Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂
THE SOFTENED BRISTLES LEFT BEHIND A STREAK OF COLORED PIGMENTS. Cheerful colors were covered by the pale almost colorless whites, crimson stains, and yellow-green fluid. Music made by chirping birds and the buzzing of cicadas were lost between the cries of family. The feeling of morning dew on the grass was taken by the loss of feeling in one's limbs. Smells like the pastries a grandma had made and the occasional takeout one shared was masked by the smell of saline and iron.
The senses were presented in the canvas before her as she sat idly in the apartment that had filled up with rejected paintings. Bland white was all around her, something she hadn't cared to change. Large windows let in the light that had been blocked by gray clouds that day and paired with the fluttering sounds of rain. Her fingers tapped against the painted over linen, feeling the dried masses of oil paint ever so slightly stain her fingers. She stopped with a huge glob came up with it.
Her body shook as she sat in the cold room, only covered with a now hole-littered shawl she had been given long ago. A knock on her door made her sigh and walk to the door. The shawl dragged across the cement floor, creating even more possible holes. "Aizawa, hi," she greeted coldly, stepping to the side to let the raven-haired male inside. He nodded, sighing at the state her apartment was in. "You know, grandma wanted to tell you that you can stay with her," he stated as he picked up a canvas that had fallen face down.
"I don't want to risk it," she grumbled, leaping towards the bed that had sat in the corner. Aizawa sighed for what had seemed, already, for the hundredth time. It had only been maybe one minute since he had arrived and she was already more mind-numbing than the kids he hadn't expelled. For some odd reason, he wished the electric blond was here to make a stupid joke and make everyone laugh. But for the moment, it was just him and his cousin who had rejected the hero life in her second year of high school.
"You know, just leaving her without being with her would hurt her more than what you're doing now," he stated as he placed Tupperware that he had been sent to give to her into the empty fridge. "You don't have any food in here, y' know," he called out as she shuffled into the endless amount of sheets on her bed. "I was supposed to go grocery shopping today but the gods have decided that my state will worsen." Aizawa frowned, still shoveling food into the fridge.
"Well, are you hungry?" he asked, being answered by more shuffling which he assumed to be her nodding her head. With yet another sigh, he shut the fridge door and sat on the edge of the mattress. "How long has it been since you've eaten?" he questioned as he placed a hand on her head. "Four days; the money mom and dad left is starting to dwindle," she replied and peeked at the expression on her cousin's face.
"Why haven't you said anything?" he seethed silently, "you know we have more than enough money to help you out." She turned in her bed, facing the wall instead of the older male. "It'll be a waste in the end," she mumbled, feeling tears seep from her eyes. "If I'm going to die might as well die of starvation instead of this stupid quirk." He grit his teeth, gripping the sheets below him as he watched his younger cousin slowly lose her strength day by day.
He remembered the day she had turned three and had flaunted her new quirk. Her parents hadn't been there that day— they had died in the hospital later that night. The genes that had given her the quirk she adored had the same fatal genes that caused them to die early. But with two genes with the same fatality; she was fated to die at a quarter of her original lifespan. On the occasion, he remembered cursing god when he had found out. It had already taken someone from him before and now he had taken the lives of his aunt and uncle and soon the life of his cousin.
He cursed the gods that had made his grandma and his parents cry. He cursed the gods that had killed the life in his little cousin's once bright (e/c) eyes. All that was left were dull orbs that were matched with a frail, almost skeletal body. He hated how something could take away the feeling in her fingers and toes. It was the same thing that had allowed him to teach children her age. He hated to see the revolting color of yellow-green fluid she puked up that was matched with crimson stains— to leave her in the hospital for weeks on end and riddle her with the smell of iron and saline.
All he wanted now was to make her smile before the end of her days.
His mind floated back to the blond who was an idiot but made everyone laugh. The boy who was followed by a rowdy redhead and raven-haired boy. One that bothered an ash blond who could be comical with the explosive attitude he had. The green-haired boy (who was too nice to hurt anyone unless he had to) who was surrounded by a once cold-hearted boy, a bubbly brunette, and a strict class president. These kids he knew reminded him of the girl who now sat as an empty husk. If they could help her before her demise, then maybe it wouldn't be so painful.
