Blossoms of the Dark

CLIX Shouto: Child

Trigger Warning:

- crude language

- panic attack

_________________________________________________________

"Just watch me."

I was watching the results of the second Hero Rankings of the year when it happens.

Someone knocks at the door, telling me to come down.

It's Mineta, and he points at the television.

And the first thing I see is my dad.

He lies weakened on a pile of a rubble as a noumu crouches above him. His face, from the chin to the eye, is ripped apart. A steady pool of blood accumulates. Endeavor's eyes shut as mine widen. The implications hit me like a cannonade.

Dad ... Japan's Number One hero ... whose results were announced just hours ago ... could die. My father, the man I have hated for years and the man who gave me his legacy, might die today. Distantly, I hear my classmates register my presence and call out of my name. But I cannot hear them. My rising panic tamps down my reality. All there is, is a tempest of thoughts swirling in my head.

For two months, this hero made me question my existence. Before that, he pushed me to do things that I did not want to do. And years back, he abused me and my family. I lost a brother and almost lost my Mom because of him. So many times I thought it would be awesome if he got out of my life. I even told him as much on more than one occasion when I disavowed him. There were moments when I believed that killing myself would release me from his grasp. So why is it that I'm afraid for him now? Isn't this what I wanted?

But it is not. Because the young child inside me who always wished for a happy family is still alive. And it is his presence that makes me pray that I do not become fatherless today. That makes me pray that Dad has the chance to become the hero he always wanted to be. Somehow, that innocent belief only makes me loathe and worry about him more. Because while that naive, optimistic part of me exists, so does the bitter, pessimistic part who wants revenge for every grievance burdened on him. It's these two sides of me that war with each other, fueling my identity crisis. Forgive or forget? That is the question.

This unanswerable question drops me to my knees. I should look away from the television screen. I want to. But the screen has me entranced like iron to a magnet. Like a moth to a flame. The cameraman provides a bird's-eye view from the helicopter, and the spokesperson speaks rapidly into the mike. He says that more noumu and heroes have arrived at the scene. The havoc only grows. It doesn't escape my notice that the spokesperson trails off when he takes Endeavor's name. Although, as if to prove his doubts wrong, Dad launches from the ground all of a sudden, preparing a punch for the noumu's face.

He would almost make it, if not for the noumu's quick counterattack.

A whip of sinew and fiber protrude from the noumu's arm, wrapping itself around Dad's torso and tossing him like a slingshot. The buildings in the vicinity are cut cleanly like butter with a knife. All that concrete crashes down. And with it, my hope. Is that wire mesh protruding from his leg?! It's undoubtable. My father is half-dead.

Just as the noumu climbs on top of a damaged structure, the camera switches views. From the battle to the horde of people being herded away from the scene. The mayhem here is comparable to the chaos there.

Indecipherable words overlap each other. But one citizen makes her voice heard clearly: "This is what happens in the absence of a symbol!" Again, my classmates, my teacher ... all of them try to talk to me. I hear absolutely nothing but the echo of those words.