I'm four years old, small for my age, my green curls sticking to my forehead as I clutch Mom's hand. The doctor's office smells like antiseptic and disappointment, the kind that clings to the walls. I swing my legs, sneakers barely brushing the floor, my All Might action figure gripped tight in my other hand. Mom's beside me, her fingers twitching, her face pale. She hasn't smiled since we got here. I don't know why, but my stomach's knotted, like I've done something wrong. I haven't, right? I've been good. I ate my vegetables. I didn't cry when I scraped my knee last week.
The doctor adjusts his glasses, his voice flat as he looks at the X-ray on the screen. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Midoriya. Your son has an extra joint in his pinky toe. He's quirkless." The word lands like a stone, heavy and cold. I don't understand it fully, but I feel Mom's hand tighten, her nails digging into my palm. I wince, but she doesn't notice. Her eyes are on the doctor, wide, like she's drowning.
"Quirkless?" Her voice cracks, a whisper that grows into a scream. "Quirkless?! You're telling me my son's… nothing?" She lets go of my hand, standing so fast the chair screeches. I flinch, hugging All Might tighter. The doctor tries to speak, but Mom's already turning on me, her face twisted in a way I've never seen. "Izuku, how could you do this to me? To us?"
"I—I didn't—" My voice is tiny, swallowed by her anger. I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. She grabs my arm, yanking me off the chair, and I stumble, All Might falling to the floor with a plastic clatter. I reach for him, but she pulls me out the door, her grip bruising.
The walk home is a blur, her silence louder than any scream. I keep my head down, watching my sneakers scuff the pavement, the All Might figure left behind. I want to ask what quirkless means, but her clenched jaw stops me. When we get to our apartment, the door slams behind us, and that's when she lets it out.
"You're a failure!" she shrieks, her hand cracking across my cheek. The sting burns, and I stumble back, hitting the wall. My vision blurs with tears, but I don't cry out. I can't. "Do you know what this means, Izuku? You'll never be a hero! You'll never be anything!" Another slap, this one harder, and I taste blood, my lip split. I slide to the floor, curling into a ball, arms over my head.
"Mom, please…" I whisper, but she's not listening. She's pacing, muttering to herself, her voice a jagged edge. "No quirk. No future. What will the neighbors say? What will I do with you?" She grabs a plate from the counter and hurls it at the wall above me. It shatters, shards raining down, one slicing my arm. I bite my lip harder, the pain a sharp anchor keeping me quiet.
She storms off to her room, slamming the door, and I'm left on the floor, trembling. My cheek throbs, my arm stings, but the real hurt is deeper, a hollow ache in my chest. Quirkless. I roll the word around, trying to understand. Kacchan has a quirk—explosions that light up the playground. All the other kids at preschool have something, even if it's small, like glowing fingertips or stretchy arms. But me? Nothing. I'm nothing.
I crawl to my room, the carpet rough under my hands, and pull out my notebook from under the bed. It's just a cheap thing, the cover already creased, but it's mine. I scribble "Hero Notes: Vol. 1" on the first page, my handwriting shaky. All Might's on the TV in my mind, his grin wide, his voice booming: "I am here!" He saves everyone, quirk or no quirk. Maybe… maybe I can still be like him. I draw his silhouette, cape billowing, and for a moment, I feel a flicker of hope.
But Mom's words creep back, a cold shadow. "You'll never be a hero." My pencil stops, the lead smudging under my finger. I hug the notebook to my chest, curling up on the floor, the cut on my arm still bleeding. I don't know how long I stay there, but the light outside fades, the room growing dark. Mom doesn't come to check on me. She never does after she gets like this.
The next morning, I wake up stiff, my cheek swollen, the cut scabbed over. I pull on my preschool uniform, the red shoes a little too big, and tiptoe past Mom's room. She's still asleep, the faint sound of her snores a relief. I grab a piece of bread from the counter, eating it dry as I head out. The walk to school is quiet, the city waking up around me. I see a hero in the distance, some guy with a wind quirk, saving a cat from a tree. I stop, watching, my notebook burning a hole in my bag. I want to be him. I want to be All Might. But the doctor's words—quirkless—drag me down like a weight.
Preschool is a battlefield. I slip into the classroom, hoping to go unnoticed, but the whispers start as soon as I sit down. "That's the quirkless kid," one girl says, her voice loud enough to carry. "My mom says he's a waste of space." The others giggle, and I shrink into my chair, face burning. The teacher doesn't hear, or maybe she doesn't care. She's busy helping a boy with a fire quirk, praising his tiny sparks.
At recess, I sit on the edge of the playground, notebook open, sketching All Might's punch. The other kids are showing off—sparks, stretchy limbs, a girl who can make flowers bloom. I watch, a lump in my throat, wishing I could join in. Then I hear the familiar crackle of explosions.
"Deku!" Kacchan storms over, his hands sparking, a grin on his face that's more snarl than smile. He's bigger than me, always has been, but now he feels like a giant. "What're you doing, huh? Writing more stupid hero stuff?" He snatches my notebook, holding it up as his friends laugh. "You think you're gonna be a hero? You're quirkless, idiot!"
"I—I just—" I reach for the notebook, but he blasts it, the pages catching fire. I scream, lunging to save it, but he kicks me back, my small body hitting the dirt. The other kids gather, a circle of jeers, their voices a chorus of cruelty.
"Look at him cry!"
"Quirkless Deku!"
"No wonder his mom hates him!"
Kacchan tosses the burning notebook aside, the ashes scattering. "You're useless, Deku," he says, an explosion popping near my face, the heat searing my cheek. I scramble back, tears streaming, but I don't fight. I can't. He's right—I'm nothing. The bell rings, and they leave me there, sobbing in the dirt, the remains of my notebook smoldering.
I pick up the charred pieces, clutching them to my chest, and wipe my face with my sleeve. My cheek stings, my ribs ache, but the real pain is the hollow inside me, growing bigger every second. Quirkless. Useless. Failure. The words circle like vultures, picking at me. I don't want to go back to class, but I do, keeping my head down, the whispers following me like a shadow.
The rest of the day is a blur, the teacher's voice a distant hum. I don't hear the lesson. I don't care. All I can think about is All Might, his smile, his strength. I want to be him so bad it hurts, but Mom's screams, Kacchan's explosions, the kids' laughter—they're louder. They're winning.
When the final bell rings, I'm the last to leave, my bag heavy with the weight of nothing. The playground's empty now, the air cooler as the sun dips low. I stand there, staring at the spot where my notebook burned, the ashes long gone. I'm four years old, and I already know I'm broken. I don't know how much more I can take. I don't know if I'll ever be a hero. But I know one thing—I'm alone, and it's only going to get worse.
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