Chapter 5: Broken Echoes
The morning creeps in like a thief, stealing the last scraps of sleep I can't hold onto. I'm still four, still small, my body curled on the floor where I collapsed last night, my soggy notebook pressed against my chest. The burn on my ear from Kacchan's explosion throbs, a dull pulse that matches the ache in my heart. My room is dim, the All Might posters on the walls fading into shadows, their smiles a mockery of the life I can't have. I sit up, my joints stiff, my uniform still damp from yesterday's puddle, the fabric clinging to my skin like a second layer of shame. I don't want to move, but Mom's voice cuts through the silence, sharp and impatient.
"Izuku, get up! You're wasting time!" Her shout rattles the thin walls, and I flinch, my hands tightening on the notebook. I force myself to stand, my legs shaky, and stumble to the bathroom, avoiding my reflection in the cracked mirror. I don't need to see the red mark on my ear, the dark circles under my eyes, the proof of what I've become. Quirkless. A word that defines me, a chain that binds me.
In the kitchen, Mom's already at the counter, her back to me, chopping vegetables with a knife that glints dangerously. I hesitate in the doorway, my stomach twisting, but she senses me and turns, her eyes narrowing. "What are you standing there for?" she snaps, her voice laced with irritation. "Eat and go. I don't have the energy for you today." She slides a piece of dry bread across the counter, not meeting my gaze, and I take it, my fingers brushing the rough surface. I eat standing up, the bread crumbling in my mouth, my throat tight with unshed tears.
"You're a burden, you know that?" she mutters, her back to me again, the knife striking the cutting board with each word. "No quirk, no future. I work myself to death, and for what? A useless son." The words hit like slaps, each one sinking deeper, and I nod, even though she can't see, my head dipping low. I finish the bread, the taste bitter, and grab my bag, the wet notebook a weight inside. I slip out without a word, her silence louder than her shouts.
The walk to preschool is a march through a nightmare. The city hums around me, heroes soaring overhead, their quirks painting the sky with light and power. I stop at a bus stop, watching a hero with a water quirk douse a small fire, the crowd clapping as the flames die. My chest aches, a longing so sharp it steals my breath. I want to be that hero, to feel the rush of saving someone, to hear applause instead of laughter. But the word quirkless drags me back, a tether to the ground, and I keep walking, my head down.
At school, the playground is a storm of noise and motion, kids showing off their quirks like badges of honor. I try to slip past, my bag clutched tight, but a boy with a rock-skin quirk spots me, his grin wide and cruel. "Hey, Deku!" he calls, lumbering over, his friends trailing behind. "Still pretending you're a hero?" He shoves me, his rocky hand sending me sprawling, my bag flying. I hit the ground hard, my palms scraping, and the notebook tumbles out, the soggy pages flopping open.
"Leave me alone," I whisper, scrambling for it, but he kicks it away, the wet paper slapping against the dirt. The others laugh, a girl with a sound quirk amplifying their voices into a mocking chorus: "Quirkless! Quirkless! Quirkless!" I reach for the notebook again, my hands shaking, but a boy with a sticky quirk slaps a glob of goo on it, pinning it to the ground. I tug, my fingers slipping, and the tears come, hot and fast, despite my efforts to stop them.
"Aw, look, he's crying!" the rock-skinned boy jeers, shoving me back down. I land on my side, the gravel digging into my cheek, and curl up, my sobs choking me. The crowd grows, kids circling, their chants a relentless wave. "Useless Deku!" "Go home!" "No one wants you!" I cover my ears, but the words seep in, a poison I can't escape.
The bell rings, and they scatter, leaving me in the dirt, my notebook stuck to the ground, my uniform stained. I pull it free, the goo smearing my hands, the pages a ruined mess, All Might's face barely recognizable. I hug it to my chest, my tears soaking the cover, and drag myself to class, my body heavy with despair. The teacher doesn't look at me as I slip in, my wet clothes dripping, my face streaked with dirt and tears. She starts the lesson—something about numbers—but I don't hear it, my mind a storm of pain and shame.
Recess is a torture I can't avoid. I head to the slide, my safe corner, the shadow a frail shield. I sit with my notebook, the goo still sticky on my fingers, and stare at the ruined pages, my hope fading with each smudge. The other kids play hero again, their quirks lighting up the playground—a boy with a heat quirk melting sand into glass, a girl with a vine quirk swinging from the monkey bars. I watch, my chest tight, wishing I could join, knowing I never will.
Then the crackle of explosions cuts through the noise, and my blood freezes. Kacchan storms over, his hands sparking, his eyes locked on me with a fury that makes my stomach drop. "Deku!" he shouts, grabbing my collar and yanking me up, my notebook falling again. "Still moping, huh? You're such a weakling." He shoves me against the slide, the metal cold and hard, and blasts an explosion near my shoulder, the heat searing through my sleeve.
"Stop it, Kacchan," I whimper, my voice breaking, but he laughs, the sound harsh and cruel. "Stop? Why would I? You're nothing, Deku. No quirk, no spine, nothing." He blasts again, this time closer, the heat singeing my hair, and I cry out, my hands flying to my face. The tears come, unstoppable, and the crowd gathers, their chants rising: "Quirkless! Quirkless! Quirkless!"
"Cry all you want," Kacchan sneers, shoving me to the ground. I land hard, my knees scraping, and he kicks my notebook, sending it skidding into the dirt. "You're a waste of space, Deku. The world'd be better without you." His words hit like a punch, stealing my breath, and he turns away, his friends laughing as they follow. The crowd disperses, their voices fading, and I'm left in the dirt, my body shaking, my ear and shoulder burning from the explosions.
I crawl to my notebook, pulling it close, the pages a soggy, gooey mess, the ink running in streaks. I hug it to my chest, my sobs choking me, my tears mixing with the dirt on my face. The bell rings, but I don't move, can't move, my body a prison of pain and shame. Eventually, I drag myself up, gathering my things, my hands trembling, and head back to class, my head down, my heart breaking.
The afternoon is a fog, the teacher's voice a distant murmur. She calls on me once, but my voice won't come, and she moves on, her sigh a judgment I feel deep in my bones. The other kids whisper, their eyes on me, and I sink lower, wishing I could disappear. When the final bell rings, I wait again, letting the classroom empty before I leave, my bag heavier than ever.
The walk home is a blur, the city a gray haze around me. I pass a TV screen showing All Might lifting a train, his smile bright, the crowd cheering, and I stop, staring, my chest aching. I want to be him, want it so bad it hurts, but the weight of the day—Mom's words, the kids' taunts, Kacchan's explosions—crushes that dream. I'm not a hero. I'm not even a kid worth saving.
When I get home, Mom's on the couch, the TV off, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. I try to slip past, but she catches me, her voice sharp. "Izuku, why are you a mess again?" I freeze, my dirty, wet uniform a glaring truth. "Did you get into another fight?" she snaps, standing, her eyes narrowing. "Can't you do anything right?"
"It—it wasn't my fault," I stammer, stepping back, but she's already close, her hand twitching. I flinch, bracing for the slap, but she stops, her face twisting with disgust.
"Go to your room," she says, her voice cold. "I can't stand looking at you." I nod, hurrying inside, and close the door, my breath hitching. I slide to the floor, my back against the door, and pull my ruined notebook from my bag, the pages falling apart in my hands. I hug it close, my tears falling, my body shaking. The light in my room dims, the All Might posters fading, and I feel the last of my hope slipping away, a whisper lost in the dark.
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