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Midoriya threw up.
The ugly, off-white puddle of liquid spread across the floor - it reached the edges of his toes, soaking a part of his black socks. It was already on the tips of his fingers, a result of him not being able to pull his had away from his mouth after gagging for the second time. His throat burned, feeling as if all the moisture had just been soaked up all at once, and it felt awfully similar to the pain he endured in his middle school years.
Taking a step back, the boy couldn’t help but stare at the thing- the scene- the person- in front of him. As he dropped down on his knees, he gagged thrice and the scorching sensation returned, this time the product absorbing into his school pants. The fabric stuck to his thighs and knees and before this disgusting fact went ignored, he made a side-note to never wear these pants again.
Hands shaking, they gripped tightly around his abdomen. There were no tears forming in his wide, empty eyes, simply being too horrified to even react properly. Honestly, he didn’t even know what to think. What was he going to do? Where was he going to stay?
In front of him, the freckled student’s mother hung by the rope around her neck.
Hair was tied back in a rushed ponytail, strands stuck to the sides of her face on her forehead. She wore a loose strap summer dress and wore no socks.
The woman was facing upwards, eyes were blown wide. They projected none of the emotion they usually would, yet the stir of regret and peace was unmistakable. Her face was unnaturally pale - almost blue, it appeared - and seemingly too tight on her to be her own body with wrinkle-like marks in places where they definitely weren’t before. Ghostly white skin reached the legs of Midoriya’s mother, where her skin was in the process of turning a mix of red and purple, similar to a bruise that had been earned a few days prior. Uncovered toes looked to be crooked in unexplainable directions; her fingers were the same, crooked and turning darker than the rest of the displayed skin.
Her fingertips had obviously bled some time ago, blood coating the inside of her fingers and dried on the tight rope. She struggled at the end, a hopeless attempt at gripping the rope and stopped her own death being evident, proving that she hadn’t died from a snapped neck, but lack of oxygen.
The woman’s rosy pink dress reached her knees, which would be charming if it weren’t for the odd small smears of darkened blood around the thigh area of the material. Likely, she tried to rid of her blood-covered fingers on it to get a better grasp on the thing around her neck.
Across the room, a chair was tipped over into a wall, having been violently kicked by the now-deceased adult. If the crack in the wall was anything to go by, she was either in a hurry or it was a last-minute decision, instead of leaving it tipped over right beneath her feet.
Scrambling to his feet, Midoriya rushed to his mother and gently took one of her hands into his own. Although not freezing, she was colder than she should be. Alike the rest of her body, her muscles were stiff and hard to move.
Able to get a closer look at her, the curly-haired boy noticed the dry blood caked behind her fingernails, along with the rope burns on the palms of her hand and along her neck. Grimacing, he stepped back.
Eyes inspected the room around him. Windows locked, curtains tightly shut, drawers left half-opened, anybody could tell that this was not something planned out beforehand.
Midoriya’s hand reached for his phone in his pocket. He needed to tell somebody, quick. Not a classmate, because they would freak out and wouldn’t actually do anything. Not Mitsuki, because she would go and tell people he didn’t want to know (Katsuki) and be loud when he didn’t feel comfortable with it. Not his mentor, because he would be the direct opposite of the calm and collected comfort he needed. Not the police, they would take too long to get there.
Aizawa-sensei.
His fingers hovered over his homeroom teacher’s contact. The latter told him and his class to only call when it was an immediate emergency.
...Was this an emergency?
‘Yes,’ his mind screamed at him, and his thumb pressed down on the call icon.
It ran once (and a half) before the person on the other line picked up.
“What is it?” The curly-haired individual recognised the underground hero’s voice, a silent wave of relief washing over him.
“...Aizawa-sensei... Hi,” he whispered. His voice came out hoarse and cold while shaky, miles quieter than he intended. Emotion in his voice was near non-existent, panic was like a thin string tied around the words that were forced out his mouth.
Shuffling was heard for a few seconds before the adult spoke again.
“Is this Midoriya?”
Midoriya nodded, then realised that Aizawa wouldn’t know that he did. Gulping, the teen built up the courage to speak again.
“Yes.”
The black-haired male probably wanted context or anything more than just a single-word answer, but the younger couldn’t help it. He was, quite literally, at a loss for words, in the worst way possible.
Having caught onto his reluctance to reply, the teacher was the next to speak.
“Your break just began, aren’t you visiting your mother?”
At this, the student’s eyes drifted back to his mother’s hanging, lifeless body. Everything came to him at once.
She was dead. She had killed herself. She wasn’t dead long, and she was in a hurry, she died on the same day her son was visiting. There was no note, no explanation, nothing, for the hero-in-training. She just left him, alone. Was she really that desperate to get out of his life? And-
Oh.
He had thrown up again.
The mass of emotions in his body finally overwhelmed him, and a heart-wrenching sob flew out of his mouth, tears streaming down his cheeks. He was both drowning and burning at the same time.
“Midoriya? What happened?”
“My-my mum!” he whispered in between his sobs. “She- she’s gone. Dead. Killed herself. I-I-I- p-please, help, some-something!”