Authors: Peter David
dle, vertically, and it wavered and toppled, falling, falling as
the Goblin's hysterical laughter floated through the air . . .
"The Goblin
. . . " whispered Peter, standing in the hospi
tal corridor.
All around him people lay in rooms with tubes attached
to every possible part of their body, fighting for their lives,
and here Peter's life was in mortal jeopardy, yet he was just
standing there.
"He knows
. . .
oh God
. . .
he knows who I am
. . . "
He bolted down the hall and dashed up the stairway,
springing up each staircase as if he were on strings. He burst
out onto the hospital roof and, as rain poured down upon
him, let out a scream of mortal terror such as never had ex
ploded from his chest before.
Dear Mom and Dad:
All my efforts to make up for letting Uncle Ben down have come
to this: Not only is my own life in danger . . .
which was mine to risk . . . but so is the life of the woman who committed the cardinal sin of lov
ing me.
I haven't made things better. I've made them worse than they ever
were.
I feel like I'm watching from a distance, like I'm outside my body,
and my whole life is about to be flushed away.
What am I going to do? God in heaven, what am I going to do?
He'd brought a picture to set at her bedside: a lovely shot
of a young Peter with a smiling Uncle Ben and Aunt May standing on either side of him.
And Peter Parker sat there, like a statue. He could have
been there for hours or days. He'd often read the phrase
"time had lost all meaning," in books and such, but the concept had never really meant anything to him until now. He
knew it was night, since a glance out the window told him
so. But for all he knew, he'd been sitting there for days on
end. He really hadn't been paying attention.
The rain had soaked him up on the roof, but he'd dried
off.
He stared at the picture that he himself had brought.
Uncle Ben, dead
. . .
because of him. Aunt May, hospital
ized, in mortal danger, because of him. This bizarre "gift" he had received came with too high a price tag, as far as he was concerned.
He leaned forward, kissed Aunt May on the forehead as
he blinked back tears. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
He brought textbooks to keep current with his studies,
but they sat in the backpack near his feet. He knew he'd get
around to them, eventually, but at this point he was afraid to take his eyes off Aunt May, lest she somehow slip away into
oblivion while he turned away even for a moment. At the end
of visiting hours, the nurse who ran the ward tried to get him
to leave. He ignored her. He simply sat in the chair, not mov
ing. She could have been addressing a department store mannequin for all the luck she was having.
The nurse, annoyed, called the doctor, who came and told
Peter much the same thing. He had to leave, visiting hours
were over, his aunt's condition had stabilized, and he wasn't
going to accomplish anything by taking up room. Besides, it
was hospital policy, that was all, and such policy was well
known, carved in granite and not to be trifled with under
pain of
. . .
well . . .
Very Bad Things.
Peter didn't acknowledge him, didn't even glance at him.
He.
Just.
Sat.
Annoyed, the doctor summoned a burly orderly, who endeavored to pick Peter up bodily. Peter ignored him, too. He
didn't fight back; didn't have to. He simply didn't budge
when the orderly, who outweighed him by a good hundred
pounds, tried to move him. Annoyed, the orderly tried to lift
Peter's chair clean up, and was stunned when he had no more
success at this than he'd had at his earlier attempts. He did
not, of course, see the small globs of webbing Peter had
taken the precaution of using on the bottoms of the chair
legs.
So the orderly and the nurse and the doctor put their
heads together and thought about calling the police. The or
derly observed that the little guy was stronger than he
looked, and if the cops started getting physical, things could
get real ugly, real fast. The doctor asked if Peter was hurting
anyone, the nurse admitted that he wasn't. That he wasn't a
burden at all, and indeed, if not for the fact that they were making all this fuss, his presence would go completely un
noticed and unremarked upon.
The doctor shrugged, said "Keep an eye on things," and walked away. And that was pretty much that.
Peter hadn't realized that he'd drifted off to sleep, but be
fore he knew it he was blinking away sunlight in his eyes.
His shirt was soaked completely through with sweat. He
didn't care.
He went downstairs, grabbed some snacks from a ma
chine, went back to May's room and started reading the text
books. He did this for a time, nodding to the nurses who
came in every so often to check on his aunt. They'd stopped
worrying about him, apparently choosing to think of him as one of the fixtures, no different than a chair or a bedpan. Perhaps they even thought it was kind of sweet.
Just after 9:30
a.m.
Peter realized that May's eyes were
open and fixed on him, the edges crinkling gently in that way
she had when she was happy to see him. She murmured his
name, and he didn't want to hug her for fear he'd break her.
Quickly, Peter summoned the doctor, who checked May
over, and a look of relief settled on his face. He asked her
some questions while he jotted down readings from the
machines that were monitoring her and seemed satisfied
with the answers. When he asked if she knew what had hap
pened, she just stared at him blankly.
Peter stayed with her as she drifted back to sleep. He was still tense and nervous, but the doctor seemed cautiously op
timistic. Yes, that's what they always called it: Cautiously Optimistic. He informed Peter that he could go home now,
and Peter just stared at him as if he'd sprouted a third arm,
so the doctor rolled his eyes and walked away.
Since Peter's sleep during the night had been minimal, to
say nothing of uncomfortable, he eventually fell back to
sleep. He was awakened by a rapping, a gentle tapping, upon
the chamber door. For a moment he was confused as to
where he was. He looked up, licking his lips, his mouth feel
ing as if it was filled with cotton.
Mary Jane was standing there, a tentative smile on her
face. She was holding a bouquet of flowers under her arm.
"Can I come in?" she asked.
Immediately Peter felt rejuvenated.
How can one person
have that much of an effect on another?
he wondered as he
got to his feet. He popped a breath mint into his mouth as
M. J. entered the room tentatively, casting a sad look upon
Aunt May's unconscious form. Then, still holding the flow
ers, M. J. went to Peter and delicately put her arms around
his shoulders. She drew him close in a comforting hug, and Peter let out a low breath that he felt like he'd been holding
forever.
"I'm so sorry. I just heard about it," she whispered. He
nodded, drinking in the closeness of her, and it was all he
could do to hold himself together, rather than break down on
her shoulder.
They stayed that way for a long moment, and then she
turned toward the bed. Moving closer to Aunt May, she lay
the flowers on the bedside table, gently touching the wizened
woman's forehead. "Will she be okay?"
"We think so," Peter told her, shoving his hands in his pockets. "She finally woke up this morning. For a while. Thanks for coming."
"Who would do this to her?" asked a puzzled Mary Jane.
Peter's head snapped around. "How did you know that
somebody 'did' something?"
She looked at him, surprised. "Peter . . .
who do you
think found your aunt? Called the ambulance? It was my
mom. She heard your aunt screaming and howling, the
noise. It was so unusual for your house that she went over to
check on her. She found your aunt's bedroom wrecked, and there were burn marks, like someone had been trying to set
the place on fire. . . . "
The glider,
Peter thought grimly.
The turbos and thrusters
would certainly leave burns on the carpet, on the wall. The
monster. . .
Mary Jane was shaking her head. "Your Aunt May
. . .
she's so loving, so giving. Why would anyone want to hurt
her? Do you know who did it?" She said it skeptically,
clearly not thinking that Peter would have an answer.
He wasn't going to tell her, but he blurted it out just the same. "It was the Green Goblin."
M. J. paled. "But . . .
why?" she said when she found her
voice. "Why would he need to attack her?" He didn't answer.
What could he say? The truth? Oh, like that was going to
happen. "I'm sorry, Peter. I know you've asked yourself these questions
. . . "
"It's okay," he shrugged, trying to look bewildered when
he, in fact, knew more than he wanted to think about. Turn
ing it around, he said, "How about you? Are you all right
about the other night?"
She looked down, obviously chagrined. "I'm sorry about that. Makes things worse for everybody."
"You were fine. Have you talked to Harry?"
M. J. shook her head, still not looking up at him. "He
called me. I haven't called him back." Then she turned her
back to him completely, focusing on the sleeping Aunt May.
She tucked in the bed sheet. 'The fact is," she continued,
still presenting her back, "I'm in love with somebody else." Peter thought his head was going to explode. He cleared
his throat. "You are?"