Peter Parker and Avengers One Shots

No One Is Coming To Save Me~

ooh trying out a new pov- first person

GUESS WHO??? (first correct guesser gets to have their choice of story written oooh exciting)

TW TW TW TW TW TW TW

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Another day, another glorious wish for death.

Isn't that how it always goes in life? You stretch out your hand to reach towards what you want most, and life steps on you the way one might step upon an ant? 

Isn't that the way of whatever being decides what we do? Are we not pawns for them to play with as they please?

There are times when I agree, for there are times when no matter how hard I try, everything I love, everything I cherish slips through my lean, calloused fingertips like sand on a beach.

I wish I could say that there are times when I am able to stand above my sins that drag me down like rocks in the water, but as I sit here, thinking up this melancholy soliloquy, I realize that my past is one of betrayal and lonesomeness. My present is one of hopelessness. My future is one of darkness and contempt.

I'm done for, it's a simple concept. I've had my turn, or shot, or whatever you'll call it, at glory and failed, so it makes sense that I should pay for my existence. 

I'm chained up, restrained, kept in a room so hot that my lips are chapped and my brow never ceases to sweat. It's sad, really, how far I've fallen. Kept like a dog and hurt like a soldier.

I never was one of those, was I? I never preferred fighting, rather I looked towards books and silver words that stretched and twisted my wretched reality. 

Now, though? I'm done. No one will come for me, here, kept in a hidden spot somewhere between hell and nightmares. No one will bother to look in all of the nooks and crannies of the universe and all things that are, looking for the vile abomination that I am, swept away to the place of horrors.

Now though? I'm done. My foe stands above me, powerful and demanding, a monument of my failures, mocking and content. That was me once, I suppose. I was that foul, I took that many lives. My past formed me that terrible. I was thought omnipotent, laughing in the face of the three fates that held my red string between steel blades. 

I shouldn't have, for now, the scissors are closing, fraying the red line.

All things start and all things end in one spot, and I'm there. I'm standing on the edge, on a cliff that was built by my own hands. 

There's nothing I can do. My heart aches, as it always has, for those that still loved me, even at my worst. My eyes are drained, as they always have been, for I've used up my tears and though I always cried in the privacy of my rooms, I'm never alone now. I've got my thoughts with me, ugly dark things that hover in my peripheral, like the ghosts of my past that haunt me to this day.

I've got nothing, no one, not even a plan for tomorrow. My skin hurts, and the blood leaks out of my woulds, a steady stream of my transgressions. My head pounds, always, as the heat that is exposed to me prepares me for the hell that I'll be going to, soon. 

There's no way I'll find my way into heaven, or valhalla, or whatever is real. Even paranormal beings have limits, and I'd guess that I've crossed all of them. I'd guess that even the devil would bow to me if not for my turn to the better side, but my switch was too late to be of any good.

My mind isn't even just mine anymore. My mind has been sold in cheap parcels to those that would see harm done to everyone I've ever known, and I use the last of my fading strength to hide my secrets and cloak my true emotions.

They can't know how much they've broken me. They must never find out how close I am to giving up. They mustn't discover that I am barely holding together, gripping to my last stands of sanity.

I'm so close now, to just giving up, to letting it all go, but I know the consequences. I know how I'll be used, set loose on the world without control and without rules. It would be chaos, and I wouldn't be able to stop it. I'd be trapped inside myself, looking out of my body as one might a window, forced to watch its steady and constant destruction. 

Isn't this the cue? Isn't my awful life supposed to flash before my eyes in one final hurrah before I shut down and become one with the land that formed me?

I've accepted it, now. I've come to terms with this, if anything, I want it more than surviving. 

I've survived my whole life, but I've never lived. Isn't there a difference? 

Surviving is a feral necessity, getting by on the bare minimum, fighting tooth and nail for the very privilege of existence. 

Living is... what? Something to strive for? Something to want? I don't know, because all of my sorry life, I've been surviving. 

At this point, I don't even want to live. Death is an easier release at this moment, when I'm caught between it and just living through this torture. 

And it is torture, believe me. Why else would I be monologuing to myself in a room that is as dark as my soul, panting and fighting for each breath that stings my throat, while sweat drips down my face and blood rolls down my body? I've got no reason to strive for anything, because I've accepted it now. I'm going to die, and I'll do it as I lived life- afraid, and alone. Any moment now, really, because although I've kept the sickening hope that someone is out there looking, it's time I faced the facts.

No one is coming to save me.

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ooof so who ya think it is? 

also, should I do more of these?