Home.

Chapter 6

Warning! Mentions of suicidal thoughts, cutting, depression and the f slur (I'm non-binary and abrosexual so I won't be censoring it.) I won't put another warning so if these trigger you and you don't want to read further you should stop now. For those who are continuing enjoy the story!

Time skip to when Izuku is 15

Izuku's POV

I get woken up by the sound of loud talking from downstairs. I try rolling over and continuing to sleep but it's too noisy so I decide to just wake up.

I sit on my bed, just thinking for a little bit. It's the anniversary for when I last saw my mom, March 12. I still miss her a ton. I wish she could be here with me, using that silly nickname she used to use. 'Zuku.'

I loved the way it sounded, it was adorable and it always made me feel happy. Now the only thing I get called is Deku, or the other nickname.

Fag

I really hate it and ask the others to stop but they never do. They've continued to call me that ever since I came out as gay.

"Worthless Deku!"

"Wow you're gay?... yeaahhh I think we should stop being friends."

"Why would you choose to be gay? You know heaven doesn't accept FAGGOTS right?"

"Eww! I bet he has a crush on us. Hope he doesn't molest us in our sleep!"

The harsh memories came flooding back to me and I started to silently cry. They already disliked me before I came out but when I did they were absolutely disgusted.

I couldn't stop crying, the memories brought back so much pain. I wanted to sleep and never wake up again. I wish the kids would beat me up and leave me there to bleed out.

I need to de-stress. And I know how.

I stood up and walked towards the bathroom and stepped in, making sure to lock the white door behind me.

My hands fumbled with the wobbly knobs on the drawers underneath the sink as I opened them to reveal the things I loved most.

My razor blades.

I've always told the workers at the orphanage that I need them for shaving, but that's not the case.

These razors make me feel free.

Free from the nightmares of dad, feel from the sorrow of mom leaving me, from the harsh words and torment of other people here at the place that I call home.

I grab the plastic packet and carefully take one of the metal pieces out. I grab my bandages for afterwards.

It's like muscle memory at this point cause I've done this so much, I don't even have to think about it anymore.

I place the blade onto the floor carefully to try and not make too much noise. I roll up my blue long sleeve shirt to uncover hundreds of scars, some long some short. Some are deep while others are more shallow.

I pick the blade back up and stare at my previous artwork for a moment before I continue. My hand brings the blade to hover above my forearm for a moment. Then in one swift movement I bring it down onto my skin.

The pain feels amazing. Watching the scarlet liquid seep out of the cut causes me sigh with relief. But it's not enough. I deserve this. I've deserved every bad thing that's ever happened.