Chapter One

I sat alone at lunch that day. I had no friends. Nobody to sit with. Or talk to. Sometimes I just wanted to scream but I couldn't. Because if I did nobody would hear me. Because nobody would believe me. People pretend to have depression all the time these days. I'm not pretending. But because so many people pretend, the people who aren't pretending get overlooked. And not one person believes us. I just needed one person to believe in me. I needed a believer. 

I knew people were staring at me. I had bruises from my father's hands on my arms. I had bags under my blue, bloodshot eyes.

Abruptly, I stood up and left the cafeteria. I didn't want to deal with people at the moment. I went to the art room. The school's music studio rooms were all booked on Wednesdays at lunch, so I had to go to the art room instead. Music and art were just... how I would deal with everything. They were probably the only reasons I hadn't jumped off a bridge yet.

So I drew. I drew and I drew until finally, I heard the next class entering the room. I walked to my next class, language arts, and continued my drawing instead of paying attention. The boy sitting next to me was watching me draw. 

"That's really good," he whispered, nodding toward my drawing. 

"Thanks," I responded, glancing at him. 

"I'm Peter. Parker," he added holding out his hand. 

"I'm Y/N. Y/N Arkenson," I whispered back, shaking his hand.

We whispered back and forth throughout the class until our teacher told us to stop. Class ended, and we both left the room. We talked on the way to our next classes. This boy, Peter, was really nice. Nobody had ever treated me like this before. 

"So Y/N, what's your phone number?" he asked, pulling out his phone, his brown eyes meeting my crystal blue ones. 

"Oh, it's 678-136-7092," I responded, smiling. 

(A/N yes, I know that number is Steve Roger's number from Infinity War. I used it because I know that sometimes when there is a phone number in a movie or book some people actually call it, and I don't want some random person getting phone calls because of me.) 

"No way, you're from Atlanta?" Peter asked, smiling as he looked up from his phone. 

"Yeah I am, I was born there. My- my father and I moved here about two years ago. After my mom died," I said. When I started talking about my father, a noticeable shadow crossed my face.

"Oh Y/N I'm so sorry! I had no idea!" he replied, evidently horrified.

"It's fine. It really is," I responded awkwardly. 

The bell rang, and we both rushed off to class. The rest of the day went by in a blur, and I tried to get home as quickly as possible. Hoping I might be able to slip past my father. 

Nonesuch luck.

"Y/N Emmeline Arkenson!" my father yelled as I entered our small townhome. He was drunk. As usual.  And there was a bunch of intoxicated women in our living room. As usual. I honestly wasn't surprised. 

I whimpered as my father grabbed me by the wrist and yanked me down the hall. He began to hit me. I didn't understand why. Maybe it was because I looked exactly like my mother, or maybe it was because he needed some sort of way to vent his anger. But he continued to hit me before I could try to decide on the reason. My father had no valid reason to hurt me. I hadn't done anything wrong. I was the perfect daughter. I always did what I was told, I kept quiet, I got straight A's, I did everything right. Yet he still hated me. I cried out.

"Father please!" I begged through the tears. He wrenched my backpack off of me and threw it in my room. He threw me in as well. Then he followed. 

The blows were never-ending. I felt my head begin to ache. Blood trickled down my face. Then came the part where my father took off his belt and started using that as a weapon. I screamed, but the women in the other room were too intoxicated to care, and the neighbors didn't hear. They never did. My father kicked me, and I felt my chest begin heaving. He wrenched me up and gripped my wrist hard, pinning it against the wall above my head. And he hit me some more. 

I lost track of time, but a while later, my father stumbled out of the room. I curled up in the corner and cried. This was my everyday life. I tried so hard to stay strong, but I could barely hold it together at school these days.

I felt like I had made a friend today. When I had been talking to Peter Parker, I felt like I might've had a chance. I felt like there might've been some sort of way for me to- maybe- push through and get out. I felt like I had someone there for me. I had been happy for the first time in a long while. But now, that feeling was replaced by pain, fear, and sadness.

Peter's POV: 

I was sitting on top of an old townhome in Queens, thinking about my conversation with Y/N. She had seemed like a nice girl. She was pretty, and she sure had talents in art. It made me wonder if she knew MJ. Then again, every time I had seen her at school, she had been alone. Something was wrong though. Maybe it was my spider-sense telling me something. The entire time I had been talking to her, it seemed like she was hiding something. And, even weirder, I had heard screaming and yelling with my advanced hearing a little while ago, but I couldn't find the source of it at all. God, I hoped those screams didn't belong to Y/N. I hoped that wasn't what she was hiding. Even thinking about it made my spider-sense tingle. It made me angry to think of the incredibly small possibility that someone might be hurting her. What was this feeling? The more I thought about it, the more worried I became. The number of times she'd showed up to school with tearstained cheeks and bloodshot eyes, or even bruises, was disturbing. I pulled out my phone and messaged her.

You are now messaging: Y/N 

Me: Hey are you alright? 

Y/N Pov: 

I heard my phone go off and, with considerable pain, I reached for it. It was a message from Peter. 

You are now messaging: Peter

Peter: Hey are you alright? 

With shaking hands, and tears falling from my face, I responded.

Me: I'm fine. 

I managed to crawl to my bed and pull a blanket over myself. I laid there and cried for a long time. Listening to my father's slurred voice as he spoke to the women. Listening to the noises of Queens. Eventually, I fell asleep. Hoping that maybe tomorrow would be a better day.

Wishing for a hope.

Thinking that maybe, someone could help me.

Wondering if I would ever find a BELIEVER.