The severed head rolls. Only stopping due to the toe of Izumi's boot indenting itself in the soft, chilling, skin of the forehead. Streaks of blood run down the pavement from the heads decent. The body rests on the roof, next to the ever warm body of the principal. Who sips on his tea, humming some english lullaby Izumi once knew all the words to.
How did I get here? She wonders, gnarled fingers caressing her bloodied, scratched, cheek. Her blood runs cold, the scratches are long. Running down from new cheekbones to just below her jaw. Her index traces the deep curve of one. When her gloved fingerprint reaches the exposed underlay of skin, an involuntary hiss leaves her dry throat. Which really sounds more like a dry sob of pain than anything.
Once again, the spots invade her vision. Dizzying television static, which increases the ever swirl of sounds in her ears. A man down the way contemplating leaving his wife. Ringing. Laughing of teenagers, thinking they're invincible. Ringing. Her monster above her, thinking of how hard her blood will be to clean from his office seat. Even more goddamn ringing. 'Take care of it.' His squeaky, harden voice rises above the storm.
She's always hates the sound of his voice. More grading than nails on chalkboard. Demanding in whispery wise words. Sometimes she'd imagine ripping his vocal cords out and cutting off his tongue. Just to never hear it again. When Izumi dreams of freedom, she thinks of silence.
It's got to be the lack of sleep. Izumi tells herself. Usually she's more calm. Ripping off the remnants of her mask, she spits out a mix of thick blood and saliva. Then whistling a low tune, The Principal on the roof nods. His stark white ears are what makes Izumi see him. The rest of him is red, almost brown. Blending in with the bricks behind him.
It's blood. Izumi realizes, eyes closing with exhaustion. And some part of childhood her that remains twists with fear. Her blood. Her padded index finger presses hard against the exposed inner flesh, forcing Izumi's eyes open and adrenaline into her veins. She bends down, grabbing the decapitated head before swinging onto the roof.
—
"Izumi." The voice is gruff, but young enough to be softer on the ears. His gloved hand gently shakes her. When that doesn't work he crouches, a hand cupping her jaw tenderly. Careful not to touch the seemingly endless gashes.
"Zumi." He whispers gently into her ear, running his fingers throughout her hair. Pulling away slicked baby hairs from her bloodied and sweaty forehead.
"...hm?" Izumi stirs. Leaning forwards to press her head against his brown bomber jacket.
"Zumi," He patiently starts, hands still entangled through her hair as he carefully pulls her face away from his shoulder. "Your wounds will be infected. Let me take you home. Clean you up."
All she does is dry sob. Izumi is tired. She's covered in blood, bruises, grime, open wounds what ever else. Her hand snakes up to his chest pushing herself away from him. I need to do this alone.
"Please—" His voice is thin as he begs. "Please Izumi." Exhaustion wins over. Izumi collapses into him. Fingerprints ghosting in between his wings.
How can I refuse?
—
Spoiling y'all!
remember this is mature for a reason you guys
YOU ARE READING
PROMETHIUM (mha)
Teen FictionIzumi Shinso is not born to be a hero. She's forged. This story is owned by me The character is MHA/BNHA are not owned by me The Spider-Man aspects are not mine as-well Please don't sue me, I'm a broke minor with bad sleep issues
