I’m Not Becoming Spider-Man - Chapter 26: The Death of the Newspaper (Patreon)

“Wait... can I join you?” Gwen asked at once, clearly liking the idea.

“Uh, do you really need to?” Peter asked. Gwen didn't live that far from school, and her father picked her up after classes. Renting an apartment seemed unnecessary for her.

“I've had enough of my dad. He keeps telling me I can't do this and I can't do that,” Gwen said. “I'm tired of his nagging. Besides, I can take care of myself.”

“I don't know exactly what's going on at home,” Peter replied, “but you should at least talk to him. Rent is a serious expense. It's not something a high school student can just pay on her own.”

“I'll find a way, Peter.” The more Gwen considered it, the more appealing it sounded. She could get away from her irritating father, and she trusted both Peter and Harley as roommates.

“Seriously, you need to think something like this through.” Peter sighed. Why were these two kids so unbelievably stubborn? Had they both entered their rebellious phase at the same time?

In any case, nothing was settled yet. Peter would have to discuss it with Aunt May himself.

...

Thompson returned to the pleasant apartment building where his family lived. They weren't rich, but they were comfortably middle-class, and he was in an excellent mood.

Today had been something special. His photograph had appeared right in the middle of the school paper's front cover, making him look like a star. Better still, the issue included the Batman comic he loved.

Come to think of it, maybe he and Peter's group were actually becoming pretty good friends.

Then he reached his front door.

A girl with the same hair color as his sat outside, her face propped up in her hands. There was a Band-Aid on her face, and angry voices could be heard from inside.

“What's going on, Jessie?” Thompson asked his younger sister. The sounds told him enough to guess what had happened, but he was terrified of having it confirmed.

Avoiding the truth, however, wouldn't make it disappear.

“Harrison's been drinking again,” Jessie said, sounding horribly accustomed to it. “He's beating Mom again.”

“...” Thompson hesitated, then reached for the doorknob. He wanted to turn it. Instead, his hand began trembling so badly that he couldn't summon the strength.

“Aah!” A woman's scream of pain rang out from behind the door.

Thompson stumbled back a step. His hand was still shaking.

“You can't even open the door, Thompson? Coward.” Jessie sounded almost mocking. “Look at you! You're so big and strong, but when Mom's getting beaten, you can't even open a door!”

Her words cut straight through him. Worse, they were true.

No matter how fierce and powerful Thompson appeared outside this apartment, inside he was frightened and small. When people lacked something, they sometimes tried hardest to pretend they possessed it.

Thompson squatted beside his sister, wrapped his arms around his head, and buried his face against his knees.

“Can't you show a little backbone for once?” Jessie shouted at him.

“Like you're any different! What gives you the right to lecture me?!” Thompson shouted back. His eyes grew red, whether from grief, shame, or fear he couldn't have said.

This was the same offensive player who could charge through line after line of defenders without flinching. Now tears ran down his cheeks.

“...” Jessie opened her mouth to snap back, then stopped. What was the point?

They were both terrified. Neither of them could deny it.

The siblings fell silent, clutching their schoolbags outside the door until the commotion inside faded. At last, a haggard woman opened it, holding a towel against her face.

“Come inside, children,” she whispered. “Quietly.”

Only then did they step back into their broken home.

The apartment was a wreck. Broken glass and spilled alcohol covered the floor like traps waiting to cut them, and there were traces of blood in their mother's hair and on her clothes.

“Watch where you step. Eat something and then get to bed early,” their mother, Rose, told them gently. “You both have school tomorrow.”

Neither child replied. They ate, then went upstairs to their separate rooms.

Thompson lay on his bed, miserable and restless, with nowhere to direct his feelings. Maybe he should apologize to Jessie. He really shouldn't have shouted at her like that.

Knock, knock.

Someone tapped at his door. He went over but didn't open it. “Who is it?”

Silence.

After a moment, Jessie spoke from the hallway. “Remember... when you leave tomorrow, watch your step. There's broken glass.”

“Okay.”

Her footsteps faded. Thompson remained standing behind the door for some time before returning to his bed. He opened his schoolbag and took out the school paper.

He looked at the photograph of himself on the cover, tore it free, crumpled it up, and threw it in the trash. Then he ripped out the next page and threw that away too.

A superstar? Flash? The pride of Midtown's football team? All of it was a lie. Every last bit.

He kept tearing out pages until he came across Batman fighting a crowd of clown-faced criminals, men who outnumbered him and looked far stronger than he was.

Thompson touched the illustration. The paper felt cold beneath his fingers. Batman wasn't real either.

But he wished, desperately, that he were.

Suddenly realizing what he had destroyed, Thompson dug through the trash for the torn comic pages. He switched on the light, hunted for glue, and carefully pieced the fragments back together beneath his lamp. Then he read the comic all over again.

If only Batman were real, Thompson thought.

Then maybe Mom wouldn't have to be beaten anymore.

He imagined it like a dream. Harrison was hurting them again, but this time Batman descended from the sky, defeated their drunken father, and brought peace back to their home.

...

“PEEETER!”

The shout made Peter jump so violently he almost pitched forward. “Oh my God, Flash! Could you be any louder?”

“Don't tell Flash what to do!” Thompson shot back. “Where's that sissy?”

“Harley's going to the hospital for a checkup today,” Peter answered.

“Is he all right?”

“Probably. I haven't stopped worrying about that baseball bat hitting him, though. He keeps insisting he's fine, but I think he ought to get checked anyway. With luck, he'll be back this afternoon. Oh, and he's supposed to go look at a place to live, too.”