Peter woke up in pain.

In excruciating pain.

The kind of pain that sat heavy in his joints and dug into every crevice of his body. Stinging. Burning. Raw . It swept over his brain, yanking him from sleep with the gentleness of a raging Hulk. A grunt slammed into his chest, knocking him breathless, and he whined.

Moving felt like a death sentence. Breathing was hard enough as it was, his chest stuttering and too tight. He tried to lift his head, but even flexing the tendons of his neck sent pain scrambling across his shoulders and spine. There was nothing holding him down, but Peter's limbs felt so heavy it reminisced of times when he was pinned, powerless and vulnerable, and that made panic grip his ribcage, crushing bone, squeezing his heart. With a cry, he lurched upward, gripping the side of the couch as his body screamed in protest.

He gulped in breath after breath, squeezing his eyes shut to ride out the overlapping sensations racking across his skin. He squeezed the couch tighter to keep himself from collapsing, knowing he wouldn't be able to get back up if he did.

When he opens his eyes again, it's to a dark room. A few stray beams of light escape the blackout curtains nailed over the windows, but only because it was a hastily done job and the curtains are crooked. He'll have to fix that later. His eyes are still adjusting, but it's a second thought. A far-away care that he doesn't linger on. A few of his neighbors are arguing in the next apartment over, but however annoying that is it's nothing new, and he ignores them.

Slowly, face pinching, he released the couch and flexed his arm, pulling it up and down to work out the muscles and kinks. He didn't catch the number of the truck that ran him over, but it must've been a big one. Like, Rhino-sized big. It's been a long time since he's felt this sore. Since he's been put through a ringer that makes him want to curl into a tiny ball and die. It takes way too long for his arm to move without feeling like he's tearing apart his skin, and even then, the pain lingers. Never leaving. A constant buzz in the back of his head. He works his other arm, and then his legs.

His body feels...off. Razor-sharp thanks to the agony, but muted at the same time. Like staring through glass, but everything around him is cast in fog. He sat on the edge of the couch, shoulders hunched and bent over as he rode out a wave of nausea. When it passes, he hauls himself up, wondering what the hell he did last night that warrants this much abuse and whether he had enough painkillers to survive the day. There's a spot of blood on the couch that is going to be a pain in the ass to get out.

Peter stops, eyes wide, heart-stopping.

He doesn't own a couch. Couldn't afford one and didn't have the room for it in his apartment. He whirls back around, grunting as his body spasms, leaning against the couch (that he wasn't supposed to HAVE ), and roves over the room as his eyes begin to adjust. He almost knocks into the coffee table, spilling with empty beer bottles, take-out boxes, and...and was that a gun ??

"That's a gun, alright.," one of the neighbors says as if reading his mind.

"Guns are the best problem solvers. Ask any American."

Peter's head whipped around as he stumbled back and tripped over a heavy duffel bag. His entire body jolts and he bangs his head against a small table next to the couch, knocking the phone on it to the ground. His head spikes with new pain, but it's a pain he forgets about quickly as he scrambled to his feet.

He knocks a Chinese take-out box away, panicking. He didn't have Chinese-take out last night. He didn't have the money to splurge on beer. He definitely didn't have a TV, a coffee table, or a motherfucking couch .

There's a door not far from where he is and Peter lunges for it, but he's...slower. Like someone had tied blocks to his feet. He feels...bulky. Weird. Off .

He burst into the bathroom. The smell inside is rancid, like blood and sickness, and there's a splattering of...of something on the wall. Chunky, grotesque, and fleshy. He rushes to the mirror and immediately recoils in horror. His skin is sunken, his eyes hollow, and every inch of his skin is littered with pock-marked scars and open sores. It was no wonder he felt like he was being flayed alive. Why it hurt to breathe .

His hair was gone, and his eyes were a sickly, milky yellow. He looked...he looked like a walking corpse. Was he dead? Did he DIE ??

The neighbors are getting louder and his brain is screaming, and everything is becoming too much, and he wants to rip out his nonexistent hair because he just needs to stop and THINK.

"Who is this bozo?"

"Yeah, this doesn't look like our asshat."

"Maybe we hit our head a little TOO hard."

Peter pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, trying to block out the sight, the noise. His senses have always been enhanced, but was his hearing always this crisp? His spider sense wasn't going off either. But it was like the neighbors were in the room with him. Like they were...talking to him...

"Spidey-sense?

"Enh anced what?

OH MY GOD, COULD IT BE????

Peter whirled around, chest heaving and eyes wild. "W-who's there?" his voice is deep and garbled. A vocal fry that is nothing how he's supposed to sound and it puts his teeth on edge. There's no one in the bathroom with him. He's alone.

Oh ho! Babe, are you in for a treat!

Look in the mirror hot stuff!

A chill ran down Peter's spine. Slowly, he met his gaze in the mirror again, taking in the ghoulish expression that stared back at him, skin flaring as if needing the reminder that just existing was pure agony.

Hey! Nice to meet ya! What is a pretty subconscious like you doing in a garbage bin like this?

Not that we don't LOVE company, but you can do better, sis.

Peter's stomach hurled. They weren't his neighbors. They....they were in his head. They were in his head.

DING DING DING! We have a winner!

Finally, we got a genius in this house.

Peter flung himself away from the mirror, hunching over as his stomach heaved. He didn't know if his sudden sickness was because of the voices clamoring in his brain, taking up every space in his head, or if it was a result of another rolling wave of pain. He hobbled towards the toilet, but something red and black in the tub catches his eye.

The water is tainted pink and has more flecks of gruesome, fleshy chunks that Peter doesn't want to think about. But past that, the red and black beyond is...familiar. Annoyingly familiar. With shaking fingers, he reached into it and pulled out a leather and spandex suit.

The design. The colors. It clicks like two pieces crashing together. An explosion of anger, annoyance, confusion .

This belongs to...

"Oh my god."