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Izuku never liked the rain, beacuse with rain a storm usually followed, and wasnt that a great metaphor for this shit show? So no izuku did not like rain.
A gentle breeze brushed through his damp locks bringing with it the sour stalness of cigarette smoke. Its cloying scent reminding him of hazey nights with yellow mattresses and decaying wallpaper. And when the memory of familiar green hair tried to barge its way into the memory he pushed. Pushed until the image of pale skin and purple track marks left him.
('And her five year old boy watching her leave him time and time again as she chased her highs' a voice whispered.)
But he could never quite master the pushing or the forgetting. No he will always be haunted by her. Her and the bastards she always brought home. Her breathy moans and bovine scent clung to him like a bad hangover. And izuku often wondered what drove her to that state, but years have passed since he last saw Inko so Izuku was done with the caring. It would only got you burnt.
One last look around the bleak warehouse left him feeling empty... such a dreary place to....
'Die' the voice at the back of his head supplied.
Even with his strong resolve he couldnt bring himself to think about what he was about to do. Imagining the scenario was different from living it and the numb feeling he has, tasted like the bitter vodka that Inko used to keep around. An ointment to his bruised mind.
'Like mother like son' cruel laughter rung out.
Taking in another poisened breath he reached out for his lighter, flicking the cool metal with practiced eased. With one last breath he threw it onto the stained floor watching passivly as it set alight. Obnoxious heat trailing his skin like the pain of phantom hands.