#srsly there is nothing hapoy around here it just misery

[yasashiiku]

@xstarlights sent a crow ;

⏰ that time shou got his burn scars and toichiro pulled a ma/kima

( tw: child violence, background character death, graphic description of burn injury, graphic description of blood, gore but not as graphic, gore-y metaphors, moral ambiguity. )

"You're impressive," you carefully watch them compliment you, "Your power sure is something," they say through vile smiles and twitching eyes.

"Maaan, the world sure has favorites. ...."

"Spoiled trash, do you know how much I went through to gain this power?"

"A natural, huh? Don't make me vomit."

"Don't tell me you think you're any better than us."

"What's with that look, brat?"

"You think you're all high and mighty? I'll wipe that spiteful look from your face -"

It was never your choice to fight. People like them could only see what they want to, whether they've mistaken the fear in your eyes for offense or took your entire existence for such. You could never understand them, and you hoped you never will, worried that you'd end up as brainless as they continue proving themselves to be.

It doesn't take long for a cold sweat to break. You were outnumbered, you were small, you weren't composed and you weren't ready. The outcome was already decided and clear long ago, but that didn't stop you from fighting back, and you decide that nothing ever would, despite your racing heart and the looming panic overtaking your senses, despite the aching in your body and the trembling of your hands. What would happen if you simply run away? You'd become an easy prey, and more and more delusional bastards would come running for your throat for no reason other than stroking their rotten ego.

Tears collect in the corner of your eyelids, another attack overwhelms your amateur defense, and you desperately want to take the tears back. What would anyone think have they seen you crying? Like a helpless child, a cowardly weakling. Crying is a weakness. Running away is a weakness. Weaknesses weren't affordable. You don't want to see the devastating end they would lead you to.

And you certainly don't want to get hurt any more, you're aware you're starting to collect bruises, standing on your feet becoming harder and harder with each second, your breathing is all sorts of wrong, your vision is doing funny things. Your heart stutters and sirens ring in your mind, begging for a chance, for a change, for help. But you had a feeling that no one would arrive to rescue someone like you.

The desperation within your emotions beats and pumps like a second heart, fueling your energy in ways you've never experienced before, but you didn't have it in your mind to actually process what was happening. It engulfs your tight fists, swirls feverishly in the hope for a release, and then it bursts when your barrier gets shattered.

Your strained gaze peeks over arms which are supposed to guard you, sweat making your forehead glisten. You register the view with difficulty, you've sent one of your opponents flying, a fresh chasm decorated the wall they've collided with, giving off cracks that trailed down to where they lay on the floor, motionless like a puppet without strings.

You ... did this?

Everything in and out of you freezes. If you were to check the others, you'd have found them gaping, faces drained of blood as fear and shock devour them whole. Eat them alive. But you don't look away, eyes uncomfortably glued on the aftermath of your power. Of course you did this, you were outnumbered, you were small and you weren't ready, but that didn't change how powerful you were, how dangerous you were. The realization is so relieving and so horrible that it forces your legs to give up under your weight.

But no one would be as forgiving to you as your body begging for rest. You can practically feel their anger build up around you, the venomous animosity translated from crippling fear, the innate need to destroy whatever makes itself a danger to the superiority of others like themselves. And you're helpless, tired, you've ran out of fight, you can't do a thing as they loom over you, you could swear their loud curses could puncture your eardrums, but unfortunately that would be the last of your worries.

One of them says something about real power, you don't get a chance to completely comprehend anything, a hand clasps your left shoulder, yanking you from the ground with freakish ease, you immediately hold it back, an attempt to tear it away from your person, and a rush of fear so fast and furious hits you when you realize how futile it is, when you realize that something is coming and it's coming to get you and you can't do a single thing to stop it.

For a second, you consider apologizing, pleading for your life, groveling on the ground - anything if it meant they would spare you from whatever punishment they intend to crush you with. But it was only a second. A second wasn't enough for you to react, and a second was enough to light a fire to your arm. It started like a miniature explosion, sounded like one, shined like one, like something you would see in chemistry labs and exciting experiments on TV shows, only now you were the lab rat, and a pyrokinetic psychic was testing how much heat your body could take before you became nothing but charred meat.

You struggle, short feet kicking at nothing, nails digging into the hand that mercilessly grips and continues to burn away at your flesh, your voice resounding in anguish fits as pain overtakes all of your senses, but you can still hear laughter, mocking, satisfied, sadistic. It irritates you, it terrifies you, it sickens you, but not as much as the smell of your own burning flesh or the sound of your own blood boiling and sizzling as it seeps through your own disfigured skin. Tears stream down your cheeks, and you can feel them vaporizing right away from the heat and the skin on your face starts to hurt just like your shoulder and arm and your ear and your back and everything hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts-

Kaa-chan... it hurts so much, Kaa-chan...

And that's when you feel it, a presence so smothering it numbs everything else, your heart almost stops as you register it, and the tortured part of your mind is somewhat disappointed when your heartbeat continues to beat like out of tune drums. That feeling scares you, but not as much as the aura that spread across the hallway, pressing on the air and making it even harder to breath, it's enormous, monstrous, and so very familiar.

"It's- it's the boss... "

"What is he doing here ... ?"

" S- sir we were just- "

The next thing you know, you're back on the ground with a thud and a yelp, and despite somehow breaking free from the burning grip, your shoulder still seethes of agonizing heat. Tears haven't dried from your eyes, dripping in the floor as you continue to cry. Your hand reaches up to hold the injury, a reflex without a thought, only to have invisible needles stabbing onto skin- flesh? you don't even know anymore - just when the tips of your fingertips make contact with it. A sob chokes the air within your throat, and you want to curl around the pain and cry until you can no longer feel a thing, but you freeze instead as a sound splits through the silence which you haven't noticed.

It's a squish and splatter, visceral and loud, reminds you of the way sponges get squeezed to drain extra liquid or the sound of water when you jump into a puddle after it rains. Truth is, it was way far from anything your childish imagination could compare with, so it simply gave up. In fact, a lot of you gives up the second something warm wets your skin with a splash, confusion drains your expression of life.

It drips from your face to your hands, you look down, only to realize it has already been there, and it's blood and warm and dark over your pale skin and seeping into the tiny lines of you palm. You look ahead, there is also blood, snaking down the floors in neat little lines, like several little streams breaking off from a lake, except the streams are made of blood and the lake is also made of blood and the blood is pouring from the bodies of the three psychics who decided to harass you not even ten minutes ago, and they aren't moving, and they aren't breathing, their eyes wide open with nothing but frozen terror shaping their expressions into something out of this world.

❝ Shou. ❞

That's when you look up, your eyes peeling wide at the sight of your father, clean and well-kept and not covered in blood, only then you realize that you've felt him earlier, his presence all too overwhelming, all too different. Tears mark clear paths across the blood smears on your face, something hot and painful bubbles within your core, pushing on your heart so much you feel it'd jump out of your throat at any second, you don't know if it's relieve or shock or the aftermath of fear or fear itself still simmering.

❝ Otou-san ... ❞

What happened? For how long have you been standing there? Why is there blood everywhere? Why are they not breathing? Did you do all of this? What have you done? What have you done? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE -

You can't help it, you scream - it's so premature, choked with tears and young hiccups - but you scream. An animal howl that echoes and comes back pounding on your head as you keep on shrieking, as you double over your tossing and turning stomach, as you bawl your eyes out until you pass out in subconscious hopes of erasing everything you've just witnessed, because your shoulder is still burning and blood is wetting your clothes and filling the whole place with an odor so raw and metalic in an organic and ugly way, because you're surrounded by dead bodies and because your father did it. Your father did this for you. Your father saved you. Your father killed people to save you.

-

And when you wake up in a clean, white, not covered in blood hospital room who-knows-how-long later, when you see the machines stabilizing your state and beeping properly in synchronization with your heartbeat, when your wounds were treated and patched and taken care of in a daily basis- that's when you're left with the wonderful, horrible realization that you're going to live through this; that you, in fact, already has.