Another day dawns, gray and heavy, the kind of morning that presses down on you before you even open your eyes. I'm still four, still small, my body curled on the floor where I fell asleep last night, my ruined notebook clutched to my chest. The All Might poster above my bed stares down, his smile a cruel contrast to the ache in my chest. I sit up, wincing as my joints protest, the carpet leaving faint red marks on my cheek. My eyes are crusty from crying, but I don't let myself start again. I can't. If I do, I might not stop.
Mom's voice cuts through the thin walls, sharp and impatient. "Izuku, get up! You're going to be late!" I scramble to my feet, heart racing, and stuff my notebook into my bag. I don't bother changing out of my wrinkled preschool uniform—I slept in it, too scared to move last night. I splash water on my face in the bathroom, avoiding the mirror. I don't want to see the dark circles, the split lip from two days ago, the proof of what I am. Quirkless. Useless. A failure.
In the kitchen, Mom's already at the stove, her back to me, stirring something that smells burnt. She doesn't turn when I shuffle in, but her shoulders tense, like my presence is a weight she can't bear. "Eat," she snaps, shoving a plate of scorched toast at me. I take it, my hands trembling, and sit at the table, the chair creaking under me. The toast is bitter, but I force it down, my stomach churning. I don't dare ask for more. Last time I did, she threw the plate at the wall, screaming about how I don't deserve it.
"You're such a disappointment," she mutters, her voice low but cutting, like a knife slipped between ribs. "No quirk, no future. I should've known better than to hope." She turns, her eyes cold, and I shrink under her gaze, my toast halfway to my mouth. "Hurry up. I don't want to deal with you any longer than I have to." I nod, shoving the last bite in, the bread scratching my throat as I swallow. I grab my bag and slip out the door, her words following me like a shadow.
The walk to preschool feels longer today, the city a gray blur around me. I pass a billboard of All Might, his fist raised, the words "You Can Be a Hero!" splashed across it in bold red. My chest tightens, a mix of longing and despair. I want to believe it, but Mom's voice—"You'll never be a hero!"—drowns it out. I clutch my bag tighter, the ruined notebook inside a reminder of Kacchan's cruelty, the other kids' laughter. I'm not a hero. I'm not even a kid to them. I'm just… nothing.
At school, the playground is already alive with noise, kids running and shouting, their quirks flashing like fireworks. A boy with a speed quirk zips past, leaving a gust of wind that nearly knocks me over. I stumble, catching myself, but he doesn't look back, doesn't care. No one does. I head for the classroom, hoping to avoid the chaos, but a familiar voice stops me cold.
"Deku!" Kacchan's shout is a warning, and I freeze, my heart pounding. He's by the swings, his hands sparking, his friends egging him on. I turn, hoping to slip away, but he's already closing the distance, his grin sharp and mean. "Where you going, quirkless?" he sneers, grabbing my bag and yanking it off my shoulder. I reach for it, but he shoves me, and I hit the ground hard, my palms scraping on the gravel.
"Give it back, Kacchan," I whisper, my voice barely there. I'm on my knees, the dirt staining my uniform, but I don't care. I just want my notebook, my sketches, my dream. He laughs, dumping the bag out, my pencils and papers scattering. The notebook lands last, its torn cover flapping in the breeze, and he picks it up, flipping through it with a sneer.
"Still drawing your stupid hero crap?" he says, holding up a sketch of All Might mid-punch. "You're so pathetic, Deku. You think you can be like him? You can't even stand up to me." He rips the page out, the sound like a knife in my gut, and blasts it, the paper disintegrating in a burst of flame. I lunge, a desperate cry escaping me, but his friends hold me back, their hands rough on my arms.
"Let me go!" I struggle, but I'm too small, too weak. Kacchan tosses the notebook down, stomping on it, the other pages tearing under his heel. "Stop it!" I scream, my voice cracking, tears spilling over. The crowd around us grows, kids chanting, their voices a cruel rhythm: "Quirkless! Quirkless! Quirkless!" I thrash, but the hands don't let go, and Kacchan leans down, his face inches from mine, his breath hot with smoke.
"You're nothing, Deku," he says, his voice low, venomous. "No quirk, no guts, nothing. Why don't you just disappear?" He blasts the ground near my face, the explosion deafening, the heat searing my cheek. I flinch, my ears ringing, and the crowd laughs, their voices a storm I can't escape. Kacchan straightens, kicking my notebook one last time, and walks away, his friends following. The hands release me, and I collapse, sobbing, my hands clawing at the dirt to pull my notebook close.
The pages are shredded, All Might's face torn in half, the pencil smudged with ash. I hug it to my chest, my tears soaking the paper, my body shaking. The bell rings, but I don't move, can't move. The playground empties, the other kids running to class, their laughter fading. I'm alone, the gravel digging into my knees, the burn on my cheek throbbing. I don't know how long I sit there, but eventually, I drag myself up, gathering the scattered pieces of my bag, my hands trembling.
Class is a haze. I slip into my seat, my uniform dirty, my face streaked with tears and ash. The teacher glances at me, her lips thinning, but she doesn't say anything. She never does. The lesson starts—something about quirk history—but I don't hear it. My mind's on Kacchan's words, the explosion, the crowd's chants. "Why don't you just disappear?" I stare at my desk, the wood scratched and faded, and wonder if he's right. Maybe the world would be better without me.
The other kids don't let up. During a break, a girl with a levitation quirk floats my pencil out of reach, giggling as I jump for it, my small body no match for her power. "Quirkless kids don't need pencils," she says, dropping it into a puddle outside. The others laugh, and I retrieve it, my hands wet, my face burning with shame. I don't fight back. I never do. What's the point? They're right—I'm nothing.
Lunch is no better. I sit alone under the slide, the same spot as yesterday, my notebook open but untouched. I can't draw, not with the pages torn, not with my hands shaking. I eat the plain rice ball Mom packed, the grains sticking in my throat, and watch the other kids play hero. They take turns pretending to be All Might, saving each other from imaginary villains, their quirks making the game real. I want to join, want it so bad my chest aches, but I know what'll happen if I try. They'll laugh, push me away, remind me I don't belong.
The afternoon drags, the teacher's voice a monotone I can't focus on. I keep my head down, my pencil still, the whispers around me a constant hum. "Quirkless." "Useless." "Waste." Each word is a stone, piling up until I can barely breathe. When the final bell rings, I wait again, letting the classroom empty before I leave. I can't face the playground, not after this morning, so I take the long way out, my steps slow, my bag heavy.
The city's bustling, heroes patrolling the streets, their quirks flashing—fire, speed, strength. I stop at a crosswalk, watching a hero with a vine quirk pull a child from a burning car, the crowd cheering. I clutch my bag, my torn notebook inside, and imagine myself in her place, saving someone, being someone. But the dream fades fast, replaced by Kacchan's sneer, the crowd's chants, Mom's cold eyes. I'm not a hero. I'm not even a kid worth saving.
When I get home, Mom's on the couch, the TV off, her gaze fixed on the wall. I try to slip past, but she catches me, her voice sharp. "Izuku, what's that on your face?" I freeze, my hand going to the burn on my cheek, the skin tender. "Did you get into trouble again?" she snaps, standing, her eyes narrowing. "Can't you do anything right?"
"It—it wasn't my fault," I stammer, stepping back, but she's already in front of me, her hand raised. I flinch, bracing for the slap, but she stops, her hand trembling, and lowers it, her face twisting with disgust.
"Go to your room," she says, her voice cold. "I can't deal with you right now." I nod, hurrying away, my heart pounding. I close my door, leaning against it, and slide to the floor, my breath coming in short gasps. The burn on my cheek throbs, but the real pain is inside, a hollow that grows bigger every day. I pull out my notebook, the torn pages a reminder of everything I'm not, and hug it close, my eyes dry but my chest heavy. I don't know how much longer I can keep going like this. I don't know if I want to.
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