A Life Worth Living (Aizawa x OC)

20 - What It Means To Be A Hero

Himari

After what felt like an eternity of randomly alternating between a half-conscious state and unconsciousness, I sluggishly opened my eyes again, driven by the determination to leave this warehouse – ideally alive.

I had absolutely no idea what had happened while I'd been out cold. I had no fucking clue.

On top of that, I also couldn't locate the source of the pain that repeatedly washed over my body. It came in waves. It was everywhere and nowhere at the same time, and it was definitely worse than when I'd first woken up in here.

My partially swollen eyes hurriedly examined my surroundings, trying to get a hold on the current situation.

Matsumi, or probably more accurate – the lunatic who'd created Matsumi to deceive my naïve ass and get me in here in the first place, didn't pop up in my impaired field of vision. To say that I was relieved would be the understatement of the century.

That gives me some time to think. Good. I really need that time.

Repeating the same procedure as the last time, I glanced down at myself to get an idea of what he'd done to me while I'd been out that caused this excruciating pain, noticing that my clothes were entirely drenched in blood that was gradually starting to dry.

Great. Another outfit I like that eventually ends up in the trash.

My jeans were cut open on several spots, giving me a view of cuts in different shapes and sizes that decorated my legs. My shirt was torn open in the middle, currently more resembling a jacket than a shit. Apparently, my chest had received the same treatment as my legs. My entire torso was littered with a variety of slashes, starting from my neckline and ending where my jeans blocked the further view of my body. The same bloody marks decorated my arms, some of them having the same shape as the scars on my neck. The dagger was still resting in my right shoulder.

Seems like someone had a lot of fun while I was out. Probably too much fun. Sick little fucker.

My breath was shaky, and I was incredibly dizzy, but it wasn't the blood covering me that caused my state of distress. I was used to seeing blood as well as injuries of all types, severe or not. This part, the dirty part of being a hero, is the one that's usually disregarded by the public and hero fanatics.

The media loves to portray heroes as shining stars, as saviours, to show the people out there why you're an honourable person who's worth plenty of gratitude, respect, and admiration.

All the victims of villain attacks, the casualties, the people dying in the arms of heroes and emergency workers who desperately tried to save them but eventually failed to do so, the injuries you receive while trying to protect the people out there...that's what remains hidden from the public eye.

For them, you are a knight in shining armour. Invincible. Although you clearly aren't. You're also just a human.

But to appear like a knight in shining armour is part of the job. That's simply how it works.

This is the toughest lesson to learn when you freshly graduate from school and celebrate your debut as a hero. The internships at school are an attempt to provide you with a first glimpse at the real world of heroics.

But it's not comparable. Not in the slightest.

Hero schools don't inform you about the difficult aspects of the job – losing a fight, failing to save someone, failing to protect someone, seeing people die right in front of your eyes, fearing for your own life while fighting a forlorn battle against someone who's clearly stronger than you.