Dreams. How much do they really mean to us? They shape our behavior and set the tone for the day ahead. Of course, it's all subjective. I've often heard of poor souls who don't dream at all. And truth be told, I've had periods of complete "calm" myself. But I digress. You ask, what's the point of all this? Well, because everything that happened next seemed like a dream—but it turned out to be very real.
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I opened my eyes abruptly and jumped out of bed. Yeah, waking up like that is nothing new for me—but not in my room, and with such blurred vision? I'll admit, that's happened before too, although I don't feel the slightest bit of the usual nausea that follows a hangover. And yet, the other symptoms are still there—not right at all!
Seriously, why am I half-blind? There was a time when my mom took me to an ophthalmologist for an eye exam, and he gave me these "miracle" drops that made the entire world turn into one big blur.
It was an oddly fascinating feeling. I highly don't recommend it! And now, as I looked around the unfamiliar room after that quick awakening, a flood of memories began to creep in.
What? Dreams, what nonsense. And the one speaking was an old man who looked insanely like the comic book legend, the inimitable dandy Stan—freaking—Lee! He was an awesome guy.
Well, as a creator, anyway. I don't know what kind of person he was off the page, but my eternal respect goes to Peter Parker, the Amazing Spider-Man. And of course, Steve Ditko deserves the same honor. Oh, how much that character meant to me as a kid.
I remember the legendary '94 cartoon. A masterpiece. A true one. They'll never make anything like that again. The cheap toys sold in my country were nothing special, but they were dear to my heart—especially when you're a broke, starry-eyed kid.
Then came Sam Raimi's first two movies. The third one never clicked with me. Maybe because it lacked that early-2000s "madness" that used to dominate comic book films?
Though The Dark Knight—well, that's something else entirely. Then they started churning out everything back-to-back, as if ticking off a quota. What once felt special and niche suddenly turned into a mass phenomenon, with all the pros and cons that entails.
I'll admit, I've always treated those so-called "pseudo-fans" with a bit of disdain. But really, does it matter? The whole superhero craze is still a total blast. Hilarious, even. But you know, when you're a kid whose parents fight every night in the kitchen, and all you've got is a fading Spidey poster on the wall—you realize that this guy in a ridiculous, colorful suit, created decades ago by some dreamers, represents something pure.
Someone who can set the right example in a world that's often wrong in all the worst ways. Wow. Something's gone off in my head—I'm rambling. A sudden stream of consciousness completely hijacked my brain. I'm in shock.
Okay, what was I talking about? Why the hell, waking up in some random room, did I start reminiscing about my childhood? Damn it. I started groping around the nearby objects and came across a pair of glasses on the nightstand. Interesting. Putting them on, I finally took in the surroundings with clarity.
A typical room: a bed at one end, a door beside it. Between them, a box or basket—irrelevant. To the right of the door stood a desk with a computer setup: tower, keyboard, mouse, headphones, the works. Just a bit dated—I had a similar rig back in 2006, give or take. To the right of the desk, a large, well-made wardrobe.
A few scientific posters and plaques decorated its doors. And at the end of the room, a window.I turned my head to the right again. Built into the wall was another structure, something like a closet, but with a mirror attached. Perfect. I jumped up, but quickly restrained myself—it was nighttime after all, and the last thing I needed was to wake whoever lived here.
I walked to the mirror, and what I saw made my stomach drop. A brown-eyed, brown-haired young man stared back at me. Thin, tousled hair, a startled expression. Glasses perched on his face—the same I'd just put on. I raised my right hand, and the reflection mimicked me.
I stuck out my tongue. Same result. What the hell—this is me?! Where was the familiar, blue-eyed blond I'd known for twenty-one years? And why did this guy's face look so… familiar? Okay, I've had vivid dreams before—really vivid ones—but this felt different.
Still, I told myself, I'd go back to the warm, cozy bed, get some sleep, and wake up to a normal day—school, work, the usual stuff. But it was kinda cool, actually. With those thoughts, I dropped back onto the bed, buried myself under the blanket, and closed my eyes to drift off.
In a dream, yeah sure. Turns out I was wrong. After an indefinite stretch of nothingness, my head exploded with memories. One day I was my old self—blue-eyed and blond—celebrating my fifth birthday at an amusement park. Then I was Peter Parker, unwrapping a chemistry set from Uncle Ben. Then a first-grader, a high school kid fleeing from Flash Thompson, a university student, a rising genius—dead and alive all at once.
My eyes shot open, and I stared at the ceiling as tears streamed down my face. Two lives. Both equally important. Both equally short. Denis Ivanov and Peter Parker—both dead, both reborn in this man now choking on bitter sobs. So much! My life. My family. Mom, grandma, grandpa—why?! I was only twenty-one!
I clenched my fists until my nails cut into my palms, gritted my teeth, bit the inside of my cheeks to stop the scream. And Peter, too! So he's dead, and I took his place? That guy was ten times the man I ever was! Sure, he had flaws, but he was good! Like Dan… but they're not me anymore, are they? Or am I no longer them? God, my head throbbed.
I sat up and clutched it, a sardonic laugh escaping my throat. "An idiot's dream come true, huh?"
I've become Spider-Man… No. I am still Peter Parker.Alright, as a sailor once said: "It's too late to run when the sharks are eating your legs."
Tears won't fix anything—we'll push through it. I wanted to wash my face, maybe steady myself, but I didn't want to wake Aunt May and Uncle Ben. Yeah... my aunt and uncle.
Enough self-pity! I slapped my cheek lightly. Pull yourself together, wimp, and start thinking. Didn't you spend half your life watching, reading, and playing everything related to the web-slinging hero? You're a damn expert—start acting like one! Okay, that helped. Time to really get those gears turning. Somehow, I ended up in the body of a character I loved more than anyone. Not exactly the standard trope from those countless fanfics, huh? Enough jokes. I ended up in Pete's body—my body. So I need to adjust and deal with this crisis of identity. From what I can tell, judging by this awful eyesight, I woke up before the spider bite. Yeah, there were comic arcs where Peter lost his powers for different reasons, but a living, breathing Uncle Ben doesn't fit any of them. The events from the films can be ruled out too—both because of how different I look, and because of how different my memories feel. For instance, Mary Jane Watson is the niece of my neighbor, Anna Watson. MJ and I used to play as kids, but she moved away when I was six. Now I'm sixteen, and I haven't heard from her since. That already differs from most established versions of the Spider-Man story. Gwen Stacy? Nothing about her at all. Maybe we'll meet at university someday, like in the comics. Or maybe not—maybe her father's service transfer hasn't happened yet. Maybe she doesn't even exist in this timeline.
I can't believe I've ended up as THAT Peter Parker—the odds are absurdly low. More likely, I'm part of one of the countless threads in the Great Web of Fate. If there even is such a thing here. Doesn't matter. Too many variables. We'll see what happens.
Then we'll draw conclusions. With those thoughts swirling in my head, I laid back down, resting my eyes. This time, no dreams—just an endless stream of thoughts that refused to leave our new hero.
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Please vote with power stones.