When I was 21, my parents died.

When I was 21, I was alone.

When I was 21, I drank.

When I was 21, I made weapons.

When I was 21, I was in the dark.

Howard and Maria Stark died in a car accident.

That pushed me over the edge, I tumbled into the shadow of debauchery and drinking, grasping for mind-numbing substances just to stop the echo of my parents voices.

Anthony, Anthony...

It wasn't cold, not really. I had the warmth of a stranger, the fire of alcohol to fight back the freeze.

It took me years to itch my way, crawl my way back into the light.

When I did, it was so... wonderful. I could spread out my arms and fly, if I wanted.

And then a boot to the chest from none other than my childhood hero — Captain America — sent me tumbling back in.

I deserved it.

(that's what I thought)

It seemed like retribution, revenge. For all of the people I've killed, all the ones I've hurt. Punishment.

That time it was cold. So cold it was almost hot.

(Almost.)

It was the kind of lonely where you are surrounded by people, but feel so terribly alone, trapped in your own mind.

The kind of silent where it rings in your ears.

The kind of numb where you can feel the touch of others, but it still doesn't quite register.

This visit was brief.

This time I was hoisted out.

A young hand with a web-shooter strapped around his wrist reaching down into the dark.

And I basked in that sunlight.

So warm.

So sweet.

And then he's dead too.

Like my parents,

Like Jarvis,

Like Peggy,

Like everybody else.

And I accept the dark this time, with open arms.

Take me, I whisper.

And it does.

Oh, it does, like a long-awaited friend, enveloping me, pulling me, twisting around my arms, burrowing over my skin.

I have never surrendered so easily.