It was as if a train had slammed into a mountain. I breathed deeply, like an office worker who went out to buy bread and ended up running a triathlon before collapsing unconscious into bed. I raised my hands to my face, trying to rub my eyes, but a conditional signal of pain forced me to pull them away. Another signal came from my hands—at first I barely noticed, but when I did, I rubbed them and realized their state. Without a doubt, I had destroyed more than just the threat to my life: my knuckles were shattered, one wrist twisted, and in the other hand a metacarpal bone slightly protruding.
Collapsed, I sighed, shaken by how strong I had been forced to be. Something primitive awoke in me, the instinct that defines a person: fight or flee. You don't know who you are until you have no options but those. Yet it would be a lie to say that stopping that mortal scourge didn't seize my tranquility. A small pride swelled in my chest for having halted the relentless bully who had attacked me without mercy or reason.
Now I tried to open my eyes wider, curious to see who the scoundrel was that had hurt me. I was angry, because it felt like an eternity. Frustrated, I had never been so battered in my life. It hurt just to try to blink, but thanks to adrenaline I managed to open one eye, looking like someone just waking up after a wild movie party. The other eye, unfortunately, did not respond. I wasn't very successful, but at least I managed something, clinging to the hope that I hadn't lost an eye.
I tried to focus on him, on his features. Was it mere curiosity, or morbid fascination? I couldn't recognize him, but something unsettled my subconscious. Maybe he was just some lunatic from a documentary on TV. Or perhaps someone drugged, resembling a vague acquaintance or a person from my social circle with whom I had never interacted.
What a day, oh my luck. What were the chances of running into two strangers, each stranger than the other? And what the hell was I doing, coincidentally waking up in an unknown street, being attacked by people as if I owed them millions? Not only was it raining, but it was so late, the darkness of my surroundings so inhospitable, that no one came to my aid.
I made foolish decisions, no doubt out of my mind, crawling into a corner to fight for my life. At least I noticed, as I regained a shred of sanity.
Confused, yet desperately determined to learn more about the one who had given me such a brutal beating, I lowered my gaze quickly, trying to focus. I didn't stop until, with effort, I managed to discern the outline of his figure. His clothing was strange—that was my first thought. Not what I expected, and I noticed it immediately. He seemed to be wearing a costume-like outfit: footwear made of some kind of dark lycra, leaving behind cheap shoes; pants fused with the footwear, two-toned, contrasting like red and blue, clinging tightly to his body. I supposed he was one of those aerobics enthusiasts, like someone into Zumba. Surely not someone who frequented this cold, exposed place. Wearing tights like that wasn't to prove he wasn't a vagabond—it marked him as either a lunatic or a suicide.
I was about to pull away, but when I leaned on that figure—man or woman, bodybuilder—I felt a relief and noticed lines forming patterns. I couldn't distinguish them in the darkness of the place, not until I forced my eyes harder and finally saw his chest: a symbol I did not expect, a spider unmistakable to any young person born in the 2000s.
A ridiculous thought struck my face.
This can't be, I don't believe it. I went straight to one of his wrists and saw a very distinctive device. I laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was absurd. I was attacked twice, and one of them was by some crazy cosplayer!
—Slash! The winds roared as they clashed in the narrow alley, and the once dark place was lit by small, continuous flashes formed by the rain.
I adjusted my eye and looked at him again, up and down. His expression was one of surprise—I suppose he hadn't expected my battered body to explode with power and strike him so fast and relentlessly. The fool's eyes were fixed; I guessed he had fainted. I could see it because his mask had been damaged during our exchange of blows.
Ha! I laughed loudly this time. It amused me—after all, not every day does Spider-Man beat you to a pulp. I thought it would make a great anecdote to tell.
But then a spontaneous doubt hit me: What if he was the real Spider-Man? That was absurd. If he were real, he would have crushed me with a single blow and used his iconic web-shooters. Yet unconsciously, my hands pressed against his palm, apparently activating something. I couldn't see clearly, due to the poor lighting or the speed at which it happened.
Ha, that lunatic bought a good replica, I tried to convince myself, fighting the intrusive thought that these were real web-shooters. But then something unheard of happened: when I pressed his palm again, aiming it at me to see better, a kind of thread shot out so fast I couldn't even tell when it began or ended.
What is this, foam with glue? I growled in disgust. But when I tried to tear it off, I fell beside the lunatic.
I struggled and struggled, unable to free myself. I began to thrash, looking again at my aggressor—his clothes, his appearance. Damn, he looked like a carbon copy of the comics. It's him. The idea I had rejected came back stronger, making me hyperventilate. Could it be that you really are Spider-Man? My heart grew heavy.
And I completely forgot about the other attacker.
It's madness to think that—he's just a comic book character. But something in my heart told me otherwise. My conscious mind said I was being paranoid, but my subconscious noticed something. No, it's a lie. Desperate, with no one to ask, I tried to find something to prove myself right, to discard the idea once more. A thought lit up, opening a bridge to resolve my ominous suspicion. I searched his waist and found a bulge.
I knew it. I pulled out a very thin wallet and opened it. This would tell me if I was imagining things, destroy the thorn lodged in my chest.
Unfortunately, I didn't see what I wanted: Benjamin Peter Parker, born 1996, 23 years old, male, current guardian May Parker.
I looked back at the young body lying on the ground.