MidReal Story
Vinyl Prayers: A Superhero's Solace
Scenario: Black Spider-Man listening to vinyl record prayers in his room
Create my version of this story
The first time I heard a vinyl record of prayers, I was five years old.
My Aunt May used to play them in the evenings, and I would sit on the floor in front of the record player, staring at it as if it were some kind of magic box.
I didn’t understand what the prayers meant back then, but I liked the sound of them.
I liked the way they made me feel.
I liked that they were something my aunt and I could share together.
Now, twenty years later, I still like those things.
And that’s why I’m sitting on the edge of my bed in my darkened bedroom at four o’clock in the morning, listening to a vinyl record of prayers.
It’s been a long night.
A really long night.
The kind of night that makes me want to crawl into bed and never get out again.
But I can’t do that.
Not yet, anyway.
I’ve been out patrolling for hours, but even now I can still feel the weight of my costume on my body, aching and sore from the strain of swinging through the city all night.
I’m tired, but not so tired that I can’t sit here for just a few more minutes, listening to these prayers that have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.
I don’t know why I like them so much.
Maybe it’s because they remind me of my aunt.
Or maybe it’s because they make me feel connected to something bigger than myself.
Either way, they’re one of the few things in my life that I can always count on to be there when I need them.
And right now, I need them more than ever.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, closing my eyes and letting the words of the prayer fill my mind.
The words are in Latin, but I know the English translation by heart.
I’ve heard this one so many times, I could probably recite it in my sleep.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of death.
This is one of my favorite prayers.
I love the way it sounds, the way it rolls off my tongue as I say it silently to myself.
I’m not sure why, exactly.
Maybe because it’s always been easy for me to picture the woman this prayer is addressed to.
The gentle smile on her face as she looks down at me with those big brown eyes.
The softness of her voice as she whispers these words in my ear.
The warmth of her hand as she reaches out to brush a stray lock of hair off my forehead.
Or maybe it’s something else entirely.
Whatever the reason, there’s something about this prayer that makes me feel safe.
It reminds me of being a little boy, sitting at my aunt’s feet, listening to her tell me stories about the saints and the angels and the miracles that God performs every day.
It fills me with a sense of wonder, of innocence, of peace.
I know it probably sounds silly, but sometimes I need that reminder.
I need to remember that there are still good things in the world, even when it feels like everything is falling apart around me.
Even when it feels like there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Especially when it feels like there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of death.”
Even in the dark, I can see the record spinning on the turntable, the needle glinting in the soft light from my bedside lamp as it traces its way along the groove in the vinyl.
The music fills my ears, a combination of Gregorian chants and Hebrew psalms performed by an ancient Jewish congregation in Jerusalem, over 500 years ago.
It’s strange music, unlike anything else I’ve ever heard before—stern and somber, but also strangely beautiful in its own way, as if the singers were trying to capture some deep, dark secret in the music they created from their own bodies and souls.
I listen intently, feeling a shiver run up my spine as the words of the prayer give way to the sound of the singers’ voices, reverberating in my ears like echoes from another world—even though this world, too, is filled with prayers and forgotten music, lost in the darkness of time, waiting to be discovered once more by those who have ears to hear them.
This world is filled with so many things that we have forgotten—so many things that we have lost or abandoned or destroyed in our endless pursuit of progress and power and happiness.
So much beauty, so much wisdom, so much love, just waiting for us to find it again—or maybe it’s we who are waiting for it, who have been waiting all along, without even knowing it, for someone or something to come along and remind us who we are and where we came from, before it’s too late—
I shake my head, trying to clear it of these strange thoughts as I listen to the music filling my room, still playing in spite of the fact that I’ve turned off my bedside lamp.
If anything, it’s gotten louder, filling my room with an almost tangible presence that I can feel in my skin, in my bones, so that I almost feel as if I’m drowning in it, like some kind of ancient sea—
But then it changes—
I open my eyes, startled by the sudden shift in the music, as if someone had reached out from beyond the grave and grabbed me by the shoulders—
The Hebrew psalms have given way to another Gregorian chant, this one even more somber than the last, as if the singers were mourning the loss of something precious—
And maybe they are.
I get up from my bed and cross over to the record player, listening as the singers’ voices grow louder, filling my room with their sadness—
But even as they do, I feel something rising up inside me, a feeling I know all too well—a sense of purpose—a sense of hope—
It’s been a long time since I felt this way—
But that doesn’t mean it’s gone away completely—
And maybe that’s why I keep coming back to these prayers—
I sit on my bed, listening to the last strains of music playing on my record player—
I’m still wearing my costume, having returned home only a few minutes before, not long after sunrise, when most of New York City is still asleep—
Most of New York City, that is, except for its criminals—
And its superheroes—
Like me—
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, still trying to shake off that strange feeling—
I’ve been fighting crime for as long as I can remember—
For most of my life—
But even so, there are times when it feels as if I’m just going through the motions, as if I’m not really present, not really alive—
As if this is all some kind of dream that I can’t wake up from—
And maybe it is—
Maybe that’s what you have to believe, if you want to survive—
If you want to keep going, even when you’re so tired you can barely move—
Even when your whole body is screaming out in pain, begging you to stop and rest for just a little while—
But there’s no time for that—
There’s never any time for that—
Not when you’re always being pulled in two different directions at once, one side wanting one thing and the other side wanting something else entirely—
But what about what you want—
What about what you need—
I shake my head, trying to clear it of these strange thoughts—
And then something inside me changes, like a door opening inside my soul, letting in a flood of memories—
Of the woman who raised me, the woman who taught me these prayers—
The prayers playing on my record player—
I remember how she used to play this record every morning, how she used to play it so loud that you could hear it all through the house—
As if she believed that the sound of these ancient prayers was powerful enough to keep all the evil in the world at bay—
But maybe it is—
Maybe that’s what they’re here for—
And then I remember something else she used to say: “Pray, Peter.
Pray hard and loud because God’s always listening.”
I used to laugh at her for that—
