Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Rinse and Repeat
Repetitive.
That’s the best way to describe Izuku’s life. Sickeningly repetitive.
The worst part is, he’s used to it. He’s used to the feeling of pain that comes with his mere existence. 13 years of torment will do that to you. He wakes up at 5 A.M. every day and numbly goes through the motions of getting ready for school. He makes sure his first aid kit is stocked and placed in his backpack; he’ll need it later, as always. He leaves quickly to catch the early train at 6:15, and also to avoid his mother’s wrath. In all honesty, he doesn’t know why she sticks around; she’s made it clear that she hates—no—loathes him. Everyone and everything else has left him: His father, his best friend, his peace, his will to live, and much more. It seems like she only keeps him around to use as a human punching bag. It's a short, quiet, 25-minute train ride, so he arrives at Aldera Junior High around 6:45. Classes don’t start until 7:20, so he spends the extra time on a bench in a small, dusty corridor. Nobody bothers him there, probably because they don’t even know the spot exists.
Five minutes to the bell, Izuku heads down the hall to his class. He’s observed that the later he arrives, the less likely it is that Kacchan—no—Bakugo, he mentally corrects, and his lackeys will bother him. Izuku has long since quit calling his childhood best friend by his silly little nickname. He may be a useless Deku, but he’s not an idiot. That friendship died back when they were four years old. In his head, however, he occasionally slips up. He would never call the blond the name to his face; he’d learned that lesson the hard way.
Class begins, and Izuku’s mind drifts elsewhere. He doesn’t see much point in paying attention, considering he’d taught himself the year’s curriculum over the summer, knowing that if he had any questions, his teacher, Tanaka-sensei, would either ignore or degrade him. At least the teacher grades his work fairly, unlike some of his past instructors. The man was odd, to put it plainly. Izuku gets a weird vibe from him, aside from the man’s attitude towards the boy. Midoriya swears he’s seen the blond’s eyes wandering inappropriately over some of the students, particularly the girls. The greenette pushes that disgusting thought out of his mind.
He practically floats through the rest of his morning classes, not bothering to pay attention to any part of the lessons other than the homework assignments. He eats lunch on the roof, just as he always does. He likes how quiet and peaceful the atmosphere is, being so high up and alone. He returns to dissociating for the rest of the school day, barely processing the dismissal bell’s sharp ringing at 2:30. No matter how fast he packs his things, he can never seem to avoid Bakugo before he leaves. Seriously, he gets beaten up enough at home; he doesn’t need more burns, scrapes, and bruises from a bunch of entitled, lousy teenagers. Of course, he doesn’t say any of these things. Once Bakugo’s posse has their fun with him, he carries his sore body out of the hell that is his school, a lingering taste of copper in his mouth. He’ll deal with that later.
He walks home, for if he were to go to the train station, he’d most likely be cornered by more of his classmates. Izuku thinks the walk isn’t long enough, considering he’s home in a little over half an hour. He takes the stairs up to his apartment, toes off his shoes, and says a silent prayer that his mother isn’t home. If you couldn’t tell by now, luck was never on his side. He manages to dodge the flying beer bottle beelining towards his face. It crashes into the door behind him, and is followed by a string of insults and curses from the woman he’s sad to call his mom.
“Make yourself useful and fix dinner. It better be done when I get home, or I’ll kick your ass, you damn brat,” she spits. Her request isn’t hard, considering she won’t be home until early in the morning when the bars around Musutafu close for the night. Not to mention, she’ll kick his ass anyway. He nods as she pushes past him and out the door. He heads to the kitchen, using the last of their pantry to fix some simple onigiri and miso soup. He’d have to go grocery shopping soon, if his mom even gives him any money to do so.
I should consider getting a job, he thinks. He knows that it will be a hard thing to do, after all, not many employers hire quirkless scum. He tucks the thought away for now and puts his mother’s serving in the fridge while taking his own to his room. Once he finishes his meal, he changes out of his uniform into some black cargo pants and a navy hoodie. Grabbing his scraped-up skateboard, a pack of Marlboros, and his lighter, he laces his shoes up and heads out the door.
For a while, he just walks through the city, completely numb to the world. By now it was dark, the only light coming from street lamps, signs, and windows. He lights a cigarette as he hops on his skateboard and takes off. He eventually arrives at the old skatepark in the Red Light District, about 45 minutes from his apartment. He fools around for a bit, practicing some tricks on the different ramps. After an hour, the boy gets bored, instead opting to lie on his back and stargaze. He stays like that for a long while, inhaling smoke and tracing the constellations in the night sky with his eyes. He thinks about, well, everything, as the cool breeze brushes against his cheeks. More specifically, about how repetitive his life is. It’s sad, really. He goes through the same routine every day; the only difference is the number of injuries he receives. Shitty people deserve shitty lives, he thinks.
Some people don’t even deserve lives.
He leaves the park around 11:30, walking back to his house—for that place isn’t a home—along the empty streets. Once he finally arrives back at his apartment building, he stomps out the cigarette butt on the pavement and treks up the stairs. He showers once he gets inside, completes his homework, and collapses into bed around 1:30, about an hour before Inko regularly gets home. This is his last thought before he’s overcome by sleep: My life really is just an endless cycle. Each day is rinse and repeat. He passes out after that, awaiting the next day in the cycle that is his miserable existence.
(He secretly wishes that he won’t wake up tomorrow, but that’s not important)