𝐃𝐀𝐁𝐈 | 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝

4

The next morning consisted of you scavenging through the woods in search of supplies. Your eyes felt heavy from a lack of sleep, and your skin felt overly pudgy from the healing wounds still hardening on your skin's surface. A nearby creek provided you with a spot to clean yourself. Cold waves washed away what was left of your tiredness, and served to ease your scaling skin.

You scratched your head while you contemplated your plan.

Thinking... thinking... thinking...

You didn't have a plan.

Mother once told you tales of the monsters that lurked in this forest. Horror stories of large mammals and beasts filled your mind. Yet such beasts from her stories were nothing compared to the beasts you faced in your own home. Once you mastered your quirk, suppling food would be no trouble. You would make use of the beasts and the life this forest has to offer in order to sustain your own life. Survival of the fittest was something she always told you.

Everything surrounding you was wild; green forest and earthy grounds. It felt peaceful. To breathe in the crisp morning air, surrounded by nothing but the sound of the gentle crackle of your fireplace and the hum of the flowing creek. This was something you could live with.

You made a start to this newfound life by collecting twigs from the earthy ground. The aged trees shed aged branches and aged leaves, providing the perfect fuel for your quirk. I'd make use of the scraps to warm yourself at night. You picked up the occasional piece of litter, too. Glass bottles, milk cartons and cans. Who knows when an old glass bottle may come in handy. You sighed, reaching down to pick up twig after twig.

Twig after twig after twig after twig.

If your home weren't burnt to ash, you would visit one last time. You would raid the kitchen, you thought. Steal all of your mother's finest pots and pans, her intricate designed cutlery, and perhaps even her precious sets of restaurant-grade knives. If you had a backpack, maybe you could have saved some of your personal belongings, too. Your phone, your books, the stuffed lion that you won at the fair last year, Ella.

Ella...

You would have saved Ella.

Yet, none of that held any value anymore. Your childhood home was as good as dust in the wind. Burnt to the ground in a midst of your mother's little temper tantrum. You wondered what your parents would be thinking right now—had they prepared your funeral? Maybe they were by a tissue box, with your mother bathing in the support and sympathy from loved ones, and drowning in support hurled in from the media. Sat by the tissue box, shedding tears of lies. Would your father be by her side? Leaving his side is something you will forever feel guilty about. But despite that, it was his choice to marry the devil. If he cared for his own wellbeing, he would have divorced her.

Spoiler alert, he didn't. And that was none of your business. He's the reason you were born in the first place. It was his idea to have a child.