Assassination Classroom Gift-Shots

Echo [Maehara x Reader]

"The trembling fear is more than I can take when I'm up against the echo in the mirror."

Tick ... Tick...

Time echoes with incessant repetitions, marked by ticking architecture of turning cogs and jagged shards of metal to portray it.

Tick ... Tick ...

Echoes reverberating through her head like the incessant pounding of the heartbeat. It just marked the ends approach, one echo at a time.

What do you do when all you see are echoes around you? How do you save yourself from their tyranny?

Ignorance is bliss. You don't see the echoes, the repetitions that just get louder and louder every second.

Nothing was different, it was always the same, echoing throughout her head to the point of making her scream and cry inside her little box.

She wanted to escape the incessant ticking, to run so far away and never look back. She wanted to escape all the echoes that continued to drive her to the brink of despair. But there was never anything for her to hold onto in the end, nothing to help pull her into that escape she wanted.

Tick ... Tick ... went the clock.

Her hell resumed itself the moment she awoke despite her desperate wishes that she could stay asleep.

Her first echo was the most prompt – The cursed clock with its ever-routine marking of time.

(F/n) opened her eyes as she found herself entirely conscious, all traces of sleep gone vanishing the very second she looked up at the ceiling of her bedroom. Out of habit, she turned her head to look at the clock hanging from her bedroom wall.

17 seconds past 6.01am, exactly the same time it read every morning she looked at it. She'd only been conscious for less than a minute, and she was already over the day.

Pushing her frustration aside, (F/n) dragged herself out of bed to begin her mornings routine. Getting dressed in her school uniform, she pulled her hair back in the usual style, and made her way downstairs after washing up. Just like every morning, breakfast was already made, and (F/n)'s mother was sitting at the table, dressed and ready to head to work. Her father had presumably left already, as usual.

Monday morning's breakfast was as routine as usual – a single fried egg sunny-side up, a piece of toast, and a glass of juice. Everything was exactly the same, in exactly the same organization with nothing out of place.

She was sick of it.

Silently, (F/n) took her seat at the table, sparing not a glance at her mother as she instead went about her breakfast in a different fashion to the last. She had to do it different every time, otherwise she would never truly know if she was just reliving a past echo.

'(F/n), why do you insist on massacring your breakfast every morning?' Her mother questioned after a minutes worth of watching her dice up her egg and smear it into her toast like jam. 'Can't you just eat it like a normal person?'

The same question, word for word.

'I am sacrificing this unborn child to the dark powers at work.' (F/n) replied monotonously, her attention still upon the task at hand. 'Sacrifices are never meant to be glamorous or mundane.'

There was no answer, like usual.

Once (F/n) felt like she'd massacred her breakfast in an appropriately different way to every other Monday morning, she ate.