Fuck, this feels wrong.
Bakugo gritted his teeth at the feeling of what he assumed was a firm hand gripping his face, turning it to one side then the other, as if he were something to be observed. Pointless rage bubbled inside him, leaving him fuming once again. He fought the urge to spit at whoever it was, the last time he'd worked up that nerve, he had been given hell for it. In fact, his body was still screaming for relief at the pain. He shuddered at the memory despite himself.
Crimson liquid pooling around his body, his lungs screaming for air, his chest begging for him to breathe. His being inadequate to provide his body with the oxygen he desperately craved, no matter how much his chest heaved and his lungs screamed, as tears streamed down his face and his head began to pound and his mind began to dull. As his limbs burned and began to feel heavy and he was sure he had been dying...
I want to be able to see.
He hadn't been able to see or hear his entire time with the League. Probably a sensory blocking quirk of some sort, but nonetheless it was annoying. He could never tell where anyone was. Typically, he could at least feel when someone was staring at him. When one of them was close enough, he should have been able to tell. He should have been able to feel when he was touched, but he couldn't. It scared him, made him nervous, to have his body being moved by who knows which villian, when he couldn't even feel them touching him. Despite himself, he couldn't help but flinch no matter how many times it happened. Granted, he was doing much better than most people would in his given situation, but how could he tell himself that? People had been hurt because of him. All Might was gone because of him. All of it was his fault. He'd no idea long it had been since the incident. Could have been a few days as well as a few months, he had no idea. But his memory was fuzzy, apart from the recent traumatic events.
It was strange to him, though, since typically, he remembered things well. His face being roughly pushed back against a solid object snatched his attention away from his internal crisis, to what was (presumably) going on around him. His jaws were forced open, to his bewilderment, as his tongue was shoved in different places around his mouth. He was confused at first until he felt what he assumed was a hand carding through and gripping at his hair, then the reality hit him.
This was a totally one sided make out session, and he felt disgusting. Searing pain exploded through his body at random bursts, including multiple pounding sensations on and in his ass.
The experience left him shaken soon after, as the reality once again dawned on him, and left him feeling sick. He'd been used for someone's own pleasure, he'd had no say in the matter. No matter how much his mind circled the event, he refused to think of what it actually was, refused to accept it.
After that incident, he realized he'd forgotten more and more about himself, and that thought caused him to panic. He spent all his time trying to dig up every memory he could, but it was hazy at best. He wanted to believe it was part of a quirk, its purpose being to manipulate his memory slowly..He was right, but he never knew for sure. There was one thing he remembered clearly, though. The Sports Festival.
He remember how the crowd yelled and screamed at him for giving his classmate a fair fight. His mother had more than taught him the female gender was not fragile and soft spoken. They could be strong, harsh, loud, manipulative, and above all, cruel. But Uraraka wasn't that way, he knew. Still, though, she was still strong, always giving her all. The look in her eyes had told him his assumption was right: Uraraka wanted an equal fight, and Bakugo gave it to her. He remembered how his heart had started to pound when he turned around and saw Uraraka lunging at him. How he'd remembered the first time his mother had slapped him: looking down on him with fury in her eyes, arm outstretched and hand splayed..Just like Uraraka was. So he'd blasted her away, as was his first instinct.
He remembered how irritated he was that Tokoyami couldn't give him a harder fight to take his anger out on.
He remembered how desperately he wanted a fair fight from Todoroki, one of the only people in his class that came close to his level of power. (In terms of quirks.)
He remembered the frustration he felt when the boy hadn't used his left side, the feeling of despair when he thought he was being pitied.
He remembered when he'd lashed out at the unconscious boy the way his mother lashed out at him: violence.
He remembered being chained to a block of cement because of it. The metal constricting his arms, the piece secured to his face that didn't allow him to breathe properly. The panic he felt as the metal became a filthy liquid, and the booing crowd became heroes standing idly while he died so slowly, oh so slowly and painfully. How he struggled to breathe and when he inhaled his lungs would be assaulted by that disgusting goo that forced itself down his throat. Drowning, something he feared to this day.
He remembered the medal being shoved in his mouth, how he panic and his vision blurred with tears he fought to hold back. The roaring in his ears that flattened into a ringing as his senses dulled and everything faded except his own harsh thoughts of self hate.
Suddenly, he wanted to see his bastard of a classmate. The feelings he'd been shoving down and ignoring in regards to Todoroki. They came welling up and pounding at his chest, until he thought he might be crying. He was battered continuously by memories of the small competitions they both had with each other, that should have meant nothing, that neither of them spoke about.
Who finished homework first.
Who got higher test scores.
Who arrived at class first.
Who answered the most questions in Cementoss's class.
The petty little things that shouldn't matter, but for some reason did.
He was met with an overwhelming sense of doom, as though everything was lost and he would never have those small victories anymore, or even the tiny losses.
Guilt battered at his chest, grief and regret swamped him, then he felt something deep within him snap. Feelings he pushed down and bottled up.
His anger.
His frustration.
His fear.
His sadness.
His urge to self destruct.
His want to destroy himself and leave those around him at peace.
The pure hate he felt, only directed towards himself.
The underlying suspicion he deserved every bad thing that came to him.
All of it.
It all came crashing down, and his body felt as though it might break apart.
Every negative thought of himself,
he remembered it.
All the times he ignored that feeling of helplessness,
he was slapped in the face with it.
Each moment of time spent improving himself to avoid being a screw up?
Pointless, all of it.
Everything he did, ever would do, it won't ever have any purpose.
Such is the burden of being a mistake, though, he thought.
Such is the burden of being the world's biggest asshole.
Such is the burden of being a stain in society and on the world around him.
Such is the sick burden he alone would carry, to never bother the people who would then look down upon him.
His burden, his alone.
