#[bcz she saw her dad’s shadow and was

[ghostly-sunflower]

"I don't know. I expected you to feel something."

[tw! self-harm(?), violence, blood]

Gwen’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, but no words came out.

What was she supposed to say? Of course she feels something, but that something was everything and nothing all at once to the point where she was practically numb with hay-wired confusion.

She had gone through her own hell, self-inflicted most of the time but she wouldn’t tell anyone that, and had beat herself black and blue to the point where she felt like a zombie.

She was dead on her feet, dead to her world, dead to herself, and most importantly, dead to one of the people who meant everything to her.

She was a mess, a shell of the person that she was before. So, she did what any sane person would do, and she filled that hollow shell with work.

Spider-Woman work, to be specific.

She felt like a cliché, pushing everyone away and hunkering down to push herself to the brink of insanity. And yet, she reveled in that feeling.

She felt awful, and it was amazing.

She felt alive when she would get decked across the face.

She would be thrilled upon hearing that a new villain was in town so she could pound her anger into them to the point of disfigurement.

And most importantly, she soaked in the feeling of bleeding. It felt like she was ridding herself of her sins, atoning for the pain she caused.

Every-time she would come home, face black and blue, busted lip, blood from her nose streaming down her chin, and her hair messed up like a rats nest, she would be beaming.

Proud of herself. Of her work.

Her dad would be worried, of course, but she always brushed it off with a laugh and a finger jabbing over her shoulder saying ‘you should see the other guy.’

The ‘other guy’ nowadays, would be worse. She used to pull her punches, taunt and have a laugh with her villains.

Now, Gwen prides herself on her stealth. She’d liken herself to a predator stalking its prey. Watching, waiting, till the moment that she’d sink her teeth into her prey and watch it writh in agony.

Then, she plays her villains like a drama, dancing around them like a ballerina, her eyes filled with mirth as she plans which punches she wants to take, which punches she wants to feel, to make her bleed, and which punches she’ll grab with ruthless efficiency and crush, breaking the bones with a satisfying crunch.

She would leave them like a serial murder would leave the crime scene. Making the police vomit as they see the handiwork she proudly left behind.

She wasn’t heartless though, she would attend their funerals. To make sure they were dead, of course.

Gwen’s jaw clicked as her eyes zeroed in on Miles, breaking out of thought.

“Of course I felt something.” Gwen said, her stance becoming defensive, her hands folding over her chest.

The problem is, she felt too much.