All The Bright Places - Blog Posts

"We are all alone trapped in these bodies and our minds and whatever company we have in this life is only fleeting and superficial."

Jennifer Niven, All the bright places

All the bright places

all the bright places → p.p

SUMMARY: in which you have a dilemma, and suddenly come face to face with the city’s superhero on the ledge of the bell tower at school.

WARNINGS: passing out, suicide attempt, female reader, unedited.

You’d think you had gotten used to it by now–the blanking out, the waking up. Even as it happened, whenever you reopened your eyes, you felt a little bit more numb every time. Yet, as it continued on, you soon realized that this was the worst one by far. You can’t really tell what was different this time around, only that when you woke, you didn’t actually feel awake. It felt as if you were almost stuck in a dream– or maybe a weird stage that had you caught in between being awake and asleep. It was as if you were empty, like someone had sucked all the blood out of your measly veins. You were alive, yes, but empty.

Closing your eyes, you feel the rusted ironwork curve beneath your fingertips. You don’t exactly remember how you got up here, though you don’t find it surprising, as your arrival here had followed your anemic episode. But here you are, standing six stories above ground, a thin barrier only between you and that narrow ledge. You’re practically a part of the sky, and as you listen to the bustle from the pavement below, you can practically feel the world tip. Everything spins, and you almost feel the wind float you away, drifting you off until there’s nothing.

Another gale rocks you, and it’s when you open your eyes that you realize you’re on the other side of the iron workings of the rail, standing shoeless on the concrete sill in your sheer mustard tights. The laces of your boots are clenched tightly between your quivering fingers, swaying slightly against the gusting breeze.

It’s probably over the whirlwind and oncoming drizzling of rain that you don’t hear the door open to the bell tower of the high school. He’s halfway, running silently, almost to the end and up in the sky when he notices you’re there. You stand a few feet away on the opposite side, hair waving in the breeze and skirt blown up like a parachute. Suddenly, the mask in his clutches is forgotten, and he takes a careful step towards you.

You’re one of the last people he’d suspect to see up here, six stories up on a bell tower and inches away from a ghastly death. You’re popular– a cheerleader even, someone expected to go out with Flash Thompson or sit at lunch with Lizzie Allen. And behind those clunky glasses that you insisted to wear all the time, though he knew they were utterly useless, you were pretty, like a china doll almost. And yet despite these attributes, you still somehow made time for the boy that was unknowingly behind you, staring you down as if he could freeze time itself.

“The worst thing you could do is look down.” The whisper that disposes from his lips is so silent that he’s almost certain you didn’t hear it, but it carries in the wind, and your fingers tighten immediately around the fencing. You didn’t have to turn around to confirm who it was speaking to you.

“It’s starting to rain,” he says, as if you don’t already know this. And yet, as his words are processed in your mind, you abruptly become aware of the water seeping into your cardigan, pooling around your bare meshed feet. You’re shivering, or shaking, the boy behind you can’t tell which one, and so he slowly inches himself towards you more, hoping his movements don’t frighten you and cause you to fall.

“Peter…” his name falls off your tongue, and he suddenly realizes his mistake. His mask remains in his hand, and he pulls it halfway over his forehead, mirroring that of a beanie. It’d be useless now in your presence.

When you don’t say anything else, he goes on inching forward, calling your name out in a hopeless reply.

From down below, someone yells, “Y/N? Is that Y/N up there?”

“Oh God,” you whisper, so low he barely hears it. You turn towards him, eyes widening and almost losing your balance when you realize who had been behind you the entirety of those few minutes. “OhGodohGodohGodohGodohGod.”

The wind blows your hair and skirt, and it feels like the slightest movement could have you fly away.

There is a general buzzing from the ground, and you don’t know if it’s from your current position or the fact that the superhero clad in red stood a mere few feet away from you. But it wasn’t that fact that had your heart in a race with the buzzing in your ears, but rather who had been behind the mask the whole time.

You attempt to straighten yourself, but your rain soiled feet betray your movements and suddenly you’re slipping, grasping back at the railing. Peter moves quickly, and his webbing encompasses your hand, trapping you to the safety of the rusting iron. You glare at the leather boots that fell from your grasp, landing on the other side of the fence with a couple of thumps.

“Here’s what I think you should do—”

“Peter.” It’s a whisper, and he can’t help but stare at you in desperation to get you out of your current situation. “Your mask.”

He stares at you in bafflement for a moment, one eyebrow arched before he scrambles, pulling the material to completely cover his face. All traces of Peter Parker suddenly disappeared.

“Y/N, listen to me; here’s what I want you to do.” The boy takes a slight step forward, as if he is the one on the ledge and not you before him. His hands are held out in front of him, a silent plead for you to stand still. Peter doesn’t know why, but at this very instant, he doesn’t trust his own instincts. If every New Yorker had traded spots with you now, he probably wouldn’t feel the utter fear that engulfed his entire being. But when it comes to you, his best friend, all meticulously calculated plans that could be formulated in just a few moments fly out the window. He simply has no confidence in what he’s supposed to do.

“I want you to turn around completely– yes I know, one of your hands is stuck.” His throat feels clammy, and he doesn’t know if he should continue on with his plan or spring over the railing in an attempt to save your anxiety ridden state. He watches, completely still, as you slowly turn around, your body shaking with even the slightest movement. “And then grab onto the rail– just grab onto it. Once you’ve got it, lean against it and then lift your right foot up and over. Got that?”

You nod, and Peter suddenly realizes how pale you’ve gone, stricken with panic.

“Okay,” he breathes, “Whatever you do, don’t step the wrong way. I’ll count you off. On three.”

You grip the curved iron and kind of prop yourself against it.

“One. Two. Three.”

You lift your leg up and over the railing so you’re sitting on it. You stare down at the ground, and you’re frozen once again.

Peter says, “Good. Great job. Now, just stop looking down.”

You slowly look at him and then reach for the floor of the bell tower with your right foot, and once you’ve found it, he speaks again, “Now get that left leg back however you can. Don’t let go of the wall.”

By now you’re shaking so hard you’re sure he can hear your teeth chatter. Cautiously, you lift your leg over the railing, stopping in a panic as your tights snag onto one of the sharp grooves. Peter takes a brisk step towards you, watching your moment of alarm. Jerking your leg forward, your tights tear free, giving yourself enough momentum to rip the webbings’ hold of your hand. You hurl across the puddled concrete and into open arms.

For a minute you can almost feel it, with his hands gripping your shoulders and your fingers latched tightly around his biceps. The sense of peace as your mind goes quiet, like you’re already dead. You are weightless and free. Nothing and no one to fear, not even yourself.

And despite the tight crinkle around your closed eyelids, the image is so clear and vivid. You can almost see the ground itself, six stories below, slick and damp, your body lying there.

“You alright?” Peters voice is quiet, soothing enough to have you open your eyes. He stares at you in silence, his mask once again pulled up and curling around his ears. There’s still a buzzing down below, and from the volume you’re almost certain it’s because of the boy before you.

You take a breath, it’s shaky, but it’s enough for him. He tightens his arms around you, bringing you into his chest as your fingers tug on the material of his suit. You want to cry, scream until you’ve gutted your throat raw and bang your fists on the ground until they’re cracked and bleeding. But you remain calm, unwavering of any emotion, and it frightens Peter down to the core.

“Thank you, Peter Parker.” It’s a whisper, but still there.  You reach up and kiss him on the cheek, and he catches the scent of your shampoo, and it smells of flowers.

He curls his fingers into your back. “Let’s get you home, okay?”

“Okay.”