The Wise Child (BNHA x OC)

14. Alone

Yae

“Go away!” I remembered shoto yell, his voice like ice, clawing at my brain. For five years we had been inseparable, what changed? 

No, I knew what changed. I took the others away. I hurt Fuyumi again. And dad wouldn’t let either of us near her or Natsu. I did that. And I still didn’t know why.

And now Shoto left me too.

I curled up in my bed, feeling tears pound against my eyes. Two stubborn ones glided down my cheek. I turned to sit up, eyes glancing towards the other side of the room on instinct, seeing Shoto, with his bed pushed the farthest away from me as possible. His back turned, soft snores slipping through. 

He didn’t want to play with me tonight. He didn’t respond when I asked him to. He didn’t even say no. He just stared at me for a short, too short, moment, and wouldn’t answer. 

I wished I didn’t know why. I wished I could pretend it was because I beat him in hide and seek again, or ate the last of his snacks. I wished it could be something easy. Like it used to be. And then mom would come and she would tell us to apologize, and she would say I had to be a good older sister, and he had to let me. 

But mom wasn’t there, and now shoto wasn’t either. 

The room became suffocating. There wasn't any air. So I crept against the carpet, and left to the safety of the hallway. I had no real reason to, I had nothing to do there. But I couldn’t stand to let my thoughts linger any longer. 

Ghosts were loud tonight. And they whispered ugly things in my ears. And they scolded me for existing. 

Every creek in the floor spoke. 

‘Ugly girl.’

‘Horrible girl.’

‘Depraved.’

‘Insane.’

‘Have you seen what she’s done?’

‘To her mother?’

‘To her sister?’

‘Just horrid.’

‘To think a child so cruel could exist.’

‘It’s haunting.’

A light in the kitchen drew my thoughts, and I stopped short to see my father on the couch, a glass of deep golden brown liquid in his hand, a glass bottle on the table in front of him. 

He turned to see me and frowned. But not in the way he normally frowned. He didn’t look sharp. He didn’t look burning.

He looked haunted. 

For a long moment I stood still as he watched me. Unsure of what to do. I couldn’t move. What if he was angry? 

But I stopped short to see his eyes, red and puffy, tears splotching his cheeks. He was… But no. My father didn’t cry. He yelled, and he scolded, and he burned. Fires couldn’t cry, could they?

I slowly walked forwards, each step feeling foreign, uncomfortable, terrifying. But when I reached him it didn’t feel so horrible. 

I slowly wrapped my arms around him. And he let me. And after a  very long moment, he did the same. He felt warm. But I didn’t mind it this time. I didn’t fear it this time. It felt almost- almost like mom.

The realization brought tears to my eyes and I found I couldn’t breathe the same. 

I missed her, but I wasn’t allowed to.

“You should be in bed.” He said. But he wasn’t scolding. Nor demanding. It fell limp from his lips like words were too heavy. 

“I couldn’t sleep.” I answered. 

He breathed, in and out, long and arduous, as if the task itself took too much strain. I understood. Sometimes even breathing came foreign to me. Like the earth didn’t want to give it. Like I wasn’t supposed to have it.

“It’s loud at night.” He said. He said the same thing, months ago, when I found him in Touya’s room. He heard things too. The whispers in the wind, the calls from the wallpaper, the creeks of the floor spelling out taunts. The way they seeped through thoughts and sharpened into anger. 

Or maybe he didn’t. And maybe I was wrong about it all.

“You should be in bed?” He said again.

“Shoto doesn’t want me there.” 

He was silent. The clock continued on with its endless tick-tock. I counted fifteen before he spoke again, “He does. He’s just angry. It will pass.”

I felt more tears hit my face. Because what if it wouldn’t? What if-what if “I’m alone.” 

I didn’t mean to say it out loud. But when I did I realized how true it was. And I began to cry even more. My father wrapped his arm tighter around me. 

“You aren’t.” 

I couldn’t breathe. A cold chill ran down my knuckles as red dripped from them. The punching bag in front of me sat still, glaring down, asking how I was so weak. How I couldn’t withstand more than a few minutes before having to wash the blood from my hands, breathing too deeply for a task so little. 

Slowly, my eyes turned to the clock, and I frowned tightly. It was only three thirty in the morning. I should have been able to keep working until four, five if I was truly talented. 

My mind turned towards my classmates, my competitors, and I pondered if they were doing the same. I remembered talking with my friends- no, not friends- With my classmates. How surprised they were that I spent more hours training after school. Perhaps I was the only one.

But no, they must have been the exception. I couldn’t fall behind, not with everything so strained. Not when my father was so close to leaving me on my own. I needed his guidance, his training. I had to do well, no, I had to do perfect. 

I stared at the punching bag, moving my hands up again. I felt the connection sear my hands, sending violent tingles down my arm. 

It doesn’t hurt. I thought. I wouldn’t allow the pain.

I continued. Again, and again, and again.

I could feel my muscles screaming, feel my blood pounding through my head. The world was beginning to spin. I couldn’t see straight.

No, I wouldn’t stop. I had to keep going. What- what if my father didn’t see it as enough. What if I wasn’t enough? 

Just a little more. 

I swung, but missed the bag entirely. I could feel a ringing in my ears. The bag was doubled when I looked at it. I tried to steady myself but I felt my legs tremble. 

Just a little more.

Suddenly that ground shifted, and my feet lost their balance. I stared up at my ceiling, unable to breath. My lungs were sore. My body was on fire. I couldn’t think. 

There were sparks in my vision, shapes and colors twisting together, forming and then going. I could feel my stomach flip, an urge to throw up. I resisted it, turning my head to the side. 

The window allowed a glimpse into my yard. It was dark out, wind whistled through the branches of a tree, the house next door silhouetted against the stars. It was simple, plain, forgettable. But something fought through, raising disturbance. Eyes were staring back at me.

My father’s eyes. 

They spoke to me. Told me I was unworthy, frail. They questioned how I could fall so easily. Taunted me with the threat of leaving. 

It wasn’t enough. I wasn't enough.