Raindrops crashed as they shattered against the windows of New York, followed by dark thunders roaming all over the city.
It was a cold and rainy night.
A slight calm had settled in the apartment with only the sound of an old clock that uncle Ben had bought in Venice a few years back. And of course the sound of May still trying to hold her self awake till she could hear Peter come home.
He had found himself in trouble again. Since the incidents that happened during homecoming and all the Vulture stuff, Peter didn't feel much like himself anymore.
He still had injuries all over his back and chest since that building collapsed over him, which had cost him more energy when he was out on patrol. Of course he wouldn't tell anybody, he didn't want to burden anyone with his problems when he knew they had much more important stuff to worry about.
Peter carefully pushed up the window in the hopes that May had fallen asleep. He couldn't take one more night of pretending he was fine. He didn't want to lie to her anymore. But he knew it was for her own good.
He climbed into his room and shut the window behind him as carefully as he had opened it. He then dragged of his mask and threw it on his bed.
The pounding pain started to pressure his chest again. It was the second time today, and he had thought he was getting better...
It had been nearly a week without any serious pains followed by the Vulture incidents. He had hoped that it would go away and he thought he was on the way of recovery. But surely that wasn't the case here.
As the pain grew bigger, he struggled to take a breath. He couldn't breathe. This was bad. He knew this was bad.
Barely being able to stand up, he dragged his feet over the floor to close the door as silently as possible.
But he knew May had been waiting for him. He had to reassure her that he was fine.
He put his left hand over his throat and sucked in as much air as he could while choking on it.
"Go-Good night, May!", he said as loudly as possible trying to sound as okay as he could.
He then dragged his feet over the floor and collapsed on the unmade bed.
The pain had settled in his chest and started to make him feel dizzy.
His skin began to pale with the loss of oxygen and sweat started to crumble out of his back.
He lay as still as he could, knowing that this time - this time he may not make it.
He then held his breath and started counting. As this had happened a few times before, he had started to figure out a technique.
1... 2... 3... 4...
He lay as still as the could, too out of it to do anything else.
5... 6... 7... 8...
He then closed his eyes as he began too see blurry, trying to reject the fact that this was all happening.
9... 10...
He exhaled for a long time, pushing out all the air left in his lungs.
As he regained the consciousness that he was lacking, he could feel the chest getting better and better by the second.
Peter sat up in the bed where he could see himself in the mirror across the room on his wall.
How weak he was. Just sitting there in his spider suit, looking like a hero but knowing that if it came to protect anyone, he would be too weak.
He didn't even know if he could protect himself.
He took the suit off while sitting on the bed, not trying to move his chest.
And there it was. The big, black bruise that had haunted him for the past two weeks. The bruise that had made him weak.
