Ashes of the Deceived. (Izuku Midoriya x reader.)

Chapter Eighteen.

—First Person POV.—

Four days later and I'm sitting on the living room couch, waiting.

Tonight.

It's finally time.

It seems like it's taken forever, yet I still wish I had just one more day.

I've found myself in Izuku's driveway every night, just sitting on the hood of my car, unable to think of anything to say.

And every night I can see him in the window, staring right back at me.

I haven't been sleeping much, though some of that is because of the sudden build up in nightmares.

The timing is horrible, I'm exhausted when I shouldn't be exhausted.

It's always the same damned dream.

A figure is leaning over my face, I'm scared, but I know that the figure is attached to me.

I hate it.

I haven't bothered bringing it up to anyone, especially my mom— Don't want her worrying more than she already is, of course.

And then there's that small part of me who is just too prideful to admit my fear, I kill ghosts without so much as the bat of an eyelash but nightmares is what keeps me awake at night.

Funny, isn't it?

I glance back to my Mom as she leans over the couch, holding my knife out to me.

"Thank you." I grab the metal object from her and it's hilt seems heavy in my hand.

She nods "Your plan should take a lot out of him. Then you'll be able to finish your job, do what you came here to do."

I absently nod along, my eyes glossing over the blade and from the corner of my eye, I can see my Mom's smile drop.

Even though I haven't been around much, my mom knows me.

She knows when something's off.

"What's wrong about this, (Y/n)?" She questions with a concerned look plastered on her features "What's different?"

"Nothing." I breathe a short sigh "He's more dangerous than any ghost I've seen, maybe even more than any Dad saw. He's killed more; He's stronger."

I sheathe the knife and stuff it into my pocket "But he's more alive, too. He's not confused or some shifting, half-existent thing that kills out of fear or rage. Something did this to him, and he knows."

"How much does he know?"

"I think he knows everything, only he's too stubborn to tell me." I claim.

"After tonight, you'll know for sure, maybe he did it to himself when he killed hi—" She brushes some hair from her eyes and I push myself off the couch.

"I don't think he killed himself." I state before telling her what he has told me, she tilts her head in thought.

"If you're right.. That's horrible, the poor boy.." She says, her gaze softening "I know."

"But you can't rewrite history, (Y/n)."

I wish I could, I wish this knife was good for something other than death.

That instead of cutting through broken flesh I could cut through time and walk into that house and get him out of there.

Free him.

I would make sure he'd have the future he should have had.

"He doesn't want to kill people, (Y/n)."

"I know, so how can I—"