The only thing my parents have told me was to either get up for breakfast or get ready for school. Otherwise, they didn't give two shits about what I did. The other day my father came home with a flyer in his hands, waving it around absentmindedly as he tossed it into the trash along with other pieces of paper.
It was a usual "task" for me to look through whatever father brought home, looking through the numerous papers and seeing what they had to say. Usually it was either messages from the government letting him know of his unpaid taxes, or random charity sheets he didn't care about in the slightest.
"Quirkless Program, getting your child a glimpse."
Those were a few bold words printed in big yellow text above the U.A building which was printed on the sheet. Thinking back on my past, the only experiences with quirks weren't exactly the best.
"Quirkless loser" "Loser" "Nobody" were phrases I was used to hearing on a daily basis. They all came from people who could jump to the moon, breathe fire or turn their organs into confetti—people with traits that made them special.
Would it really be all that good spending time with those people as a person without a quirk? I didn't have time to answer that question as I took a step back from the counter, quickly shoving the papers into a drawer and turning off the lights when I heard the sound of slipper-coated footsteps entering the kitchen.
My father entered the kitchen carrying his usual bottle of beer, which he had a tendency to drink until he puked his brains out. I can still vividly recall the sounds of splashing in the bathroom, accompanied by strained coughs and nauseating sounds that flipped my stomach like a pancake.
Later in the night at about three in the morning I left my bedroom and went to the kitchen, which wasn't that noisy of a task considering that our house had only one floor in the suburbs.
Looking back at the paper I began to read the details. Apparently I'd be among other quirkless students like me, learning the fundamentals of being a hero in training without needing a quirk to keep yourself alive.
"It's akin to being a hero—helping a woman cross the street without needing precognition to help you do so."
...
That morning on Saturday my father was still asleep in bed while I crept out of my room, somewhat timid to rouse him. I smelt the same thing I had smelt about a hundred other times in my life: coffee.
My mother and father were both avid caffeine addicts, drinking their guts full with the brown liquid to keep themselves awake.
"I don't...really think you need coffee all the time." I said as I entered the room, plucking an apple from the fruit basket and taking a bite.
"It gets the brain going." The brown haired woman replied, taking another sip loudly.
In the background I could see the television was running. It showcased a news report, telling the public of a recent bank robbery by a group of villains, only to be stopped by All Might just moments later.
"Those heroes..." I heard my mother's voice again as she finished her coffee, placing the mug on the counter and turning back to her cell phone.
The topic of heroes in this society was overall a tricky one to truly grasp. Was a hero someone who did what they found to be good, or was a hero someone who did what others found to be a good thing?
"You're rambling." The woman's voice cut through my thoughts like a dagger, rousing me out of my state. My mother always said I had a habit of raving to myself, often making me lose my focus.
One time I got yelled out by one of my history teachers when asked about the Cold War, making my heart jump out of my chest.
"Soon enough you'll forget why you're here."
Those next words made me sigh inwardly to myself. A doctor's appointment a few weeks ago stated that I suffered a major injury during gym class at school, while other reports say I experienced a vasovagal reaction to seeing something disturbing.
Otherwise, I don't really remember much beyond my teenage years—I don't even remember my childhood and my first words—my parents don't either.
"Whatever."
I sighed again as I turned away from my mother and towards the drawer where I had stuffed the papers the night before.
"Already?" My mom cocked an eyebrow.
"No, I'm not rambling."
...
Going to the park was something I found myself usually doing. Overhead—I saw a thick layer of clouds—the gray kind. On my back was the backpack I've used for school the past few years, the one my parents refused to replace due to financial struggles.
Currently being in middle school I didn't leave the building until three-fifteen in the afternoon. In the springtime the sun was still high in the air and didn't fall until about nine PM.
In the wintertime when the weather got colder and bitter, the sun would drop lower sooner, much like my energy during the winter. Having to take winter mid-term exams and study hard every night while living off of food from the grocery down the street is hard.
In my backpack I had a few thick books I have been reading as of recently. When I visited the library a few weeks ago the librarian had recommended a few thicker books than the one I was used to, labeling them as "brain-books."
The way she smiled when she gave me the books told me she thought I would greet such a challenge with open arms—that's exactly what I was doing. I may be a person of a somewhat solemn quietness, but I'm also willing to show a more challenging, eccentric side to myself—around people whom I trust deeply. Very few people have seen that side of me.
She said the books were supposed to get my brain running and to get me thinking. I couldn't tell if she knew about exams or something else deeper down.
Anyways the book I currently was reading was about 500 pages long, and titled A Mothers Solemn Stone.
I eventually arrived at the usual cheery blossom tree I read under when the weather seemed ample, otherwise I could crash at the cafe and gulp down a nice cocoa or a cold drink when the weather was suitable.
I took a deep breath as I sat down under the tree, feeling the oddly smooth bark of the cherry tree against my shirt as I opened my backpack and removed the book.
The cover showcased a long and distant river stretching along a forest, with a woman lying at the riverside, her hair drenching in the current as it washed southwards.
Opening the page of which I had placed a sticky note on to indicate where I left off, I was greeted by chapter twenty-two.
Twenty-two chapters already? Sometimes I lose my perception of time in my reading. One time I started reading at three in the afternoons and ended a session at ten PM, my parents not bothering to call me for dinner.
Recalling that thought, I couldn't help but laugh.
I adjusted my collar as I licked my index finger, turning the pages on and on as a read further into the book. This book wasn't the kind of book to be filled with action—but rather filled with conflict—two different things.
A mother named Rebecca had lost her twin daughters in a car crash along with her husband. Now locked in an inheritance scramble. At the moment she was at her grandfather's mansion debating who gets the inheritance, and her family's funeral is only a few days away!
Reading the back of the book for the first time I couldn't help but feel intrigued. Not by the deaths of the plot, but by how the mother would react to the conflict within herself.
Should she gain all the physical and tangible, or should she alleviate the spiritual and suffice to healthy grieving?
As I continued to read more and more questions aroused within me. Why didn't Rebecca think twice about attending her loved one's funerals? Why would she value the money over her own health? Are humans born to be greedy creatures?
I wouldn't call myself much of a philosopher, but such moral questions couldn't help but make the librarian's claims come to reality—this was a real brain-book!
...
I felt my phone buzz in the pocket, and I reached down and picked it up. It was a text from my father, telling me it was time for my usual task.
Reading those words I felt my heart shrink as if I were a cartoon character. I didn't want to sort papers again after he came home from work, but I felt like something bad would happen if I didn't agree to what he wanted me to do.
I removed the sticky note that had been used numerous times, the sticky notes adhesive side having almost lost its purpose. I slapped it into the book and packed up my things as I began to leave the park.
All of a sudden, I began to hear voices.
"Hey sicko!"
The voice was young, masculine and distant, and I could tell it wasn't targeted at me. I turned around and raised an eyebrow, catching a glimpse at what was transpiring.
In the middle of the field, I saw a boy with black hair, another with wings on his back and another who had green scales, all surrounding a girl who appeared to be smaller than them.
Her eyes were filled with terror as she was grabbed by her shirt and pushed to the ground, her body hitting the plush grass.
She didn't try to defend herself, she was probably quirk less to begin with. The boy with the black hair took two steps forward and brought his foot down onto the girl's chest, causing her to cry out in pain.
My eyes widened as I felt my body freeze in fear, and I felt a million different emotions rushing through my body all at once. The girl's pained expression made my heart ache, and her cries of pain made me want to cry too—for her—and her pain.
My body regained a semblance of motion as my eyes and head darted around, scanning the park for anyone who was willing to help this girl, but it was just the five of us, everyone had left.
I didn't know why, but my legs began to move on their own, not in the direction of the violence, but away from it. My grip on my backpack tightened until my knuckles turned white. I didn't know why I had left like that, I didn't know why I didn't want to help.
Was it because I was quirk-less, was it because I didn't have the power to stand up for others? Did that make me a loser? Not because I didn't have a quirk, but because I'm unable to make a change in this cruel world?
...
Opening the door to my house, I was greeted by my father sitting at the kitchen counter, glaring at me and the door, crossing his arms as he sighed.
"Isaac, where were you?" His deep voice was the no-nonsense kind. I wanted to speak, but I couldn't feel the words in my throat—they were in my stomach and threatened to be thrown up on the floor.
"Sorry." I said softly, approaching the counter and grabbing the pile of papers from my father. Looking back at him I watched as he left the room with an indifferent expression.
He didn't even ask how I was, he didn't ask why I was missing, he just wanted me to sort papers like a machine.
...
The task lasted about thirty minutes. None of the papers were interesting in any way, just white sheets with layers and layers of black words on the front and back, accompanied by the usual symbol of a company and some brick lettering.
Was this my life, was I forever destined to sort papers and live the monotonous style? My ears began to ring as my fists clenched around the corner of a sheet.
Before I could take out any of my sudden anger, I heard my mother calling me for dinner.
...
"You went to the park today?" My father asked, cocking an eyebrow as he bit into his steak. Steak was one of the foods that we didn't have the pleasure of eating very often, luckily it was on a discount at the store and my mother had received a small raise at her job.
"I did, you didn't notice did you?" I raised my head from my meal, looking at the man who had somewhat neglected me my entire life. He had always told me he found me in a dumpster in an alleyway and took me in with his wife.
"I was asleep." He chuckled, wiping the corners of his lips with a used napkin.
"Did you get your homework done?"
"I didn't get any. Ms. Sandlers decided we needed a break after doing so well on the test." I bit into my steak, the warm feeling of the juices on my tongue giving me some kind of alleviation.
"Did you pass?" My father asked another question, his expression regressing back to its usual deadpan demeanor.
"Barely."
"Y'know barely isn't the type of thing your employer wouldn't want to hear, right? I'm sorry, I barely made it on time—my dog died and we had to bury it in the yard."
He made air quotes as he recited a fabricated story, before looking back at me. "Do better, it's how people like us reach the top. We get our shit together and we are the best."
"Be the best..." I grumbled as I finished my meal, putting my dishes in the sink as I finished my glass of water.
"I'll be in my room."
The only sound was that of chewing as I pushed my chair in.
"Always in that damn room..." I heard my father grumble to my mother as I departed.
...
When I looked at my alarm clock it was about seven PM. My parents have always made my bedtime eight PM on weekdays and nine PM on weekends. I'd always felt like I had the personal responsibility to decide my own bedtimes, but they wouldn't budge even if I made an entire PowerPoint with reasons using my dad's computer.
On the wall of my bedroom were numerous posters I never remembered getting—they all were wrinkled—some torn. One of them showcased a being with horns and wings on his back, standing over a throne of chaos and fire surrounded by skulls.
It was for the band DemonSkool, a heavy metal band my parents figured I'd like at one point in time. When I saw the poster for the first time on my wall I felt revolted by it, but it was too high on the wall for me to get rid of. I was only five foot five.
I approached my closet and looked through my clothing, before taking out a pair of light blue pajamas that seemed at least fifty years past their time. They were the type with a button up and a collar and what not. But they were soft, so I didn't complain. My parents said they picked them up from a yard sale.
I changed into them and picked up my backpack, opening it and taking out the book I was reading in the park. Flipping back to the part I left off on, eager to continue.
As my gaze fixated on the clock after an unknown amount of time, I saw that it was nine PM. Had I been reading for two hours without knowing?
With a sigh I put the book back down into my bag, zipping it shut. I pulled the blankets up to my shoulders, sinking into my semi-structured bed as I closed my eyes.
...
"Quirkless program, what the hell is this?" My father grumbled as he took out the form from the drawer I had stuffed it into yesterday night. He looked at the form with narrowed eyes, but at the same time he could feel a small pang of curiosity rushing through his body.
"The government knows we have a son, perhaps they gave you that for a reason?" My mom leaned against the counter, looking at the paper with a similar expression, except hers was a little softer.
Well, our son comes home from school every day looking like he's been through hell and back, sometimes he's crying, other times he's just exhausted. When I go to ask him anything he shuts us out."
My mother's expression became more contemplative as she took the paper from the man, reading the bolded text carefully.
"This program is an add-on to whatever educational institution your child is in. It takes place from 2:30 to 4:00 PM, when the U.A school day is about to conclude, so your child will have diminished risk of encountering any problems or happening with the quirk students."
She looked back up at her husband, her eyes flickering with vulnerability as she sighed. "Do you think he'll enjoy this?"
"Whatever gets the kid out of the house for a few more hours."
The woman sighed as she took out a pen from a drawer, before signing the paper and handing it to her husband.
...
"Quirkless loser!" I yelled, bringing my foot down onto the girl's chest with enough force to crush it. Around us, it was a tranquil scene of the park, a stark contrast to the current scene.
The black haired girl choked up blood as she attempted to reach for my legs, trying to pry it off of her chest. Seeing this, my lips curled up as I pressed further, deepening the contact to an almost dangerous extent.
"S-stop! It hurts!" She wailed, thrashing and letting out strained yells.
"You'll always be a quirk-less loser; you'll always be a punching bag for people with abilities you don't have—abilities you want so deeply!"
The girl's eyes rolled back in her head as they closed, the shaky breaths she had been taking eventually ceasing entirely.
...
When I woke up at around five in the morning to prepare for school the next day. Trickles of sweat ran down my body, not from the pajamas but from what I had seen.
Why did I do that to the girl I had seen getting bullied?!
I didn't have energy to answer such questions. I stood up from bed and stretched my arms above my head, feeling my back pop like a balloon.
After going to the bathroom and brushing my teeth, I entered the kitchen to get some breakfast. I was greeted with both my parents sitting at the counter with solemn expressions.
"Would you sit down with us, please? You can get something to eat first." My mother said, a small smile forming on her face.
I nodded, approaching one of the cabinets and taking out a box of cereal, pouring myself a bowl and adding milk, before sitting down at the table and taking a bite.
"So, Isaac? We know you've always somewhat been on top of your grades, so to reward you...how would you like a new opportunity?"
I cocked my head slightly as I lowered my spoon into the bowl, looking at the woman who had raised me with a mixed expression.
"What do you mean?"
At that moment my mother reached down and pulled out the paper I had thrown into the drawer two days ago, it was the quirk-less program sheet.
"Well, would you be interested in this?"
I felt my heart tighten upon seeing the form. Remembering the dream I had last night I began to feel somewhat awkward and almost ashamed. Why would I dream of such a violent and questionable act?
"I-I'll think about it." I brought the bowl to my lips, sipping quietly as I finished off the semi-chocolate flavored milk.
"Good to hear, the end date for signing up is next Monday."