New Note: Wow. This new chapter hasn't been up for more than a day, and I've already gotten
so many reviews. You all have no idea how happy I am. I have gotten such positive
feedback from all of you, and I cannot believe that so many people like it so much.
I'm just overwhelmed with joy, really. I think I'm going to cry! I am just absolutely
thrilled with this feedback and I really, really will try to write more stuff for all you
guys. Thank you all! This has been a great day!
I thank my reviewers. You guys have really given me a lot of support! You're all
so kind. I can make a few little "personal" responses.
DarkAngel14x: I'm so glad that you reviewed both chapters! I'm glad you liked the
symbolism. I haven't really done that before, so I'm so happy it went over well. J
Little Wind: I do happen to like some anime. J I am getting better at angst! I've
never written angst before. And more points for symbolism! Woo-hoo!
KHBAJN: Ah, my wonderful supporter! Thanks for reviewing, and review the other
chapters, too! J
Bumble-bee Queen: You made sense. I was really going for "lyrical" this round,
so it really made me feel great to see that someone else mentioning that I'd
achieved my goal.
I wonder where I pulled this whole crucifixion thing from! It fit really well, though,
and I'm glad that its wording got your support. Thanks again, nice reviewers! *raises
a cola* Cheers!
Oh! I moved down the rating because I don't want people turned off by the fact
that it's rated R. I think it can slide for PG-13, don't you?
Speechless by Blu Wynd Faerie
Rated PG13
Chapter 3 The Reappearing Rabbit On Palm Sunday
She hoped in the deepest corners of her heart that he might gain his sight.
She prayed in her highest begging plea that some tuft of heaven might descend.
She wished, though she had no genie's lamp, that her hero might save her from
her loneliness!
She watched the rooftops, seeing nothing but sky. Mary Jane, frustrated, turned
from the curtained window, knowing that gazing at a person who wasn't even there
would not accomplish anything.
She spooned sugar into her tea and stirred it without emotion. The white powder
mixed in and dissolved before her eyes like a magic trick, suddenly gone. Yes,
where had Peter gone to? She knew he was avoiding her.
The wet silver spoon left spots of brown on her napkin. She tossed it in the trash
and put the spoon in the sink and returned to her drink. She sipped it, wishing
she could snatch away the evasive Parker. But her warning phone calls were
only answered by a long-since recorded voice.
Her tea drained down her throat. Perhaps the soothing herbs might lull her to
sleep; she had thrashed under the covers three nights in a row, dreaming
black thoughts of death and isolation. Every time she woke up crying, warm
tears down her face, but she could never quite remember what the dream was
specifically about, except that her happiness was killed each time.
There was a tiny puddle at the bottom of her cup. Where had the drink gone so fast?
Where had he gone so fast?
Furious, she pushed away from the table, knocking over the empty tea cup onto its side
on the cheap plastic, the dribble of the beverage making a slight stain. Mary Jane
crashed out of the kitchen, leaving the burner still on and the kettle still whistling
and her heart pounding like a sledgehammer. The front door slammed shut behind her,
leaving the apartment empty.
She would see this through.
To be or not to be: that was the question, according to his literature teacher. It was
also his own top problem to marvel at. Should he be the hero, the red-cloaked
urban warrior, or the schoolboy with his nose buried in Shakespeare?
Putting down the book, for one, was certainly tempting, but loving Mary Jane was
even more a plus of being Peter.
But then again, part of him warned, Spider-man always tagged along with Peter,
and Spider-man brought trouble always. He didn't want trouble for her!
But she was going to stir up trouble, too, now that she knew everything.
Now she knew love was two-sided- and in more than one sense. First of all, her
lover-boy had two sides to him, the silly photographer and the graceful spider.
And secondly, the feeling was reciprocal. Peter didn't know when she'd
figured that out, but he had paused in his tracks just long enough to give her the
hint. And he had blown her a goddamn kiss, for Christ's sake! How stupid could
he be? How hopeless could he be?
He had diverged, and he drove on the correct side of the road again. Yes, she was going
to come after him, stalk him down, ask all the "how's" and "why's" that he had
neglected to answer. She was going to tell him how much they deserved to be
together, and she wasn't going to let up until his ears cracked apart. He could
nearly hear her now.
Peter could hear her sobbing out her love for him, hear her cry in vain, hear
her protest her banishment, her exile from his arms and kiss. She was going to
make him cry, and she hadn't even come yet.
(Shakespeare was long forgotten.)
And, yet, wasn't she right?
Of course. She was always right! After trial and tear, after flesh and blood shed,
didn't the time spent count as sacrifice enough, as proof of devotion? Didn't that
stand up to danger? She was so right.
But that didn't mean that he had to listen to her. He could be wrong if he had to be if it
meant her safety.
He threw his literature book down, not even realizing he was taking out his anger
on the object. He couldn't even be Peter. He had to be Spider-man and flee the scene
every time, even though that might as well have been his demise. He fell onto his couch,
burying his face in the pillow.
A voice trembled in his mind. It was too much. "You have to get over the sting to feel
the rush," the dream reminded him. Again, the freakish nightmare pursued him. He
was going nuts. It didn't make any sense still. What was it that made him feel like a part
of the dream had slipped through his fingers like the acidic solution in his nightmare?
But he listened again as it repeated, and fog lifted.
"You have to get over the sting to feel the rush!"
He remembered old Bible pages flapping. He remembered ancient stories of a man,
a messiah, who stayed in the desert for forty days to beat the Devil. He triumphed through
his patience, confidence, and faith, and he was greeted by the waving of palms and
cheering crowds.
Forty days wasn't the number of days since he'd defeated his Devil, but Spider-man
had still killed the Goblin. He had been smooth and cool and calm, but he hadn't come
out of the dry, barren desert yet. The desert had consumed him, but waiting there was
a world of possibilities when he returned to the world of the living.
He was enduring the sting. He had seen his friends get hurt, seen himself get hurt,
and watched the world flip ten times around until he stood weakly where he was. So much
had happened. But, no matter what, things like that would always happen to any
person, superhero or no. Wasn't it time for the rush? He could let his world be full of
suffering to the point of breaking like an overly-inflated balloon; or he could fill in the
gaps with little red roses and pray the wall didn't tumble on top. If he couldn't have
total happiness and ease, shouldn't he have at least a little bit of joy? Pain always
followed Peter like a shark led by blood, but good things were bound to come along.
He could leave it, or he could take it.
The door- he had to get to the door.
The doorknob turned, but he was not greeted by air. Instead, Mary Jane stood with her
hand on the knocker. Like magic or fate, Mary Jane had indeed tracked down Peter.
She opened her mouth, about to say something, but he stopped her with a hand over
her mouth. He shook his head once. Taking her hand off the doorknocker, he led her
into the room, still cupping her lips with his other hand. Peter kicked the door closed behind
them and listened to the lock catch, his eyes totally on her.
This was it, she knew. This was the moment of truth, or rejection or denial or surrender
to the heart's longing, and she didn't know which. The tension was peeling her apart
like an orange.
Slowly, still clinging to her other hand, he removed his palm from her mouth, hoping she
got the hint to not speak. She did and remained silent. He was slightly hesitant, but when
he gazed into her depths and saw what she had come for, he knew damn well that he
was going to give it to her.
Their lips met. Mary Jane's purse fell to her feet with a thud as it slid off her shoulder.
Their latched fingers unclasped only for the hands to reach out to meet skin on necks,
faces, shoulders. A fireball streaked by and consumed them both, leaving
raw phoenixes burning there, alight in their passion, their final joining.
They briefly parted, and a question hung in her eyes. She begged that this wasn't
a game, wasn't a consolation for the lost cause. But, no, this was something more.
The confession was there, unspoken.
He nuzzled into her shoulder, crying softly. Mary Jane stroked Peter's hair softly,
comfortingly, and kissed his temple. She raised her head to the stars, knowing there
was a god – or at least a genie – who answered wishes, and she let the relief fall
down in quick droplets.
Ta-da! I have reached the end. Or have I? Should I do more? I kind of like it how it is.
Review, please!