Disclaimer: Still not mine.
Authoress Note: Major thank you for all the reviews! You guys are amazing!
Also, major mercies to my two betas, Andrew and Becca (hiei1317) (who are responsible for the changes in chapter one, and Becca did it without me even asking!), Kim, who read through this in French, and to Olivia (Danny Phantom SG-1) who convinced me to even post this chapter!
Before I go on any further, I must digress. I must digress because I left something out, something that I just now realized was important.
I know why Peter's telephone message scared me so badly; not only was I scared that Harry was dying (actually, according to Peter and the doctors, he actually was dead for a few minutes…), my first instinctive that was 'Why wasn't it Peter instead?'
I know how that sounds, but, I rationalized it away, or tried to, at least: "Peter has super-human strength,' or 'He could have webbed the car's wheels before it hit him,' or 'Being Spider-man makes Peter heal really quickly, it would take a lot more than a hit and run to kill him'. Then, I didn't know the real reason behind what I was thinking.
Peter left me that message at exactly four twenty-six in the morning. I was home a conked out by two.
Why is that important, right? Who cares what time I fell asleep. Ah, no. I had what I thought was a nightmare that night. I dreamt that it was raining, and cold, we were all at a graveyard, the graveyard where Uncle Ben and Norman Osborn are buried. I was staring at Peter from across a gleaming black casket strewn with white roses. Tears flooded our eyes.
I stepped away from the safety of the emerald green canopy that sheltered us, to lay another rose down, never averting my gaze from Peter's eyes. I kissed my fingertips, pressing them to the mirrored onyx surface.
The name on the tombstone was Harry's.
And now, having lived that very same tragic scene in my waking hours, I know that my nightmare was a premonition, my premonition a nightmare.
"Nightmares can't kill people, MJ." Harry said to me after I told him what I dreamed the night of his accident.
(Oh, Harry, of what then did you die?)
It was a nightmare.
It was a nightmare.
It was all just a nightmare.
It was a-
Maybe if I tell myself that enough time, repeating it like a mantra, over and over, I can make it true.