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[For Mary Jane] Under the Bridge
Apr. 8th, 2010 01:57 amWhenever I needed to think back home, there were a couple of surefire places to find me -- if, that is, you knew where to look, and even then, my webs provided me with access to all sorts of off-limit locales that the land-dwelling could never dream of, like the very top of the Empire State Building. I lost count a long time ago how many nights I spent up there, sorting through some trouble or another, but when I was really feeling sorry for myself -- when I really needed a reminder of just how messed up life could get -- I headed for the bridge that Gwen was thrown from all those years ago. On the island, though, there are no bridges, and the only things worth climbing are trees -- not that I've been doing much of that lately, thanks to my leg. What's left, then, is the beach and all that it symbolizes -- my near-death experience, the murder of Kendra Shaw, and one more time Spider-Man's nearly cost the life of the woman I love.
The very same woman I told in a note to meet me here.
To say things have been strained between Mary Jane and I these past few weeks would require a serious reinterpretation of the word. We talk, sure, but not about much. Our conversations barely scratch the surface of any given issue. It's like I'm hiding a secret we both already know, and for as betrayed as I am by her complete disregard for my privacy, I already forgave her for it. The problem is, I haven't exactly been acting like it. No, instead I've been waiting for a sign these past few weeks, some clue that'll make everything fall back into place, but after the seventeenth morning passes without a flashing marquee dropping out of the sky to tell me what to do, I figure it's high time to take matters into my own hands. The only way I'll be able to trust Mary Jane again is if I start trusting her again. There's no rulebook to this sort of thing, no Miss Manners to guide us through it. It's instinctual, plain and simple, and if there's one thing in this world I do exceptionally well, it's relying on my instincts.
And so, leaning back in the wheelchair, I look at the beach stretched out in front of me, and I wait for her to show, a thin rope necklace twisted around my fingers in a solo game of cat's cradle. It's a lot more peaceful without the fire. I'd almost forgotten.
The very same woman I told in a note to meet me here.
To say things have been strained between Mary Jane and I these past few weeks would require a serious reinterpretation of the word. We talk, sure, but not about much. Our conversations barely scratch the surface of any given issue. It's like I'm hiding a secret we both already know, and for as betrayed as I am by her complete disregard for my privacy, I already forgave her for it. The problem is, I haven't exactly been acting like it. No, instead I've been waiting for a sign these past few weeks, some clue that'll make everything fall back into place, but after the seventeenth morning passes without a flashing marquee dropping out of the sky to tell me what to do, I figure it's high time to take matters into my own hands. The only way I'll be able to trust Mary Jane again is if I start trusting her again. There's no rulebook to this sort of thing, no Miss Manners to guide us through it. It's instinctual, plain and simple, and if there's one thing in this world I do exceptionally well, it's relying on my instincts.
And so, leaning back in the wheelchair, I look at the beach stretched out in front of me, and I wait for her to show, a thin rope necklace twisted around my fingers in a solo game of cat's cradle. It's a lot more peaceful without the fire. I'd almost forgotten.