Reap What You Sow / A BNHA Story

Chapter 5

"Did you kill Miss Hilton's son?" My father, Yuri, loomed over me, alcohol induced breath blowing hot on my neck. He spat on my face, landing another blow on my stomach as he pummeled me into the wall, doing more damage to the cheap plaster behind me as I guarded myself from his attacks.

"No, his dog pounced on him while we were playing." I whimpered, his fist connecting with my face.

"Liar. You tore him to shreds, then chucked him in his mothers bath tub, letting him rot while you walked away innocently." He heaved as he walked away from me and stumbled on the broken beer bottles scattered on the floor. He went to the kitchen to retrieve another one, the liquor sliding down his chin and soaking his blue polo shirt.

I used the opportunity to slide out from the corner of my living room, taking a piece of the glass and sliding it into the sleeve of my shirt before huddling back into the wall. I jump as a loud smashing sound echoes through the house, yet another bottle joining the others on the floor. My father has his head buried in his hands, twisting his pure white hair in his fingers, pulling at the strands until clumps fall on the kitchen counter. He turns his green eyes to me, a hatred so raw and powerful it startles me enough to plead with him.

"It was the dog daddy, Jerry was pushing and pinching me, so he got mad for me and attacked him." I take in his assessing glare, willing him to believe me.

"That's a load of bullshit. And you know why I know that? Because of the fire you create. The flames that come from neither your mother and I or any of our ancestors. Maybe I would've believed you otherwise, but you killed Jerry, killed him, and then somehow manifested his quirk. You're a demon." He scowled at me, disgusted by my existence. Walking to my spot in the corner, he fisted my shirt, pushing me against the wall, hard enough to dent it. By doing so, he tore at the material on my shoulder, a thorny looking shape of black catching his attention.

"What the hell is this on your shoulder? Are you hiding a fucking tattoo?" He scratches at the mark, trying to see if it fades or stays.

"It's a burn mark. You did it, remember? When you poured your boiling cup of coffee on me?" Whether it was the statement, the fact that I had spoken at all, or the way in which I said that sentence, as if it was a mere memory to recollect, and not evidence of abuse, either way, it threw my father off even more, and so he threw me across the room, my limp body landing on the dismantled couch.

"I wish you were dead." He paces into his bedroom, but not before retrieving another bottle of beer, the door to his room slamming shut. The mindless voices of the television sparring to life.

A door opens in the distance, quiet footsteps making their way into the living room, stopping as they take in my bruised figure.

My mother sighs as she takes the broom from the storage room next to the kitchen. She starts sweeping the floor, taking the pieces of broken glass with her. She disinfects the countertops, masking the scent of alcohol with the strong aroma of soap. By the time she gets to the couch, my eyes have started to droop, fatigue more powerful of a feeling then pain. I feel myself being gently lifted, rain soaked arms carrying me to my bedroom, locked access, put pristine and untouched, unlike every other room in this house.

I bite my lip to prevent myself from screaming as my stomach contracts, blood pooling in my mouth. My mother carefully removes my clothing, throwing away my ripped and bloodied clothes before replacing them with a fresh set of pyjamas. I tuck the shard of glass that I took underneath my pillow before she has a chance to see it. She dabs a cold cloth on my forehead, applying a sort of ointment on all the places my dad hit me. She urged me to sit up, practically forcing my body to still as she opened my mouth to insert a pill, flushing it away with some water. She brushes my hair, roughly pulling at the matted ends. I force myself to open my eyes, looking into the grey depths of my mothers', her face hollow and sunken, but untouched nonetheless.