The Tales We Tell Ourselves

A house is not a home

The feeling of being wanted was not something that could be summarized easily in words. It had a presence that made you feel as if you were sitting under a shady tree surrounded by the sun's warmth, where wildflowers grew endlessly across the grassy hills, and the sky was filled with scattered fluffy clouds blended into the mind's shapes. Being wanted is a concept that is often taken for granted.

Izuku never quite knew that feeling. His mother and father had died only weeks after he was born. He supposed that they had the parental urge to care for him just as most parents ought to. He could only imagine their faces as he was held for the first time. The smile that must have been on his mother's face and the pride his father felt knowing he would grow up to be something great. This was only a fantasy. An elaborate scheme he had made up in his head to take him away from the cold bitterness of reality.

With hair a mossy green and freckles that dotted his face, he merged into the sea of tired people sitting on the train. Eyes locked to the window, he imagined all sorts of stories that danced around his brain, filling the time it would take to arrive at his next stop.
" How long do you suppose the train rails go?" He asked, his voice innocent with childhood. The elderly man sitting next to him only glanced over, his mustache twitching as he grumbled something. Izuku decided to speak again.

" If I were to have a guess... it would go far past where the eye can see. Maybe across the great oceans, beyond any point a human would imagine," he says, filling his words with color.
" And it would never stop. Going forever and forever until nothing was left. A train that never stops. Can you imagine all of the sights you would be able to see being in something like that?"
" Something like that sounds like utter nonsense," the man said, and Izuku looked back out the window.
" Without nonsense, nothing would make a lick of sense," he says.

Izuku was often told that he talked too much. An orphan with a big mouth would never get adopted, and such a thing would be impossible as children were supposed to be seen and not heard. But words had so much power. They created stories and wove tales of extraordinary meanings. They caused wars just as they could end them. Words could express how much you care about someone and crumble them just as easily.

As the train slowed, the boy stood up, standing on his tiptoes to grab his small leather bag. " well, I'm off," he said to the man who had barely said a word to him "you have been a great company to me during this travel. I hope you find the rest of your travels well." he says bowing his head before he walked to the doors of the train in stepped off looking around at the almost empty train station.

All of his life, the green-haired boy had been passed around. Home after home, the change of scenery was always different. If you wanted to think about it on a positive note, he got to go all around Japan. The only constant in his life was the train and the stories he made up in his head. New schools, new beds, everything was always different. Some of the houses have been better than others; some people only had foster children to make them work in their house, cleaning and taking care of the other children. Some were cruel, and some were kind.

" Midoriya," a familiar voice said. The only familiar one he had. She was a middle-aged woman. She was pretty, with a string of pearls around her neck.
" I hope the train ride wasn't too long," she says " we should get going. Let me take your bag" she reached out, but the boy guarded the leather case slightly.
" it would be best if I held it. You see, the clasp broke recently, and you must hold it a certain way. Every time somebody has tried to hold it, everything fell out. It would be best if I held it because I've practiced. That way, we won't be later than we already are." He says.
She smiled a bit and nodded.
" Come quickly then," she says, her heels clicking against the floor. It reminded him of horse hooves.

The boy slid into the back seat of the woman's black car, buckling his seat belt as she began to drive, soft music playing from the radio.
" This new home will be good. You'll be in a condo complex, so there will be a shared backyard. I'm sure Mrs. Yang will have all sorts of fun activities for you to do there. And the school hosts all kinds of after-school activities. You'll be able to make many friends, " The woman says though Izuku wasn't listening much.
This was the same story he had hurt many times. Every time she would go over all of the fun things he would be able to do. A swimming pool was nearby, and the family had a ranch or lived next to the beach. He learned to stop getting his hopes up. However, our backyard did suit his tastes. Maybe there would be beautiful, blooming trees. Maybe a  white picket fence that peaked into the neighbor's yard, perhaps?

When he was younger, it had been harder to accept the reality. But now that he was ten years old, he was mature enough to know that kids like him never really felt wanted. They were a way for people to feel better about themselves. Look at you helping a poor kid who has no home! Or maybe they wanted the extra money the government provided when you would take on these kids. Even if they included him in family activities, you've never felt like you were actually part of the family, knowing that in just a few months, you could be taken away into a whole other home.

But izuku held onto a hope. Eventually, he would have a family when he was older. He will get married and have kids. Friends who surrounded him forever because that was what a family was. A group of people that trust each other and depend on one another. It did not have to be blood, but it just had to make you feel at home. People say that blood is thicker than water, but with enough water, you can surely wash away any trace of blood.

" This is it," The woman says, and she opens the car door for the boy. He hopped out and made his way up the path to his new foster parent's condo. She knocked on the door and waited. And she waited some more, knocking once more. Eventually, the door opened, and a woman in her late sixties stood there. A cigarette in her hand. " Miss Yang, thank you for taking Midoriya on such short notice. When his last foster mother broke her hip we were scrambling to find placements for all of the kids," she says.

" yeah yeah...." she says, blowing out some smoke. Izuku hated cigarettes. He rubbed his arm slightly, rubbing his fingers over some burns on his inner arm.
" Get inside, Midoriya was it? " she says. The boy nods. " good ill get you settled in a minute," she says, placing her hand on his shoulder and urging him inside. he walks further into the house and closes his eyes for a second, drowning out the corral words said between his new foster mother and the other woman. He imagined he was setting foot into a secret castle lost to time. One never discovered by man until now. The couch was a tomb and old porcelain figures, ancient treasures that should be in a museum, lick Indiana Jones would want.

Soon the door closed, and the woman's voice cut him away from his fantasy. " Midoriya- Midoriya, are you listening to me?" She says, her voice scratchy in a way that can only be achieved by smoking for twenty years.
"yes, miss. Yang," he says
" You will call me ma'am and nothing else. I run this house on respect " she says. "I don't want to hear a peep from you when my television is on. When you get home from school, you do the chores. You do what I ask you without an if and or but. Naughty little boys get punished." she says sternly. Maybe the green-haired boy was wrong, and this was not an ancient tomb but a witch's cabin instead.
"I know how you kids get. Your behavior will not fly," she says, and she grabs him by the shirt, taking him to a room. " you'll sleep in here. If you're not doing chores I expect you to be in here," she says.

The room was dull and boring. A twin-sized bed sat pressed against the corner of the room. A desk on the other side, with a lamp and a dresser.
"dinner is at seven," she says before closing the door behind him. The boy looked around, and he went to go sit on his bed, putting his bag in his lap. Tomorrow would be a better day. That's what he wanted to believe.