Chapter Text
This is so stupid.
“Entry 1
Name, Bakugou Katsuki
I’ve started writing in a journal because Dr. Aizawa told me it would be a good way to express myself. He said the whole inability to talk about my feelings keeps us from making real progress in therapy. I don’t get what he means because I sure as fuck have no problem speaking my mind about people’s bullshit.
I respect Dr. Aizawa though, he’s a strong guy, and I’m talking about army strong kind of strength. I don’t think I could listen to some pointy nosed little bitch who hasn’t thrown a punch in their life, let alone even taken a punch.
So yeah, I’ve started writing to try and figure out how to control my feelings, yadda yadda. I just went to the nearest convenience store and got one of those shitty 99 cent composition books with the blue lined white paper and all. Going to go straight to the damn point now.
I’ve got what the doctors call, “Intermittent Explosive Disorder.” I remember in high school if a guy so much as breathed in my direction in class, I’d feel my No.2 pencil snap in my hand. Dr. Aizawa and I talk all the damn time about the roots of my issues, or whatever, and I guess like anyone else it has to do with my childhood.
My mom is a powerful woman. Everyone and their fuckin cousins are always spouting about how I’m the spitting image of her. Blonde hair, amber eyes, pale skin – sharp canines when we smile to remind others that we are wolves, not rabbits.
She might look like an angel but living with her was hell. My mouse of a dad would sit back on the couch and twiddle his thumbs when my mom and I would erupt into our volcanic arguments. I hate her but I respect her. Growing up, slaps to the face hard enough to make me see Van Gogh’s fuckin Starry Night got my respect real fast. To this day, I haven’t met a man who hits harder than she does. Then again, I’m the one doing most of the hitting now, not the other way around.
Dr. Aizawa said that’s what’s called ‘child abuse’, which never fails to make me roll my eyes. It made me tough, that’s all. My mom prepared me for the brutal world I was born into. If there’s anyone who doesn’t have my respect, it’s my chicken shit dad who always stayed silent through all the worst moments. Anyways, I can’t imagine being raised differently for the most part. I don’t know. The way you’re raised is always normal to you, even if it isn’t. Right?
Bottom line is, I was forced to go to therapy at 24 years old because I’m suspended from Police Academy until I get my shit together. Whatever. That’s enough for today, I don’t want to fuckin think about it.”
Tossing my pen to the side, I watch it clatter onto the fibrous dark carpet and roll under my wardrobe. I live in the off campus housing my police academy offers, the only reason I can still stay here is because I’m a rising star whether people like it or not. Top grades, best at training, and everyone knows I’m gonna make a difference in society one day instead of those shit dicks who talk big and do little.
It’s a small home, basically one big rectangle with a bathroom in its own little room. The place has grey walls and dark wood furniture, everything is in shades of black or dark orange, and the ceiling lamp doesn’t work well so it’s perpetually dim in here. Nothing special, but I don’t have time to be a damn interior decorator – I have better things to do. I keep a desk where I study, a table to eat on, and a bed with puffy black sheets and orange pillows to knock myself out on. Only personal artifact in this room is a framed photo my friend Kirishima gave me of us at his birthday party with some close classmates. Kirishima is a pain in the ass but he’s gonna be one hell of a cop, he’s hardworking and a great sparring partner. How someone like me has friends? No clue, they somehow latched onto me like barnacles when I wasn’t looking.
Instead of posters or paintings hung up I have not one, but three punches in the wall from losing my temper. One over by the sink of my kitchen after a phone call with my mom, the second in a bathroom wall by the mirror, and the last in the wall next to my bed that’s in the corner. Kirishima is the only friend who comes by my place, funny enough, he’s never asked why they’re there. He just wanders in finger-combing his bright crimson faux-hawk, smiling his usual dumbass smile, asking if he can make protein shakes before our evening run.
I keep thinking of the desperate smile he gave me when he reached his hand out to me from above, keeping a brave face for me when the fear was watering in his eyes. I don’t want to imagine what I must have looked like.
Now, I go over to my desk, reach down to pull out the bottom drawer, and look at the puddle of match-boxes. I keep thinking about the incident and it makes me sick, makes a fever rise in me that leaves my palms and brow sweaty with the flashing invasive thoughts that blare through my head. Its all so loud, this pain is so loud, it’s all a train horn blasting through me. I cover my ears and clam my eyes shut to try and stop hearing and seeing what happened, but the leftover sensations leave me rattled nonetheless.
These memories churn my blood into oil, the anger sets me aflame, and reality becomes one burning building I’m trapped inside of. I grab a pack and open a window (because this autumn is a hot one), and I take a seat on the side of my bed to start kicking my sweatpants off. I keep my black skull T-shirt on, because it ain’t that hot, and I’m left in maroon boxer briefs.
This side of myself is for myself, just like how the moon only lets us see what we are allowed to. No one gets to see the shaking panic that thunders throughout my bones like the crackling of a tree collapsing in a forest - because if there is no one there to witness the tree fall, then it’s like it never happened. The tunnel vision, the dizziness, and the self-hatred that howls like a thousand souls reaching up from hell within me are all burdens I bear alone.
There’s a ritual to this. I pluck a match from the root of the pack, I enjoy the quick sensation of the base splitting beneath my chewed-up thumbnail and I waste no time striking the match against the rough strip of the pack. There is a sinister joy that comes with watching that angry red head of the match burn the way that I burn, that teardrop of flame makes my mouth water. I take a deep breath in of that sulfur smoke like I’m breathing in an oxygen mask, and my calloused hand directs that flame towards my powerful thigh. A constellation of little white craters cover my thighs, some tiny puffy purple scabs, and I look for an empty space to place a new addition.
When I dip that lit match into my skin, hear it fizzle out into my flesh, everything besides this moment in my life melts away. It clears everything, the exhaustion of rage fizzles out in that moment of supreme clarity. I reclaim my sanity, my focus, and I can feel my breaths relax to the lullaby of throbbing pain. I close my eyes to enjoy the afterglow, the high of adrenaline singing: I am alive, I am alive, I am alive.
When I blink back after my escape of twisted bliss, I take out the charred match and let the grey ash linger on my pulsing thigh. I go to the window and let the flint of wood join the others in a cigarette tray. I don’t smoke, but I keep the tray because there is a morbid pride I feel seeing the pile of matches sitting in that black little bowl. After I take a shower and dry, I take my newly prescribed medication and sink into a much-needed sleep.
“Entry 2
Its already been a week since I’ve last written. Today’s a Tuesday, and I forgot this notebook existed until I started heading out for today’s appointment. I’m in the waiting room for the next session with Dr. Aizawa. Usually, this girl in her 20’s comes out and I know it’s my turn. She’s got short stringy brown hair that’s always tucked behind her ears and she always looks like she’s about to say “sorry.” There’s a permanent blush stained on her cheeks, it’s like she’s embarrassed for just being alive. The girl seems nice though, that’s all that really matters I guess. She smiles whenever we cross paths, I don’t because I don’t participate in sheepish manners most people are tied up in. I’m just not a friendly person, most of the time I don’t feel like pretending like I give a shit. We don’t say a word out loud to each other and I think we both prefer it that way.
Usually I’m stuck staring at the poster in the lobby, it’s a Rorschach ink blot that looks like two screaming mouths, but today something is different. Besides the usual tiny old lady at the reception desk, there’s a new guy sitting across from me. It’s a small ass place so this change feels that much more awkward. It’s not a primary care doctor’s office where people could visit for anything from a cold to chronic diarrhea, everyone that comes here is specifically fucked in the head. It’s hard to keep up appearances when someone else is here, we might as well be naked for fuck sakes."
The new guy is a mess, his hair looks like a bird’s nest of forest green hair. He’s talking to the old lady and setting up an appointment, his voice is hurried and there seems to be some sort of urgency to see Dr. Aizawa. He keeps feeling the fabric of the cuffs of his white long-sleeved shirt nervously, the rest of his outfit is a pair of worn jeans and ratty red high-top sneakers. Something about his shoes makes something deep in my memory flutter. When he turns around, we catch eyes to his startled dismay, so then he averts his gaze to the ground and takes a seat as far from me as he possibly can.
There’s something familiar about his face, he’s pale like he hasn’t stepped out of his room for the past couple of years, and freckles haunt every inch of his skin. His eyes are dark but not brown, button nose, although he’s got a baby face there’s no doubt his baggy clothes hide a pretty fit build. He pulls out a notebook like mine, I glimpse five other notebooks in his backpack, and he starts scribbling down words and muttering under his breath. Jesus, this guy must be koo koo for fucking cocoa puffs.
It pisses me off I can’t remember his name, so I let him struggle under my frustrated glare. I know him, its only a matter of time till his identity hits me. Like the slow motion before a crash.
His t-shirt says, “ T- shirt” in plain font. What a nerd. I barely notice Blushing Girl get out from her appointment, she just walked right by me and took a seat near new guy to wait for her ride. That means I’m up.
Bastard keeps hiding his face so I can’t get a decent look at him, but I don’t have time to play guessing games anymore. I tuck my notebook into my gym bag and stride into Dr. Aizawa’s office, I open up the silver door that’s slightly ajar with a kick of my foot. He’s sitting in a big yellow chair that looks too comfortable, as if the chair is attempting to swallow him whole. His curly black hair is pulled back into a bun, his usual purple eye bags show that he hasn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since he was born, and 5 o’ clock shadow is apparent on his chin. Dr. Aizawa motions me to the black leather couch, he crosses his legs in his frumpy black suit, and he sticks his nose into his grey scarf when he looks down at his notes. His voice rasps,
“How are you liking your new meds?”
I hop onto the couch, lay my legs across the entirety of it, and fold my arms behind my neck to relax. I whip a glare at him and complain,
“I don’t like them, in fact I fuckin hate them. Wish I didn’t have to dope myself up like I’m some nutcase.”
Dr. Aizawa doesn’t flinch, he just nods sluggishly and sets his notes down in his lap and rests his chin on his knuckles and replies,
“I understand you take protein to improve yourself, correct? The meds you’re taking now just helps improve your brain function, that’s all. Speaking of improvement, do you see any with your overall mood?” He clicks the head of his pen with his other hand twice, then lets his pen rest against the page in preparation for my response. I cross my arms and squeeze at my biceps, pleased that they are still steely, and sigh through my nose like a bull.
“I mean, I still get pissed off pretty easily but I don’t see red anymore. If that’s what you mean.” I don’t need to look at Dr. Aizawa to know he’s writing this down, I hear the pen scratch across the page and I close my eyes. Another question,
“Are you ready to talk about what happened?” It takes me .0001 seconds to respond, I speak through my teeth when I answer him.
“No.” More pen scratching from him, then he clears his throat, not out of nervousness but because he sounds like he’s recovering from a lingering cold. Dr. Aizawa continues on, not making a big annoying deal out of my rejection.
“If that’s the case, I’d like to go over some coping methods that will help you when you’re frustrated or feel like you might see red.” I sit up, give the 40 something year old veteran my attention, and wish for the session to be over already.
It’s hard for me to answer to him without biting his head off for it, but it unnerves me to show even the slightest bit of vulnerability – even if it’s a professional trying to help. I didn’t ask for any of this, to be babied, or to be taken care of. Dr. Aizawa says this is just a different type of training that will only make me stronger in the end, which helps me accept this situation. He gives me an assignment, to accept an act of kindness once a day and to not fight against the help offered. I nod and bite at a hangnail, then I grab my things and walk out, ready to get the fuck out and start studying materials from academy I’m missing out on.
When I turn the corner to the lobby, I see the weird psycho nerd sitting next to who I imagine being his mom, they have the same eyes and color of hair but she’s got a plump mom bod and no freckles. She starts putting her bangs back in some sort of girly hairstyle, and when she finishes, she looks up to me and makes this dramatic gasp and owl eyes.
“Little Katsuki? Oh my goodness, you’ve grown so much!”
What the fuck?
She bounces up and gives me a mom bear hug, leaving me with my arms constrained at the sides and short circuiting. She’s short like her son, and when she stands back, she reaches up to hold my chin with her hamster paw of a hand.
“You used to look just like your mom but now that you’ve become a man, I’m seeing a little more of your dad! Same strong jaw and sharp hair... How have you been, sweetheart? It’s me, Izuku’s mom, Inko!” I just blink dumbfoundedly, taking a brief glance at an absolutely mortified Izuku, who looks at me through the spaces of his fingers like he’s watching a scene from a horror film unfold. I start scrunching my face up, looking in-between the cowering son and sparkling mother, and memories begin to resurface.
I’m very young, so that the old stony bridge by my old house looks more like a castle on account of how small I was, we were. That’s right. There’s a kid, a crybaby, he follows me everywhere, we used to play by the skinny river that runs under Alliance Bridge. We’d play cops and robbers, I’d always be the cop, and he was always singing me words of praise. He lived in the house on the right of mine, we’d walk to school together and our moms would take turns babysitting us. We went to middle school together too. Izuku. That’s right, freckles on the nose, green hair, and...
big green eyes.