Chapter Text
Everybody’s life starts out as a piece of stark white paper. No lines, no crevices, and no contents.
Until a doctor holds you up to a light while you’re covered in goo, that’s basically your own fecal matter, and wailing while everyone else is smiling, cheering for joy and snapping that first picture.
But as time passes, you get a distinct writing or colors or drawings on your now not stark white piece of paper.
It probably looks like the scene of a child drawing on the wall in those movies and shows on the TV you eventually might watch with your family or friends or classmates or with a bunch of random people because you’re in the movie theater surrounded by so many different pages and pages of life that just seem to be continuously being edited and adding and subtracting and manipulating under their owners being.
There’s so many lives worth of pages full of living and memories.
They have personality too! Full of lively colors that pop and stand out on the page with unique designs pertaining to the person.
The art that loops and intertwines like the one drawing on that bench over there, full of different shades of pastel purples, light to dark blues, and hints of bright orange and lime green peeking through the open areas and doodles. It looked just like her too. I mean, with her dyed hair and dual colored eyes that worked cohesively with the black and white outfit covered in patches and pins resembling some of the doodles. Rings that spiraled as she thought to herself.
Or the young child playing hero in the sandbox that had many warm tones. They seemed to like fire a lot as the child-like drawings of flames were in many places on the page.
And then there’s the ones that are basic and monotone.
Stark.
Bland.
Told by the people around its owner what it’s supposed to resemble and become something great with the guidance of an IKEA instruction manual, impossibly difficult.
No passion, therefore they were Stark.
The poor kid, in what seemed to be a private school uniform, had barely even started, and their life was decided by the adults in their life.
The old man walking down the street was also monotone, a few scribbles here and there, clearly from simpler times when he was a child, but then there was an almost startling and sudden shift to typed words that ultimately took hold of the rest of the page.
These dreary pages were like mine.
But in some ways they were not like mine.
My paper was charred at the edges, crumpled and uncrumpled several, several times but still greatly intact.While it had some color it was most grey-scale, some red mixed in with a few of the burnt edges and tear stains. There were splotches of ink, my paper’s pen almost slammed repeatedly into the page in frustration and in anguish.
When life was kinder, stickers were added to my page, hero stickers to be exact, but the once colorful and bright colors of the heroes were dulled, faded over time.
I’d hoped that they’d get brighter overtime, an inner child urge longing to resurface.
I’d hoped that the charred marks on what used to be stark white would be contained and not to be spread like they were on the uniform that was currently being patched up to the best of my abilities.
I’d hoped that the smoke entering and exiting my lungs from this blunt would numb me up enough to be able to do some control damage for the permanent hand-print on my shoulder.
I’d hoped that nobody saw me on this dingy ass rooftop as I fell asleep under the stars for the fifth time this week since there was no space for me under it anymore.
And I’d hoped that with all this shit I could still figure out how someone who’s supposedly quirkless has had this stupid ass quirk ever since his mom was murdered in front of him.
Heh, it’s the trauma for me…
It’s the dumbest and useless quirk that came with it for me.