I don't know when, but my body began to tremble and the pain grew worse. Even so, my mind wasn't focused on myself but on the individual I refused to believe was what the evidence pointed to. Almost unconsciously, with one trembling hand, I reached for his face and removed the blood-soaked mask. Feeling its sticky texture made my trembling worse, and my mouth filled with the taste of copper.
"Nooo! What the hell is happening? Why did I attack the Spider, and why was he hurting me?" "It's not true, tell me it's not true," I begged into the void.
Understanding what was happening was not easy. Stunned, I drew closer, surrendered at his side, lifted him, and removed the mask of the costume once more. The surroundings seemed clearer—maybe it was a full moon tonight, though I didn't care. My mind focused on him, capturing many of his features.
Like a twisted announcement, my mind proclaimed: "Behold the one and only Spider-Man." Without a doubt, it was him—Benjamin P. Parker. Just as I had imagined he would be. His face was different from the movies or comics, yet still recognizable to me, a fusion of the best traits of the Spider-Men I loved. Desperate, I looked at him, trying to see if he was okay, forgetting what had just happened.
I observed closely and saw part of his face swollen, and a wound on his neck still bleeding. I quickly tried to stop the bleeding with my hands, applying enough pressure but not too much to avoid hurting him further. I tried to get a reaction by blowing into his eyes, but nothing. I was stunned—this was bad, very bad. I had to get him out of here. He seemed to have a concussion, if I remembered my doctor brother's advice correctly.
Recalling his words, I took a deep breath and began shouting for help while checking for more anomalies. Then something froze my blood: his chest wasn't moving. He wasn't breathing. This was getting worse. Without panicking, I moved my forearm to tilt his chin and gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
As I proceeded, I remembered I had forgotten to check his pulse. That paralyzed me for a few seconds, but I quickly snapped out of it. I increased the pressure slightly and used my other hand on the opposite side of his neck, focusing hard. Nothing. No pulse. My heart compressed so tightly it felt like someone was trying to crush it.
Guilt—I felt it. But I refused to be swallowed by it. This wasn't the time. They say in critical moments we reveal who we truly are, and it seems I am a stubborn optimist. Like lightning, I began CPR, grateful to the heavens that I had learned it in my first semester of medical school with my brother in the "How to Save a Life" course.
"You're going to be fine, Spidey," I said. "You've gotten out of worse between battles." I looked at him, but the world is cruel. If words could save people, doctors wouldn't be needed. With my limited vision, I saw no movement in his face. That was bad—very bad. "Think, think, think," I muttered, desperate for a miracle. I looked around. "Help!" I demanded between compressions, but the place seemed deserted.
Fear weakened my pressure, but my efforts made me notice a modest streetlamp. Grateful, I hurried to move him closer while continuing the maneuver, knowing he needed a defibrillator because I couldn't keep this up forever. I knew what I had to do. After thirty seconds of chest compressions, I tried to stop the bleeding with a piece of cloth torn from my shirt, carefully avoiding further damage to his neck. Then I gave him mouth-to-mouth again, holding his head for two seconds, controlling the amount and rhythm to minimize harm.
When I returned to compressions, I dragged him, knowing I had to check the rest of his body. I noticed another deep wound: one of his legs had a bone protruding from the calf. That was the next imminent danger. Using the same hand I had used for resuscitation, I tore another piece of fabric with my teeth, finished the breath cycle, and tied it tightly around his calf, using his web-shooter as adhesive, before returning to CPR.
I had never moved or thought so fast. Efficiently, I approached that discreet lamp, shouting as loud as I could: "Call an ambulance! Someone is dying! You—yes, you—help!" I begged for someone to act, to avoid the bystander effect. It was a critical moment, but no results came. My hope was an illusion.
Desperate, I screamed until my throat and chest felt like they would burst, but only the rain answered me. I continued for another minute, knowing time was the one thing I didn't have, always searching for a solution. I knew he needed defibrillation immediately.
I turned my neck so fast it felt like it would snap. I didn't lose rhythm, running toward the only source of light, racing against the clock. Luckily, it was plastic, so I broke it and ripped out the wires, praying the voltage wasn't too strong. I pulled carefully, afraid they would break. I brought them close together, noticing a faint discharge—the shock traveled into my arm like a slap. "Damn rain." The heavens listened, and the rain calmed.
Grateful, but I did not stop. I pulled Peter as close and carefully as I could, yet I couldn't move him even two steps. I felt my body begin to give in to exhaustion; the cables slipped from my hands and I fell to my knees. I barely felt the shock, since I was in a relatively dry, uneven spot. I clenched my teeth, trying not to falter, returning to the maneuvers while attempting to move him little by little. Persistence was the only thought in my mind, always reaching for the cable. I didn't know how much time I had left, but decisively I touched the tip of the wire, using myself as a conduit to restart his heart. With all my being, I managed to release it at the right moment. Numb, I tried to continue, but my coordination was ruined by the electricity. I screamed for help.
I persisted for what I want to believe was half an hour, begging for a miracle. Without strength, I collapsed onto his chest, pressing my ear against it with stubborn optimism… A sordid silence was the only reward for my desperate effort. I saw his face, pale, almost imperceptibly twisted, his neck bent in the wrong place.
I knew it. A harrowing howl tore from my mouth, and my sob drowned out the sound of the few drops still falling from the sky. He was dead—the person I thought I could save, the only one I never wanted to hurt. In my bloodied state, I had my favorite superhero lying lifeless before me.