Blood.

The sickening, metallic taste flooded his mouth, coursed through his teeth and drained onto his already hematic chest. He sputtered, he gagged, he gasped for breath in a pathetic attempt to just make his assailant understand that this wasn't him.

Oh, and how pathetic it was.

Just perfectly pathetic how the salty tears oh-so-delicately expelled from his face in a deluge of built up emotion and unspoken, pitiful sentiments. Wholly, entirely pathetic how the man - this grown, influential, authoritarian of a man - could not even bring his lean body to stand - stand - in front of his dissentient in order to illustrate his sad story and his sad becomings and his sad heart. Pathetic how, at this moment, he couldn't manage to speak. He failed to utter a word.

Perhaps the most pathetic part, however, was that he craved to. The man wanted to stand and articulate and explain himself to his assailant. He desired forgiveness for the sins that he fought tooth and nail to commit in front of God and Satan and his father (rest his revolting soul) and his best friend and the world. All this rather than just relishing the fact that he was evil and that he had done evil things and that those evil deeds were successful in the way they carried out his evil purpose. For it would have been awfully easier on the sad, evil man to just die feeling that he had fulfilled a greater purpose. God knows it would have been easier if he could just take pride in the fact that his enemy was crying with his mask at his knees.

It was true. The man who knelt before him, looking down at his half-living corpse and once flawless face (grisly now from the beating), was sobbing - screaming - for his sake.

At first, the man was confused at the lusty display of remorse. The confusion was then replaced by the heartbreak of remembering in one moment that the man who had been his downfall, the enemy, was his best friend. The heartbreak was swept aside by the cacophonous pang of emotion that hurt more than the searing pain of his lacerated chest that manifested only when he stared into the brown eyes of his friend-turned-enemy. It was when he delved into those glistening, tear-soaked eyes that he realized that he was in love.

The sad man was in love with his demise.

And that is the end.

I struggled to begin the telling of the man's story, but soon realized that there is no better way to tell his story than with the painful finale. To mold the disgusting, heart shattering ending to an untold genesis that may or may not have existed, to tell a story simply comprised of the destruction of it's protagonist, and present that in its raw form.

This, because the two people who need to know this tragedy's beginnings have it engraved in their memory. Peter Parker, symbol of all that pure and good in humanity, anthem of freedom and justice, is the antagonist to my story. And the author, the sad, pathetic, evil man is me. Heir to the Oscorp throne and destroyer of my own destiny.

My name is Harry Osborn.