watch me burn || BNHA DabiHawks

6. 10 things you definitely shouldn't do after getting stabbed: a guide by Dabi

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Fuck.

How could this happen? How could he be so stupid? Why didn't he listen to all the warnings his mind kept screaming at him? To let some girl, a child, stab him! How much lower can a person fall?

This is what he gets for trying to play hero.

Generally, he enjoys having something long and hard inside of him, but this time, it's anything but pleasant. His fingers are still clutched around the handle, as if that would somehow prevent him from falling apart, the pavement is harsh against his scrapped knees and the metallic smell of blood assaulting his nostrils is making him dizzy. It's getting hard to breathe through the pain. The sounds that keep coming out of his mouth are raspy and ragged, and maybe a little wet too. He doesn't try to cough.

Fuck. He can't die here. He can't. Can you imagine? By some miracle, he gets a chance to fix his life, something straight out of fanfiction, all to pathetically die in some back-alley brawl? That would be a new low, even for him. But, well, if anyone is unlucky enough for that fate, he supposes it would be him.

(It stings even more, to realize that this whole situation is basically proving his father right; to admit that there might have been some truth in his words Dabi so easily dismissed earlier. That, maybe, he really did grow overconfident. And that, in the end, his recklessness did end up biting him in the ass.)

Fuck. Is this really how he's going to die? With his limited medical knowledge, he can't quite tell how serious the injury is. There doesn't seem to be as much blood as he would expect from an abdomen stab wound. Sure, his clothes are soaked and so are his hands, and the ground under him is speckled with red splashes, but it's nothing like the dramatic pool of blood that dead boy's corpse is lying in. So, that's good, right? Or maybe so little blood is actually a bad sign? Dabi has never been stabbed like this before, he wouldn't know.

He grits his teeth as he attempts to force his panicked thoughts to slow down. So what if there's some blood? So what if there's a dreadful cold penetrating and chilling all of his insides? It's not the end of the world. He's been through worse. He's already survived the impossible. He will not let some minor stabbing be the end of him.

The police sirens get louder and louder, too close for comfort. Someone must have finally called them. They're late, as always. There are no heroes, as always. It's just the kind of place this is. Even now, he knows those officers aren't coming here with an intention to stop the fight. They're coming to clean up what's left of it.

Fuck. He needs to run. They can't catch him here. He refuses to go down in such a stupid way, not after everything he's been through. He did not get this far just to end up in jail for murders he didn't even commit.

With the way his legs are shaking – when did they start shaking? – standing up, let alone running anywhere, feels downright impossible. He's not actually sure his limbs will listen to him even if he commands them to move. His sight is getting more and more blurry, which might be from blood loss, but might also be from that one kick his face took earlier. It's a miracle he hasn't passed out yet, with how erratically his heart is beating.

None of that is going to stop him though.

Hastily, he puts one of his bloody, trembling hands on the ground and, after taking a few seconds to brace himself, activates his quirk. The flames spread like, well, wildfire, and soon are covering the ground all around him, sizzling and devouring everything in their way. The heat causes him to sweat even more and soon, blue is the only thing he can see, and it's a déjà vu he's really not in the mood for right now.