In My Memories | Suicidal Villain Todoroki x Depressed Bakugou

23 | Villains Rising [1/2]

Katsuki Bakugou

Like petals whisking through the wind, a year has fluttered across my fingers since the day that Deku and I presented the footage of Todoroki's home abuse to Aizawa. Immediately, such incriminating evidence was presented to higher officials, and it was only a matter of time before Deku, Aizawa, the Todoroki family and I had been interrogated. Of course, no such witness had been alive to state his testimony or confirm or deny our own testimonies. However, there had been enough evidence to sentence Enji Todoroki to six years in jail. Honestly, I wished it had been seven years for what that sack of shit did to the love of my life, but I supposed that such a disgrace to society being shoved into jail was a miracle itself. After all, the police had been eminently skeptical with Endeavor being the number two hero and playing his own role in supporting the hierarchy of heroes and justice.

Preceding Endeavor's trial, my dorm had been investigated, and a diary of Todoroki's had been discovered in his bag. The officials leading the investigation captured the content of the diary through photographs and left the physical diary in my hands. A part of me dreaded opening up that small, water-damaged diary, but another part of me was piqued with curiosity. So I decided to read one page every two or three weeks.

I can still recall Todoroki's funeral, even though nobody ("no body" works, too) existed to bury. Despite that, something had still been buried beneath the ground and crushed by the accumulation of soil—my heart. The air in the church became thick with lachrymose silence, and I remember seeing two small streams of tears gliding down Deku's cheeks. There was no way in hell I was going to allow myself to weep at the funeral, so I suppressed the urge with clenched fists and cold palms. After all was said and done and I returned to my dorm, however, I wept for at least an hour, sifting slowly through my memories of Shouto Todoroki.

Luckily for me, before Todoroki's phone became court evidence, I sent a copy of the video of him composing his song to myself. I've listened to that delightful strain of flourishing notes every night to hear his rich, silky voice again. Every night, I remind myself that I have to become the greatest hero for my sake, Todoroki's sake, and to ensure that I can protect the people I love. I'd been far too arrogant and weak to protect Todoroki, so I ceaselessly remind myself that it was my own weakness which caused the suicide of my friend, best friend, and the one I wished to claim as my boyfriend.

Now I'm sitting alone in the melancholic air of my dorm at the edge of my bed, staring down at Todoroki's diary. It's a pale blue, tinted in a light yellow hue. I open it up from where I left off reading and turn over to the next page. The papers are somewhat stiff and crinkly; many have been stained by water and blood.

A lot of suicidal thoughts have been plaguing my mind recently. Even though my father's training sessions have become significantly more humane compared to when I was younger, it will never mend my old scars. It won't bring back my mother or my brother. Still, even though I despise how he treats me as if I'm an object, I know he's been improving—incredibly slowly, but he's made progress. Even so, I can't help but think I deserve this pain. A voice in my head beckons for me to find and seize my flaws, but it also tells me that I'm a hideous monstrosity. It tells me to cut, and so I drag whatever sharp object I can find across my skin. It tells me I'm greedy for consuming the food that others lack, and that I don't deserve any of it, so I avoid eating whenever I can. It tells me I'm fat, so I typically purge whatever I do eat. It tells me I'm ugly, so I hate even glancing at my reflection. It tells me I'm worthless, so I frequently find myself contemplating suicide. I listen to it, and I don't understand why. I believe it. It's all my fault.

"Shouto," I hiss, scrunching my eyes as my trembling hands grip his diary. "God, every time I read a new page of your diary, I'm so infuriated with myself. I couldn't see that you were in dire need of help, Shouto... But just because we can't see something, that doesn't mean it isn't real. Just because I couldn't see the agony in your eyes doesn't mean you weren't suffering. Dammit, I was so blind. I'm still furious with myself—I always will be. Heh, I'd be irate if I wasn't furious with myself, too, so there's really no way out of the loop." Pressing the pages of the diary together, I close it up and slide it aside to once again open for another time.