Behind our eyes beta version

Chapter 2: Ayano

Alternative chapter Name: Spoilt emo girl discovers something even more scary and traumatizing than bloody training: a class full of 16 year olds.

This is how you identify bullshit.

Your guardian will not grab you by your shoulders because he knows it will set you off. He'll stand close to you anyways, sigh like he holds all the wisdom in the world, (he does not,) and rub his eyes like he's sick of this shit but he really hasn't slept well in days.

I haven't slept in weeks. I'm also sick of this shit. I don't say any of this out loud.

He did his best to brief me on what my day will be like. I nodded my head at the end of each instruction but I was only half listening. I'd already filed away all the useful information I need for this year in my brain when I went through his files last night. I was more interested in his eyebags and how much sleep you even have to lose to get them to look like that.

Now we're silently walking down UA's halls to class 2A.

We don't have much to say to each other, especially since I have my earpieces on at max volume under my hoodie. The dorms were noisy last night since the rest of the hero course students had started to trickle in and apparently it was too much for me to expect a bit of civility from the A class of UA. My migraines usually last for two days but the shrieking and running around last night has started to extend it into it's third. Which is not a new record for me

This of course does not stop me from listening to Shiro Sagisu at the highest volume. He's the only one that gets me. He's also the only thing I like about Japan.

UA's halls are long and startlingly bright (albeit familiar, save the windows,) and the uniforms jacket is so itchy I have a non-regulation big black hoodie over my head. Aizawa hasn't said anything about it yet, and I don't think he plans to. But even with the modern white of the walls, everything can't help but feel so traditional. So, Japanese.

And I don't like Japan.

But ironically, the only thing that makes Japan bearable, that makes my migraine not make me want to gouge my eyes out and feed them to passing crows, is the harmony of the piano and violin written by Japanese composer, Shiro Sagisu.

I'm halfway through the Hedgehog's Dilemma for the third time today when Aizawa stops in front of a door.

It's a big door. And it has the words 2 and A vertically aligned as windows. Through these windows, I can already see moving outlines of people and something uncomfortable turns in my stomach.

I'm ready to call off this entire operation when Aizawa taps my shoulder and starts speaking to me. I pull out my earpieces and let them dangle in front of me and Aizawa looks stressed all of a sudden.

"You've had those things in your ears the whole time?" he asks, picking his words. He doesn't even need to pinch his nose for me to know I've succeeded in annoying him again.

"Yes," I say, indifferent to his feelings. "is there a problem?"