"Ow!" Shinso cried out in pain the moment I descended from my mindscape. The boy jolted awake in an instant, sitting up and rubbing his right eye.
He turned back to me with one eye covered, the other widening upon seeing something about my appearance. Shinso's mouth fell agape as he pointed at the top of my head. Without wasting a moment, I darted into the bathroom, gazing into the mirror.
In the cracked, slightly dusty reflection, I saw two, large black horns perched atop my head. They had grown longer, most likely an effect of potion consumption! Is this some kind of backlash from resisting its will—these large and peculiar horns? They closely resembled the ones on my Spirit Body.
At this moment, the Umbridge appeared in the corner of the room, their mouth twitching as if to suppress a smirk. My body turned to them, rubbing my glabella in palpable annoyance.
"I assume this is because of that shitty potion?" I pointed to the two black horns on my head. They extended outwards in a slight arch, allowing me to see them in my peripheral vision.
The Umbridge, clad in their illusory and ethereal cloak, nodded his head. "It doesn't seem to take a liking to you."
"Great," I huffed, plopping onto the toilet.
"What are the others gonna think when they see my new horns? They might run away or something."
The Umbridge extended their palm as an illusory bubble of crimson energy appeared, showing the Blood Moon incident two weeks ago. I watched as I absorbed countless wraiths and spirits into my body, and the wraith wings formed on my back.
"They didn't seem to have much of a problem with this."
I let out a low groan, tugging at my eyebags. "What if they were too tired from fighting; a few of them might have thought they were dreaming or something."
"If they were dreaming, they would have woken up eventually."
The Umbridge uncharacteristically put a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it with their boney fingers. "Your friends have seen too many weird things, they'll take your horns with a grain of salt."
Hearing the somewhat assuring statement, I shrugged my shoulders and sagged further, resting the back of my head on the toilet. "Maybe ...but I'm too tired to contemplate anything."
The cloaked figure remained silent, turning away from me and disappearing back into the shadows. I was too tired to move at this moment, my entire body pulsing and churning from just consuming my potion. The edges of my vision turned grainy and dark, bordering on a numbing, inscrutable night. The horns and wings on my back ebbed and pulsed with mystical, arcane energy.
The tips of my horns suddenly glowed a faint crimson as my eyes slowly closed shut, and sleep fully engulfed my being. Within the darkness, I began to hear noises. I heard scribbling, sniffing, and pounding on a metallic surface.
My eyes shot open, adjusting to the dim lighting from the flashlight. Below me was a tiled floor with countless torn pieces of paper spread around it. The contents of the papers were scrawled in ink—too blurry for anyone to see or decipher. But what they had in common was the crimson color of the ink—dark and foreboding—boardering on blood red.
A figure was nestled in the corner of the dimly lit space, their face and features obscured by a mop of tangled, brown, and greasy hair. They were clad in a uniform, navy blue blazer, white undershirt and navy tie. In their hands was a stained blue notebook, covered head-to-toe in countless stains and rips on the cardboard cover.
Outside, I heard pounding on the door—mettalic and harsh. A voice sounded from behind the door, low and dangerous, yet almost mocking in tone.
"I know you're in there ..."
Their voice phased in and out before they could say something.
"Come out ... I'll only beat your ass a little!"
"S-stop, damn it!" The boy snapped, standing up with the notebook held close to their trembling chest.
"What are you gonna do about it y'fuckin loser? If you wanna live, come out here and fight me yourself!" The bullies mocking voice jabbed him right in the gut, causing him to lurch over as if they had a personal—tangible effect.
"Goddamnit, Goddamnit, Goddamnit!" He covered his ears, dropping the notebook to the ground.
It hit the floor with a splat, landing in water that splashed, hitting his face which I still couldn't see. Now that I could properly look at him, he was almost skin and bones. Beneath his uniform was a scrawny body, barely able to properly fit his uniform. His collar stretched too high, almost gracing the upper section of his scratched and bruised neck.
The boy's only visible skin was so pale you'd think he didn't have a drop of blood in his entire body. His hands darted down to his neck, clawing and scratching at the already abused skin with a malice, an unkempt, almost habitual manner. He'd done this too many times before, I just had that feeling in my gut.
"Come on, I know you wanna see me..."
The pounding got louder and louder—more persistent. It took me no more than a glimpse to know this bully wasn't letting the door to the janitors' closet stop him. As the pounding grew louder and louder, the scratching and self-mutilation intensified. His hands worked in a frenzy, scratching and tearing at all available skin that he could see and work with.
"Goddamnit, goddamnit, goddamnit..." His previous ravings had dissipated into tiny whispers, frantic outbursts that clearly exemplified his palpable—burning stress.
The moment the door caved in and fell to the ground with a loud yet dull clatter, the bully, a towering mass of a human, stepped into the closet, gazing upon his victim with a malice unlike any other. The short, scrawny boy instantly reacted to this. His arms extended like tendrils as he lunged at the figure, clasping his arms around the girth of the other boy's throat.
I watched, my face paling as the boy with greasy hair began to punch the other boy repeatedly in the face, landing blow after blow to every possible nook and cranny. His knees were wrapped around his waist so the boy below him couldn't move—couldn't speak or get proper air flow. Only spasmodic gasping sounds lurched from his throat; a macabre imitation of desperate pleading.
"S-stop!" The bully finally gasped, his breath snatched from his lungs.
His face was now an entirely different shade—a deep purple from the prolonged lack of oxygen. The much scrawner boy above him didn't pay heed to this warning, clenching his fists even tighter as he continued to punch and attack him. Gradually, the previously pale skin of his knuckles, stretched taut from the mutilation of his opponent, were coated with deep, crimson blood.
Below him, the slow rising and falling of the bully's chest came to an abrupt halt. The scrawny boy raised both fists above his head, interlocking them together, before finally bringing them down. The sounds of flesh and blood reverberated through the door hallway of the school, which was already dark and dreary from the thunderstorm outside.
Not a single soul existed aside from him and the mutilated boy who lay defenseless—violenlty assaulted beneath him like a pale imitation of a trophy, who had now perished from the lack of oxygen.
"What the hell..." I gasped, my face as fearful as the bully's as I took a trembling step back. I slipped on the water on the closet, tumbling to my rear. At this moment, the boy turned back to look at me.
In the dim lighting, I could finally see his face.
I saw ...nothing. His face was nothing underneath his bangs. He possessed no eyes, no nose, and no mouth. He had cried with no mouth. He had seen with no eyes. He had smelled his own blood with no nose.
I silently gasped, my hand dashing to cover my mouth. The boy didn't react to me, staring blankly into me with his nonexistent features. His hands, now covered in blood, finally unclenched. He slowly stood up, walking back into the janitor's closet. He reached down, picking up the notebook and pages scattered across the floor.
After gathering his things, he opened the notebook to a new, fresh page. With a final splat of his hand, he coated the page with blood—his own bloody handprint.
"Damn it, damn it, damn it!" He muttered like a lunatic—like someone under the influence.
His body now trembled as he looked back at the corpse on the floor, arms and legs spread out. The faceless boy scoffed with his nonexistent mouth, walking over to the corpse and grabbing it by the hem of his uniform shirt. The hallway echoed with wet sounds of scraping and dragging as he dragged his much larger opponent through the halls of the school.
Outside, the dark clouds continued to spurt down thunder and lightning and heavy rain. Every so often, the lightning flashed through the windows, illuminating both mutilated figures. The entire time I silently followed this strange boy down the hallway, my body still cold and trembling slightly from it, the lonely air of the school didn't seem to help anything.
He pushed open the back door of the school, which led out into an alleyway and dumpster. Ignoring the pouring and insistent rain, the featureless boy moved with trembling hands, slowly gathering the strength to lift the corpse over his head and toss it into the dumpster, slamming the lid closed. After a few moments of dreary silence, the figure turned back to me, but something told me he didn't even know I existed to begin with.
The featureless boy with messy brown hair moved forward, pushing open the door again and walking back into the school. His entire uniform had been soaked, his tie ajar below his shirt collar. He didn't seem to be bothered by this, more focused on something else. He walked back to the janitor's closet and recovered his blue notebook, tucking it into his backpack.
At this moment, the featureless boy stumbled back, falling to the ground. The skin on his face suddenly warped and pulsed in particular spots. I took a moment to analyze this, still petrified with fear. Instead of audible, clear-cut screams, I heard muffled sounds that seemed to resemble them instead. His hands, still bloody, darted to his face, clawing at the writhing flesh.
Some of his flesh sunk in where his eyes should be, and bloody holes shot out to make nostrils. Teeth burst through his skin one by one, a visually painful process from what I saw. Before I could turn around and throw up, the Blood-Moon Charms effects quickly kicked in, restoring my equilibrium in a matter of seconds.
From behind the layer of flesh on the boy's face, I heard him whimper and whisper to himself. "Why am I here? What did I do? Where am I?"
He sounded more confused than contorted or in pain.
Before I could approach him and assist him, my entire world was overrun with a bright flash of light. My eyes opened again, and my body almost toppled off the toilet as I ended up back in the bathroom. I took a few silent seconds to recover my senses, leaning back on the toilet as I drew in slow, deep breaths.
I had a dream like that before. But instead of violence, the boy—who had a face—didn't do anything. Instead, his attacker dropped dead outside, and he dragged the corpse to the dumpster. I also had that dream about the boy in the woods playing with the cardinal, which he had accidentally killed in an accident. His father belittled him, almost teasing him in a way.
It seems like ever since my life had begun to stir with trouble and strange happenings did these strange, peculiar, and often nightmarish dreams come to pass.
Now, I felt a strange yet familiar inclination. I'd been in this strange reality for almost a month now. Mr. Ryujin and Olivia, both of U.A's guidance counselors, are open to me talking to them. From what I've seen, the Umbridge isn't the best at counseling people, but they do their best. Looking at the vintage clock in the corner of the bathroom, I read that it was almost two in the morning.
My mind was too active for me to sleep. I needed answers for these peculiar dreams. Why was that boy asking those questions? Why didn't he have a face?
And why did he ask ...who am I?