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Today, like every other day, Izuku was disappointed to wake up. He dragged himself out of bed, reluctantly throwing on his middle school uniform, not bothering with his hair. He was fully prepared for the hellish seven hours of school he would have to endure and fully prepared to lie about the bruises and burns he would inevitably come home with. If he came home at all. He wouldn’t be surprised if, one of these days, he was killed. By whom, he didn’t know, but it wasn’t out of the question. Everyone hated him, made it clear where he stood with the rest of them: At the bottom, nothing but scum to be trampled underfoot, his hopes and dreams being crushed like a soda can. A pebble in the path of all the successful people with their powerful quirks, a doormat to be walked over, a punching bag for those who wished to take out their anger on something that wouldn’t– couldn’t– fight back. He wished he could say he would care if they did one day murder him, but he was beyond the point of caring and had been for years. For all he cared, he could die today. He may even welcome it.
He was tired. He was tired of his teachers not giving a single thought towards him, he was tired of not being able to stand up for himself, he was tired of spider lilies left on his desk, he was tired of harmful, scalding words spat like poison from other people’s mouths, he was tired of being the quirkless kid that everyone pinned their troubles on because they knew nobody would stand up for him. He was so, so tired.
— — —
Izuku was a smart kid. Intelligent, even. He got A’s in his classes. He loved to learn. But lately, all the joy of learning something new had disappeared. He didn’t write in his notebooks anymore– he just wasn’t interested. Nothing was interesting anymore. That was a problem, he knew that. But he also knew that people couldn’t care less about how he was doing. He was starting to get the feeling that the insults and ill wishes were no longer childish, silly jabs, but real threats with real intent behind them. It was possible that people actually wanted him gone now, and that ‘picking on the quirkless kid’ was no longer a joke. He could sense meaning behind the notes, the flowers, the signs, the whispered insults that followed him through the halls. He had even been getting anonymous messages. Only Kacchan knew his number, but…
‘kys’
‘i hope you die’
‘did you see my spider lilies yesterday? you should put them to use, deku, otherwise i wasted my money on you :(‘
Every. Single. Day. He had blocked every number, but there were always more. Always. One day, he received an article.
'Quirkless children more likely to commit suicide, new study reports’
The message:
’join your people! you dont belong here anyways lol’
‘Lol’? Ouch.
Then:
’itd be better for everyone if u just died tbh’
He didn’t think he deserved the treatment he got. He tried not to, but it became harder every day. Maybe he did. Why, though? a little part of him whispered.
Why?
— — —
The other kids must have seen his reaction to the first webpage, because more and more awful articles found their way into his messages.
’Quirkless people less useful to society?’
‘The quirkless population needs to go– here’s why’
‘Lowered life expectancy for the quirkless’
‘If the person you’re dating is a quirkless, you should dump them: 15 reasons why quirkless people are less desirable’
‘Q: My younger sister is quirkless– what should I do? A: getting rid of her would be more humane than letting her lead a useless and miserable life.’
‘Quirkless people are destined for failure: r/Vent’
The only credible website was the first one, a legitimate news article. Izuku read it. He wasn’t surprised by what he found. Quirkless people had lower life expectancies, due to rising suicide rates among the population and murders based on quirk status. 24% of quirkless people died before they turned 40. Almost 1 in 4.
— — —
He kept his head down all week. Maybe if he pretended not to exist, people would play along. And then, one day, everything stopped. The slurs, the notes, the whispers. Everything. Izuku had no idea what had happened. Until he saw the superintendent walking through the halls, observing the students, teachers, and classes. A pit of dread settled in his stomach. Tomorrow was going to be hell.
— — —
He was right. He came home aching, physically and mentally exhausted. The awful treatment came back with a vengeance as if bullying ‘Deku’ was the only fun they got out of the school day. He sported new bruises, and today a few boys had even gone so far as to drag him to the roof and dangle him over the edge.
“Go on, jump off,” they taunted, “you won’t. Pussy.”
It wasn’t even Kacchan. Izuku just sat there numbly after they walked off, laughing the whole way down the stairs.
He was late to class.
— — —
His mother was worried. She said so outright one evening.
“Izuku,” she said, “Tell me what’s going on. You come home with new bruises every day, and I don’t believe the ‘I fell’ excuse anymore. You’re always checking your phone, and you frown every time you do. What’s going on? I’m your mother, you can tell me.”
“It’s nothing, mom, I promise. Gym class is rough, that’s all. There are a lot of very physical kids in my group, everyone gets bruises from falling and slipping and getting pushed. Ask anyone.”
“What about your phone?”
“Just some concerning new articles is all. I should unsubscribe from the emails I get, they’re kind of depressing.”
“Are you sure?”
Izuku knew she wanted him to be. She wanted to believe that everything was okay, and who was he to take that away from her?
“Of course. I’ll always tell you if something’s wrong,” he lied with a smile. Inko hugged him. Izuku tried not to cry.
— — —
Izuku had been contemplating the possibility of suicide for quite some time. Was he willing to become just another statistic, a number on paper? The answer was, unsurprisingly, that he didn’t care. Maybe several months ago he would have, but not anymore. Caring was too hard, especially when it was as futile as it had been. It hadn’t helped him, his ‘perseverance’ and ‘optimistic outlook on life’ were of no use to him anymore. This wasn’t a documentary. Not everyone got a happy ending.
— — —
On Friday he woke up tired and aching. Today was going to be exceedingly difficult, and his days were already hard. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a good day. Or even a decent one.
Just before school ended, he had a new rush of motivation to write in his notebook. He was enjoying himself, for once– and then his teacher told the class that he was planning on going to UA High. The class immediately erupted into chaos.
“You?”
“The geneless? No way!”
“You don’t even have a quirk, they won’t let you in.”
“Actually,” he started, “there’s a new rule this year. Quirkless people can–”
“You’ll never make it!”
“You’re better off dead!”
“Yeah, offing yourself now will just finish the job early. You’re bound to die in hero work anyway, wouldn’t you rather do it on your own terms?”
Izuku sighed. Why did he even bother?
The bell rang. Finally, school was over. He began to put away his things, but Kacchan snatched his notebook out of his hands. He looked at it distastefully, scornfully. Izuku hadn’t even noticed him walk over.
“‘Hero Analysis for the Future?’” He sneered, “Please. Give up on U.A., you’ll never make it. You think you can rub shoulders with me?” Izuku watched with wide eyes as his former friend ignited his notebook beyond recognition and threw it out of the open window.
“Actually,” he continued, “you wanna be a hero so bad? I’ve got a time-saving idea for you. If you think you’ll get a quirk in your next life, take a swan dive off the roof of the building.”
Izuku froze. Halfway out the door, Bakugou’s grin turned malicious, and he let off a few threatening explosions.
“Something wrong?” He taunted. Izuku didn’t say anything. He was too shocked to speak. Of all the people that told him the same thing, Kacchan had never joined in. Never. And now he, of all people, on any day he could have, had said the words Izuku had been thinking for far too long. He didn’t realize the accuracy of his statement, didn’t know how close to home he had come.
Izuku took the long way home.
— — —
The viscous liquid that smelled of sewer was choking Izuku. Of all the ways he expected– wanted– to die, this was not on the list. He could feel his body struggling to stay alive, stay conscious. The last thing he heard before passing out came from a booming voice that demanded attention.
“Texas… SMASH!”
All Might.
He regained consciousness with some light slaps to his cheek.
“Ah, thought I lost you there!” All Might boomed.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. All Might sir!”
“Of course! It’s dangerous out there. Take care, my boy. Now I’ll be going.”
“Wait–” Izuku was going to ask him to autograph his ruined notebook (which he had fished out of a koi pond), and then he realized that he already had. He snatched up his notebook. In a fit of desperation, he clung to All Might’s leg just before he jumped away.
“Please, All Might, I have something to ask you! Something important!”
All Might landed them on the roof.
“That was dangerous! You should know better, young lad. What is it you wanted to ask me?”
“Please, All Might… can I be a hero, even without a quirk?”
Izuku didn't know why he asked it. He didn't know what he expected All Might to say. He didn’t know why he expected a positive answer. Maybe he was hoping that if he said yes, he wouldn’t feel like such a waste of space.
“No, you can’t. I’m sorry, my boy, but that profession is too dangerous. You should consider going into the police force instead.” With that, All Might jumped away, unaware of how he had just shattered Izuku’s world, crushed his dreams.
Even Izuku’s idol had told him to give up. So he would.
— — —
Later, people would say that it was a spur-of-the-moment decision, that it wasn’t premeditated. The boy who died was just having a bad day. They would only be partially correct. Izuku had been thinking about ending it all for months before the incident. It just so happened that the worst day of his life was also his last. All Might’s words had been his final reason to stop living, but Kacchan’s words earlier that day had also contributed, as did the years of pain he endured prior to then. It was a collection of things, big and small. Izuku didn’t blame anyone in particular except himself. At least he could say he tried for a little while.
— — —
Izuku scrawled out a letter in his ruined notebook– he couldn’t leave this world without leaving something behind for his mother.
To whoever finds this: Please give this note, and my journal, to my mother, Inko Midoriya.
I’m sorry things ended like this. I wasn’t strong enough to push through, and for that, I am so, so sorry. I wanted to be stronger for you, I really did. I swear. I love you. Did I tell you that enough? I don’t think I did. You deserve the world, you deserve to be happy and carefree, without having to worry about me. This is my gift to you– to rid you of your burden. Please, please don’t blame yourself– this is not your fault. It isn’t anyone’s fault, really. Yes, people did say choice words today, and that contributed to my decision, but I don’t blame anyone but myself. Not you. Never you. I promise. If I make one thing clear, that would be it. It is very important to me that you realize that. If you need someone to blame, blame me. I love you. I love you.
To Kacchan– I’m sorry. I really don’t know what to put here. I guess I felt a need to include you, too, if only because you have been a part of my life for so long. I hope you become a good hero. Do what I couldn’t: protect the people who can’t protect themselves. I wish you the best.
—Izuku :)
— — —
Izuku took off his shoes and placed them on top of his notebook– deliberately, carefully. He took a breath, unbuttoned his tight collar, and stepped onto the edge of the roof. He looked down. Yes, this was high enough. It would do. He decided he didn’t want to see the ground coming toward him, he would rather see the sky fall away from him. He leaned back, and fell.
Down, down, down.
He felt at peace. This was right.
— — —
Izuku became a number on paper, a statistic.
The one in four.
He died with a smile on his face.