Peter Parker was Spider-Man.

Nobody knew it. Every day after school, he put on his red sweatshirt with blue sleeves and pants and the red mask with black goggles, and went out to fight crime under another name, another identity. As soon as he put that mask on, he was a different person. A better person.

Maybe that's why he loved it so much. To be someone else, to be someone cool, someone that people admired, even if it was just for a few hours every day, made Peter feel special. Made him feel like maybe he was more than just a high school nerd, more than just a kid who got picked on and loved LEGOs.

And whenever Peter saw the Avengers on the news... they inspired him. He wanted to be like that, to be one of the people whom everyone looked up to.

The Avengers? They had it made. Everyone loved them. Everyone would give anything to be like them. Especially Peter Parker. Lucky for him, he was one step closer than the rest. The spider that had bitten him six months prior had transferred its proportional abilities to Peter's body. Thanks to these powers and the web shooters he had engineered himself, he was like a little superhero. And he loved being a little superhero. But sometimes he wanted something a little bigger.

School was boring. Especially in comparison to flying around the city in a red and blue costume and helping people under a different name and a different face. So as soon as that faithful last bell rung through the building and it's shrill, hollow cry rang through the halls, Peter sprinted out the door and ran into the alley, his alley, where he could change himself into something better.

Peter went into the alley, and sixty-five seconds later, Spider-Man ventured out, donned in his costume that may have looked cheesy but was the best Peter could do (and frankly, he thought it looked pretty cool).

And so Spider-Man scaled the building next to him, sat on the roof and waited for excitement.

The first thing he saw was smoke, about three miles away. He swung over and arrived within a minute. A building was on fire.

Spider-Man looked around. A few people had escaped the burning building, but the firefighters had not yet arrived. He went over to a woman who was coughing next to him, a burn on her shirt. "Are you OK?" he asked.

"Please, sir," the woman cried, grabbing onto Peter. "My son is in there! He's four! I tried to go get him but they wouldn't let me -"

Before she could finish, Spider-Man took off.

He scaled the building. It wasn't that tall, and he could feel its structural insecurity. Fear welled up within him. What if I don't make it? he thought. What if they die? What if I die before I make it to them?

He heard a scream coming from one of the rooms. He ran toward it. The door was locked. He was starting to have trouble breathing now, as the smoke began to fill his lungs. He coughed.

Spider-Man backed up and then ran at the door, using the force of his body weight against the crumbling wood. The door came down.

He looked around him and quickly saw a little boy hiding under a tall wood table. Peter knelt down next to the kid. "I'm gonna get you out of here, to your Mommy, but you're going to have to come out, OK?" The kid nodded and slowly crawled out from under the table. Peter picked him up gently and ran.

Spider-Man only barely made it out before the house crumbled down behind him, devoured by the hungry flame. He ran over to the woman, who was still crying hystarically, and gave the boy to her. "Thank you," she sobbed, as she held her son tight. Spider-Man ran over to a police officer who had just arrived with the firefighters, who had quickly gotten to work quenching the greedy flames. "Was anyone else in there?" Peter asked, afraid of the answer.

"No," the uniformed woman replied, sending a wave of relief through Peter's body. "Just the kid. Thank you."

He nodded, and before she could ask him who he was, he flew off on his webs.

While he was on his way back to the tall building where he did most of his watching, Spider-Man heard a noise. A gunshot. It was about a mile away. He raced toward it, hearinng more gunshots as he swung. A spark of fear was elicited within him when he noticed he was getting closer and closer to his own apartment.

He dropped from the sky next to his own building, where a man wearing a black mask and holding a gun ran out of the door. Spider-Man jumped on him, knocking him over, and grabbed his gun. "What are you doing, man?" the teen shouted. Just then a police officer rolled up in his car and jumped out. "Hey!" he shouted, pointing his gun. "Put your hands up!" Spider-Man then realized that the officer was pointing the gun at him. His heart started to beat way too fast as he realized that he was wearing a mask and carrying a gun and holding a person down, appearing to have just committed the crime. The real criminal had even taken off his mask, and now looked like a normal, innocent citizen.

It looked like Spider-Man was guilty.

"I'm not- I didn't-" he spluttered, and dropped the gun. The police officer was approaching him now, the gun cocked and pointed at Spider-Man's head. Peter was panicking now. What do i do what do I do what do I do was the only thing racing through his head, and without really knowing what was happening, he shot a web in the air and flew out of sight.

Spider-Man raced back to the alley where his backpack was stashed on the side of a building. Shaking, he peeled off his suit, which was damp from sweat, and changed into normal clothes again. Peter Parker left the alley with his blue-grey backpack which contained his alter-ego and biggest secret, still shaking as he wandered into the street of Queens.

Without his proportionally spider-like abilities to help him, it took Peter a few minutes to reach his apartment again. The whole time, he felt like someone was watching him. His spider senses were screaming at him, but whenever he turned around, no one was there.

Passing Delmar's Deli-Grocery, he decided to go in. He needed a break from the paranoid feeling he got walking so vulnerably on the streets. The bell rang as he walked in, and he glanced up at the TV in the corner of the store. The news was on, and Mr. Delmar was watching. The screen showed live video footage of Peter's apartment, where a news lady was talking about how a masked vigilante had shot several people and that authorities were still searching for an unknown man known by the alias of Spider-Man, who was found armed at the scene of the crime. She began to list names of casualties. John Harding. Matthias Dentret. Jennifer Sondro. May Parker.

Peter's heart thudded to the floor. No. This can't be happening. Not possible.

He was shaking a lot now, and his eyes welled up with tears. It hit him like a sack of bricks to the gut. Without even thinking, Peter sprinted out of the shop and arrived back at his appartment in thirty-seven seconds. The news lady was still there, with camera people. Ambulences and police cars crowded the streets. Several doctors were gathered around a group of people on stretchers. May was one of them, a bullet wound in her chest, blood on her shirt.

Tears were now streaming down Peter's face and he began to sob.

No, he thought, this is your fault. She would still be alive if it weren't for you, if you had only gotten there sooner... The police are after you, and it's because this is ALL YOUR FAULT.

Peter turned around and ran away from his apartment, the diatribes inside his mind still screaming at him and haranguing him.

The thoughts echoed in his mind as he sprinted away from the scene of the crime.

It's all your fault.

It's all your fault.

It's all my fault.