BNHA || white lie

20

It is too bright, you think to yourself, squinting through the sea of flashing red and blue lights. You bite your lip, clinging onto the soft flesh until tears spring to your eyes--then you squint again. And to your relief everything blurs together, the black sky and vibrant colors blending together into a strange, fuzzy world, dull and pulsing, impossible to make anything out.

You like it better this way.

"Good work," a passing officer tells you, clapping a hand on your shoulder.

---------

Sero had become class 1-A's source of information regarding Atlas' activities.

"It's only been three days since [Name] had resumed their hero activities yet they've already done so much," Kaminari comments in an amazed tone. "They've taken down two villains and aided the police in a gang bust just last night."

"No wonder they weren't in class today. They must be resting," Yaoyorozu observes.

All of 1-A is crowded around Sero's phone, gathering as soon as Sero mentioned a new article had been released about their hero classmate. The twenty students stand right outside CIHA's gates, having planned to explore LA before getting distracted by the update on Atlas.

Uraraka smiles excitedly. "I'm glad [Name] has recovered enough to return to heroics. I can't wait to see them in action!"

Midoriya nods in agreement, smiling lightly to himself. He, of course, is also relieved to know you were moving on, but he is happier that you had allowed the curly-haired boy to tell his classmates about what had happened--albeit reluctantly. After reassurement that his classmates wouldn't tell another soul, and it was just to explain your seemingly irrational behavior towards them in the beginning, you had finally caved--under the condition that Midoriya be the one to tell them instead of you. He understood. It must still be a sore spot, especially because it had all happened so recently.

Everyone leans away from the small screen, and Sero puts his phone away. "Everyone remembers that we need to meet back here an hour before curfew, right?" he asks his classmates, who nod in response. "Okay, good. 'Cause if even one of us doesn't show up, Aizawa said he's calling the cops."

With that, they split, head in different directions, but all into the gleaming metropolis of Los Angeles.

---------

The door opens with a noticeable creak, announcing your presence to your mother. The house stays still, though, eerily sileny--you take a step inside and the floorboards groan in protest. The bags of groceries crinkle along. Today, you had opted for paper bags, and so you struggle to balance them in your arms while wiggling your key out of the lock at the same time. Eventually, you manage to succeeed, and shut the door as gently as you could with your foot.

"Mom?"

You get no response. With a sigh, you throw your weight onto the door before turning the lock; the hinges were never installed correctly, drilled in by an amateur you, and thus were a little off. You had to push against the wood to get the lock to align properly.

Slipping off your shoes, you pad quietly down the hall. You frown at the cheap wallpaper on the walls--you'd never liked them. Plain, white lace flowers, yellowing at the edges. You run your hand over the bumpy surface. When you'd first bought the house for your mother you wanted to replace it, but she had protested vehemently—in fact, she protested against you remodeling anything. It was her home, she'd choose what to do with it, she claimed, before retreating to her new room and promptly knocking out while you unpacked her belongings.

Maybe you should buy her a better home, you think, rubbing a thumb on a particularly yellow flower. A two-story one, this time. A caretaker to keep her company.

Your finger is coated in a strange white dust when you lift it away. You pull a face, disgusted.

"Mom, are you asleep?" It echoes down the empty hallway. With a sigh, you balance the bags in your arms and turn into the kitchen.

The first thing you notice, peeking above the groceries, are the ugly wooden countertops, outdated and old. Dishes are pile in the sink, grimy, brown, not even soaked. You had tried to encourage your mother to use paper plates because you came by only once a week and could only clean up then; it worked for about a month before your mother forgot.

The second thing you notice is her, sitting alone at the island, a cup of tea clutched in trembling hands. There is no steam rising from it—she must have been sitting out here for a while.

"So you were awake." Though the statement is accusing your voice comes out tired and disappointed.

She doesn't reply, just stares at her cold drink, hands wrapped around the ceramic mug to suck the last of the warmth away from it. It has a cartoon snowman on it, a coal smile and a top hat.

"Why weren't you responding?" you continue. You take a step into the kitchen, and she finally speaks.

"Don't come any closer."

The brown paper in your hands crumples as your grip on it tightens.

"Where's your brother?" she rasps out.

"In Japan."

"When's he coming home?"

"He's in jail."

Her hands shake. "He shouldn't be there."

"That's what happens to vigilantes, Mom," you breathe.

"He's a hero," she cries. "A hero. Why aren't you helping him? Why?"

"Mom—"

She whips her head back and forth, a ferocious shake of her head, [h/c] hair flying in all sorts of directions. "No," she wails, "I don't want you. Where's your brother? Where is he?"

"Did you take your medication?"

"Where?" she asks again, her voice a cry.

Silently, you set your bags down on the counter, your mother too upset to object, and link your arms under hers. You heave her up and support her as you lead her to her room. She thrashes, screams, wails, scratching at your skin with yellowed nails that have not been trimmed in weeks. It stings, but you keep quiet and unflinching, entering her room and making your way through the clutter. She struggles but you manage yo lay your mother down on her mattress before making her force the pills down.

Then you leave her alone to sleep.

Later, in the bathroom, you stare at your image in the mirror. A child looks back at you, a child but an adult, learned too early and matured too fast. Dead eyes, heavy with exhaustion and expectations, hard-set mouth with corners naturally turned down. Your cheeks are bandaged, your shoulders, your hands and your arms, all victims of your mother's clawed hands.

You sleep on the cold tile of the floor. When you wake, it is to your mother's loving caress, thumb brushing lightly against the plaster placed on the reddened skin. It stings when she makes contact with it.

"My baby," she coos. "What happened to you? Did you get in a fight with your brother again?"

It is a sick routine. Repetitious and old, never a change, your mother and her pills and your Quirk.

Voice hoarse with sleep, you answer, a light whisper that echoes loud in the small room you are trapped in.

"It's alright. It was my fault, anyways," you tell her.