. There were days I needed to wear them to stave off a migraine, but hopefully I won't need to worry about that anymore.
Still, though... this version of Peter wore glasses. So I put them on. A little costume piece to keep the illusion going. My vision doesn't warp, sharpen, or suddenly become HD. If anything, things look a bit clearer—but only in the most disappointing way possible.
Nothing about the spider has been as I expected it to be. No powers, no dramatic awakening, not even a proper scar to brood over. Just silence. Like the universe forgot to finish the job. The doctors said I was lucky, as the spider that bit me was poisonous. They're attributing the amnesia to a combination of the spider's venom and hitting my head on the way down. I was, ugh... Peter was thrown into a seizure, foaming at the mouth, the full nine yards.
I feel bad for Peter's classmates. That kind of thing sticks with you. One second a kid's sitting beside you, the next he's foaming at the mouth like something out of a horror flick. Hard to forget. Harder to explain.
"Hey, Peter... are you okay?" May's voice breaks me out of my thoughts, and I turn to face her. I had almost forgotten she was knocking on the door when I grabbed the glasses.
"Y-yeah." The smile comes easier than it should. "Where's Uncle Ben?"
Did I mention it was weird calling them Aunt May and Uncle Ben? Because it is.
"He's grabbing the car. Are you ready to go home?" I didn't answer immediately.
Go home? That's a loaded question, May. I want to go home—to my life. The one before the car accident. But the only home I've got now? It belongs to someone else. Someone I used to look up to. Which, yeah... sounds cool on paper. So what am I even complaining about?
Who gets to say that they got a second chance at life as their favorite superhero?
So, am I ready to go home? Fuck it.
"Yeah, I am."