Help me, it feels like the walls are caving in 

Peter's eyes fluttered shut as he tightly gripped the glass bottle and pressed it against his dry, cracked lips. 

Sometimes I feel like giving up, 

Tears leak out of the aching teenager's eyes as he gulped the bottle's containments. A burning sensation slithered down his throat, and Peter feels his mind loosen, and venture into the dark thoughts. 

But I just can't 

A thought unraveled in Peter's complicated mind. Put the bottle down. But it's making the pain go away, and Peter's tired of the pain. He's tired of hurting every hour, every minute, otherwise, the thin red jagged lines on his arms would be non-existent. 

It isn't in my blood 

Peter can't do it. Every day Peter woke up in pain, and went to sleep in pain. Ever since May died, everything became lifeless. Empty. An unbearable void of just pain. And it sucks. 

He tells himself every single day why he's not dead, why May is the one that's buried in a casket six feet under. It should be him. 

If he wasn't so damn reckless as Spiderman and did something more, anything more, maybe his aunt would still be alive. 

Laying on the bathroom floor, feeling nothing 

And Peter wouldn't be sitting against a cold wall with red-rimmed eyes that took the focus away from his shaking hands living from paycheck to paycheck. 

He had to drop out of high school and get a job otherwise his landlord would've kicked him out of the apartment complex that he resides in. 

And the only industry in all of New York was the very facility who was owned with the iconic JJ Jameson who hated his alter-ego's guts with his fiber being. What he ever did to the man is beyond Peter's understanding. 

But this was the harsh truth of life that Peter wished that he was never exposed to. 

I'm overwhelmed and insecure, give me something 

Peter sucked in a jaggy breath, and an estranged cry slipped out of his quivering pink lips. He fumbled with a broken piece of glass that he just realized had chipped off the bottle of vodka that he was drowning in. 

Along with the pain, his anxiety was at a permanent all-time high. Every day, Peter felt himself combusting from the wrecking mess that he was. 

Probably why the broken teenager was hunched over his sobbing, bleeding self as be contemplated if he was going to get kicked out of his apartment. 

I could take to ease my mind slowly 

In the beginning, Spiderman was his refuge from the overwhelming disaster that he was. Focusing on anything but his problems took him away from his. That sweet, sweet exhilaration that was influenced by coursing adrenaline in his radioactive veins as doing good was the only thought in his mind was all Peter needed for some sanity. Eventually, being Spiderman wasn't enough, he couldn't not think about his problems, and that began to have consequences on him as a hero. And eventually, the only thing that Peter lived for became nothing but another chore. 

Just take a drink and you'll feel better 

And one day, Peter got low. He missed his alarm, got yelled at by his boss not once, twice, but ten times, plus a threaten to be fired, missed his bus where a car skidded past him and sprayed an overly large puddle on him. To add salt to the wound, he got mugged, and Peter couldn't help the tears from slipping as he raced through the rain through mopey, disheveled curls of hair. 

And he was so low, he didn't care that someone had raided his apartment and took all his cash. So low, that he didn't stop himself from unconsciously cracking open a glass bottle of alcohol and downing the whole thing in a single go. 

Just take her home and you'll feel better 

The first few months were the hardest, Peter was so used to waking up with someone there, whether it was just to have someone there, confide in during nightmares, or for someone to have a conversation with. And for someone to just not be there, it hurt. Peter hated being lonely.

Keep telling me that it gets better  

And it wasn't like he could just live his life the same way again. He was a curse, and this time nothing anyone could say would deter him otherwise. He always knew that he was a curse, I mean what was the probability that all of Peter's blood family was dead by the youthful age of sixteen? Sure plane crashes aren't his fault, but maybe, if he had done something more or something less his parents wouldn't have gone. If he wasn't such a damn child Ben wouldn't have gotten shot and killed. If he cared about the perseverance of his identity, no one would've figured out that Spiderman was Peter Parker, and that his aunt was May Parker. 

May, in fact, Peter had no clue who murdered his aunt. He walked home from school late after a beating of Flash and the first thing that hit his enhanced senses was a strong, wet, metallic smell that made his mind scream panic. And when Peter looked up, May was sprawled across the sofa with blood spilling from her chest, with a gaunt, sunken expression. 

Does it ever?

Peter's first reaction was to cry. All he could do was cry and cry as he noticed the blood-dipped scrap of paper that was signed "To Spiderman." Nothing more, and certainly nothing less. 

And ever since, all Peter could do was cry. He stopped talking to Ned and MJ, not wanting his curse to spread to them. In fact, Peter Parker avoided as many people as possible, but he couldn't outrun everyone. 

Like Tony Stark for instance. 

Help me, it's like the walls are caving in. 
Sometimes I feel like giving up, 
No medicine is strong enough.

Peter only knows pain. He sits hunched against a wall as the radio emits fuzzy sounding words that drown through Peter's mind. 

All Peter can think of is the pain that has always rested within his heart, he just didn't know it. Parkers weren't supposed to give up, May never did with him, but Peter knew he was weak. A monster who killed everyone he loved. 

If anything, the teenager thought that he deserved this. 

Someone help me 

Peter let out a grunt as the glass bottle slipped from trembling ghost-white fingers, making a cracking sound as it cascaded onto the wooden floor, shattering into dozens of itty bitty pieces. Just like Peter's heart. 

The boy didn't bother attempting to clean the mess, instead tripping over his feet as he rummaged for another bottle. To his dismay, he found none. 

A dejected sob overcame the boy as he smacked his face with his hands shaking as he whispered to himself, "You're so stupid Peter, you knew that this was the only thing that made it better, but you forgot to get more!" 

Peter forced the cabinet door shut, and the sound rattled the room. Peter forced himself onto the sofa, the same one that he found May dead in and sobbed. 

He didn't care how much of a mess he was, with his tear-licked, red-rimmed face as everything within the boy crumpled. 

I'm crawling in my skin 

Peter hated feeling. He felt the alcohol spin his brain as everything became unbearable. As if he was waiting to break. His skin itched and clawed at him, which Peter responded with by fumbling out the blade he always kept in his pocket and brought it to his skin, and let out jaggy exhales as metal tore flesh. It was a painful sight, but it was the only thing that brought tranquility upon the aching mind.

Sometimes I feel like giving up

Peter accidentally pressed too hard and let out a wince as metal just nicked a vein, and crimson-colored liquid swiveled around him, bringing up nostalgia, but the good kind. A slightly younger, less hurting Peter contemplated if he jumped from his apartment building, would the impact be enough to end his misery? The boy thought about, to the point where he was standing tall, worn red Converse battered at the edge of his balcony, mere millimeters from finding out if he could die from this height. As he looked down at the bustling city with people walking to and from, lost in their bubbles of persona, Peter quietly retreated from the balcony and never looked out it again. 

Seeing the red slosh around him, brought that energy back. He always thought about it, not consciously, but a small, deep dark part in the back of his head, bottom of his heart. He wanted to jump, but at the same time, he didn’t want to. Because that meant that he was giving up. A selfish part of him hoped that maybe time would heal thickened scars, but all time did was reopen old wounds. And all Peter needed was time before he took one last baited breath as he was free-falling, and then everything would finally go dark. 

But I just can't

And no matter how many times Peter contemplated suicide, he always found himself backing out from the balcony door, too afraid that he might actually do it. The teenager felt pathetic, he was Spiderman, a supposed beacon of hope, and he was scared to jump. 

Spiderman, that had been another thing that had prevented him from jumping. If he jumped, who’d look out for the little guys that went through an unwritten hell? There were no other vigilantes, gosh, Peter hated that term. It brought an unnecessarily negative connotation, call it what he was, a hero. It didn’t matter if you liked it or not that his alter-ego was a hero, but does America stand for truth, or the holding back of enforced potential? 

It isn't in my blood

Peter thinks that God hates him. Because every time he stands against the chilly air, desperate to find a soothe for the raging storm that lives within his head, he hears voices. Not mainacal, crazy voices but the voices of all the people he lost. Telling him that he’s better than this, that he can overcome whatever pulls him backwards. The sad part is that Peter knows he can, but he’s too afraid. He’s too afraid to confide in the people he has, and too afraid of the future. 

The distressed teenager let out a shaky breath as he tossed the metal blade out of his bruised palm, gripping the bottle and bringing it to his lips once more. He took a large sip of the beverage and clenched his eyes shut, biting back the headache that seemed to be a constant since May had died. 

Maybe he was sick with some disease, maybe he was dying. Dying, there was that word again. Maybe he didn’t have to muster up the guts or the courage to jump off his balcony, he could just wait for the possible ailment to claim the remainder of his sad, sorrowed soul. 

I'm looking through my phone again, feeling anxious

A muffled buzzer blared through the advanced boy’s hearing and the drunk child lunged for it. The phone screen was too bright, blue light that made his eyelids ache in protest. Another buzz emitted from the device, meaning that the person was clearly trying to convey something to him. Maybe JJJ had another shift he had to cover, or found something that he fucked up with and finally fired him. 

And then Peter froze, curls falling in his line of vision. What if he is fired? A wave of anxiety pumped through his system, and Peter found himself stiffening. If he’s fired, that means that he can’t pay the rent, which meant that he’d be evicted. Which then meant that he’d be homeless, and all alone. The teenager let out a jagged breath as his eyelids dangerously fluttered shut, he hates being lonely. 

Afraid to be alone again, I hate this

Being lonely triggered his anxiety. A choked sound slipped out of Peter’s throat, it seemed that anything, and everything triggered his anxiety. He hated it, anxiety demeaned him, making him feel like he was nothing, but the shittest, worthless person on the planet. He already knew that he was nothing, because if he wasn’t, his family wouldn’t be taken away from him. Peter wouldn’t have been forced to cut ties with everyone that remained in his heart, not wanting them to catch his apparent plague. 

I'm trying to find a way to chill, can't breathe, oh

God, he was a mess. Peter brought his pale head to his trembling hands and let out a frustrated sigh. He needed to relax, if a simple text message had him so worked up, then he must have hit a whole new level of low. He needed to think, breathe, get it out and get himself back together. It was humiliating. May must be so disappointed in him. 

He slowly lowered the bottle that was sealed in his hand, trying to find something to focus on. He whispered to himself, “Pick up the phone Peter, it’s not that hard. Even a one year old could do it. You’re almost an adult for fuck’s sake, act like one.” 

He reached for it, but his hand was trembling so violently that all he did was drop the phone onto the wood, which only provoked Peter to burst into sobs. He whispered as he pressed his hand to his mouth, “God, I can’t do this. I’m breaking, I’m breaking.”

Is there somebody who could

He needed help, this was all too much. Peter felt overwhelmed as his body racked with sobs, praying that someone would walk in and hold him close and promise him that everything was going to be okay. And that it actually would. 

He gently dipped his head back, letting it bump against the concrete wall, something that was more put together than he was, letting out a quiet, empty whimper, “Please God, I, I need someone.”

Help me, it's like the walls are caving in

And then there was a faint knock on his door. Peter was unsure if he was hallucinating, but a part of him swore he heard the voice of Mister Stark prod gently, “Kiddo, are you okay? You haven’t been answering my texts, and MJ and Ned said that you haven’t been to school for a while. I’m worried kid, what’s up?” 

Peter bit back an estranged cry, was this real or his mind playing cruel tricks on him. 

And then the apartment door opened, and Peter found himself with the gracious presence of Tony Stark. 

Tony assessed the situation, eyes first hitting the broken, reddened look of the boy he knew to be filled with life and then the bottle of alcohol. His heart broke as he quietly spoke, “Oh kid, let me help you. I’m here.” 

Tony  knelt by Peter’s side, softly stroking the hollowed eyes that he would never be accustomed to and asked softly, “Kiddo, what happened?”

Peter raspily replied, “Everything. May’s dead.” 

Tony deflated, sorrow capturing his soul, “Peter, I’m so sorry.” 

Peter shook his head, “Don’t, it’s going to happen to everyone, cause I’m a curse, Mister Stark.”

Tony bit back the stinging sensation that pricked the back of his eyes and whispered softly, “That’s not true, you’re not a curse. You’re a blessing Peter, to everyone.” He sensed the heartbreak, and something more within the hurt soul in front of him, “What’s hurting you kiddo? Why didn’t you come to me for help, you know I’m always there for you?”

Peter whimpered, another crack to Tony’s aging heart, “Don’t want to be a burden.” Suddenly, tears burst out of the corner of his eyes as he threw himself around his mentor’s chest, “Mister Stark, I can’t do this, I can’t.” He couldn’t help the rawness seeping into his tone as he pleaded, “It hurts so much, and I thought that if I tried to do it myself, I’d do it but I hate being lonely and there’s so much anxiety and I just can’t do it, Mister Stark.” He whispered as he fisted Tony’s shirt material, “I’m not strong enough to do it.” He pleaded tightly against his mentor, not caring how childish he sounded, “Mister Stark, please help me, I can’t do this. You’re mechanic, you fic things, you can fix me too.”

Tony nodded tightly against the weeping child in his hold, “I’ve got you kiddo, let it out. I know you hate being lonely, but you have me now, so you won’t be lonely anymore. I’ll help you, of course, I will. I’ll fix you, Tony’s got you, none of that Mister Stark nonsense, c’mon, I’ll take you home, at the Tower.” 

He slowly picked up the child who was sound asleep against the warm light radiating from his chest, “I’m going to take care of you, Peter, I promise.”

A/N: so this week was regents week and I took English on Tuesday and history and geometry on Wednesday, and phew, I'm glad that's over. So ever since I've been writing straight, so here's your oneshots.