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He’s running.
His breaths come out in sharp pants, the sole of his shoes splashing harshly against the inky ground as he desperately keeps his legs in motion.
There’s something looming behind him, dark and mortifying and inevitable.
He doesn’t dare look back.
It even takes him all his will power to face said creature as it glides its horrific body in front of him.
His legs come to a sudden halt, arms coming out to the side to balance himself. With a hard swallow, he lifts his wobbling chin up just enough to face the giant he’s been running from for what felt like an perpetuity.
What Izuku finds sends actual chills down to his feet.
The creature is made up out of all his loved one’s faces, distorted in a way that makes his stomach do flips. They stare down at him with distaste, a million opinions being voiced from the gaze alone.
Its million faces glare at him, each expression sanctimonious.
“You may run, Izuku Midoriya, but you can never obscure from the inescapable.” One of the parts rumbles, a frequency eliciting a feeling that can only be described as the natural reaction to a dog whistle.
The tip of the shadow tilts its head disturbingly, almost touching the ground. “You smell desperate.”
His breathing picks up, tears beginning to feel hot in his face.
“Can you smell it, too?”
Suddenly, a girlish form cracks its way out of the blob.
“Ochako,” He whispers, the sound broken and breathy.
The girl cocks her head, alike the monster, rosy lips breaking out into a sick grin.
“You know, Deku; It truly baffles me that you believe we actually like keeping you around.” She cackles, high and condescending enough to shatter glass. “How gullible can you be?”
She takes a step forward.
“You’re so eager to please everyone, aren’t you? Even the amount of sacrifices you make for the people around you just aren’t enough!”
Izuku remains unblinking, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Stop it,” He bites out, almost a mere whimper of a protest.
“Stop what?” Another blob emerges, a voice so rough and distinct it only makes sense to be Katuski.
The suffering boy whips around to his childhood bully.
“Stop delivering hard truths? Stop setting you up for success?” He snarls, lips twisting into a cruel grin.
“It will only be worse for you if you deny the truth.”
He shuts his eyes tight, crouching down and pressing his palms to his ears.
He feels as if he’s back in Aldera, watching helplessly as Katsuki blows up his 13th journal. The same day he told Izuku to kill himself.
“Stop!” Izuku barks out.
Noise fills his brain, only making the sharp ache in his heaving chest worse.
“Midoriya.”
His head shoots up, fresh teardrops forming in his waterline at the recognizable voice.
A strong, tall, muscular frame was peering over him.
Izuku sniveled. “All Might.” All at once, the intricate glass design of his racing heart shatters, hitting the bottom of his ribcage with a deafening crash.
All Might leans down, holding Izuku’s chin roughly with the knuckle of his pointer finger and thumb.
“It was my mistake choosing you as my successor,” The symbol of peace begins, sneering at the boy beneath him.
“I now realize that you will never have enough in you to handle it.”
Harshly, the hero lets go of his face. “I truly apologize for giving you false hope for something that was long gone.”
Another sob slips out of his lips, gravelly and splintered.
“I truly wish it was different.”
—
He shoots up with a sharp gasp, clutching at his shirt.
Frantically, his eyes dart around the dark room, similar to the dusky surroundings in his nightmares.
“Shit,” Izuku breathes, rolling over to turn on his lamp. The alarm clock sitting on his nightstand reads 4:32 AM. He runs a hand over his face, a heavy weight imposing on him.
The sheets ruffle as the boy rolls onto his back once more, opting to stare at the ceiling instead of getting up like his limbs scream at him to do.
That line - the cheap one that All Might spoke to him before he woke up. It was the same words that his mother delivered to him when he found out he was quirkless. He vividly remembers sitting at the computer as Inko sobbed to him, shattering any sense of hope for his future hero career.
Some odd type of sadness settles into his belly at the memory, evoking a twitch from his fingers. Izuku was quite familiar with this sensation; pent up energy that’s stupidly difficult to relieve.
His teeth catch his bottom lip, solutions racing through his mind. He turns his head, frowning at a darker spot coloring his dorm. He blinked a few times, knowing it was an illusion.
Just underneath his mattress on the left side, emitted a dusty aura of contemplation. His green eyes focus on it.
Though, upon landing his eyes on it, knew what it was.
And he knew what to do.
With a hesitant sigh, Izuku stands from his bed and lifts his mattress at the spot. When exposed, a small box stares daggers into him.
Instead of easing down the bedding like he unequivocally should, he retrieves the box with tremulous hands.
Inside it lays a copious amount of razor blades, collected from his middle school years, a roll of bandages, gauze, and a bottle of disinfectant.
A breath of hesitance slips from his lips as he reaches for a blade.
Should Izuku be doing this? Would this be something he regretted?
He thinks about the class on mental health that Aizawa was required to go over.
He’ll never forget the look Kacchan gave him, knowing and strangely remorseful. That was one of the softest looks Izuku believes that he’s given him.
Before the thought could flourish further, he sets the container on his bedside table and gets up to lock the door.
Slowly, the boy’s fingers hesitate at the door knob. He shakes his head at the doubt. Why would anyone care? He imagines the face of his friends if they ever found out about this terrible habit - only being able to form the same expressions in his dreams.
The monster in the terror was only telling uneasy truths, anyway.
He takes a seat on the edge of his mattress, stealing a few deep breaths from the world.
He retrieves the small rectangular metal from the box. The edge of the razor presses against the bare skin of his forearm, forming little beads of blood that lined the slice.
Izuku zeros in on the new opening, moving below it.
He deserved this. This was only punishment for the burden he was to his loved ones.
The boy relishes in the feeling that no one would care if he vanished. He knew it, he wasn’t born yesterday.
Another cut breaks the surface of his skin.
He could scream for help and nobody would notice. Everyone turns a blind eye to him, and he can’t even bring himself to blame them.
Another.
He’s tried everything to get his friends to like him; gifts, love, affection, sacrifices, nothing has worked. Behind their kind eyes, there was so much unspoken hatred.
An involuntary sob escapes Izuku, feeling rough in his raw chest.
He really should. Disappear, that is. See if anyone searched for him. He wanted to come back as a ghost to take in their weeping faces.
He grunts as the blade hits a rather sore spot, opaque liquid dripping down his arm and staining his bedsheets a sickly red.
Maybe they need a breather from him. He isn’t blind to the lively conversations they have when he’s not participating, it’s almost as if they are happier when he’s not around.
Maybe he should've listened to Kacchan in middle school, everyone would be better off then.
A mix of a whimper and a cry fills the air, hands dropping the weapon as he takes in the scene of his limb. The sight of the area made his stomach churn with nausea. Izuku doesn’t dare to stare at his pale bicep, littered with little cuts, for more than 3 seconds.
He squeezes his eyes shut and weakly returns the object to its origin, preparing the clean up.
Staring into nothing in particular, Izuku daps up the contents of his veins with a small piece of gauze.
An uncanny sense of relief washes over him, sending coolness amongst his bones. This is how it’s supposed to be. He wasn’t meant to come this far.
He planned to be gone before 14, this breaking-point was simply but something inevitable. Shackles connected to his frail ankles - awaiting for the day that he collapses under the rusty restraints.
His hands circle his arm as he wraps white bandages at the start of his bicep, spiraling down all the way to his lower forearm. Closing his eyes and sighing out once completed, he hoped his theories were correct; and nobody dared to question the bulk underneath his sleeve.
Flopping back down onto his now blood stained covers, a final tear trials down his warm temple and into his messy green hair.
He wouldn’t be here for much longer.
The thought makes his shoulders slump in relief.