ALL MEMORIES | Dabi x reader

1

Sitting on my navy blue couch in my apartment, I carefully wrapped my wrists with elastic. Tearing off the ends, I placed a piece of tape to hold the band in place. I stared at my work in awe, a routine I've quickly accostmed to throughout my life. Wrap my wrists, shackle them, and don't think about it. Ever. If I ever did think about it, I need to snap out of it, for the thoughts of my mind swallow me whole.

Sometimes, I wish I could think, think before I touch.

Sighing, I reached forward as my fingertips touched the cool metal clasps sitting on my coffee table a few inches away from me. A small wave of chills rushed down my spine before hitting my lumbar. The feeling has always remained the same, but, as they say, time has healed the majority of my wounds, leaving traces of scars etched in my memories. 

They only reopen late at night.

Snapping the buckles in place, I held firm onto my black gloves resting on my lap and slowly kneaded my fingers through them, not enough to irritate my elastics. Breathing in deeply, I stared at my surroundings to survey the mess of my living room. Blankets and pillows were scattered from my reckless sleeping habits the night before.

Besides being constantly in a state of boredom, living alone truly had its perks: no smelly roommates or obnoxious messes other than mine, and the opportunity to sit and do whatever I pleased. Not even a pin drop could have a drastic effect on the stillness of my space. Though I often wondered if a big part of life was human connection. 

Everyone around them had somebody, whether it was family, a friend, or someone they connected with at a coffee shop. Something so normal was foreign to me. Nonetheless, having somewhere that I could call my home made it all worth it, no matter how empty I felt on the inside.

I don't have anyone else to thank but my grandparents. They were lovely when they were alive, but for a bunch of old, broke folks, they sure left me a lot of money in their will. I was never around them much, so they could've held some guilt, but a part of me doubted this thought. Staring at the popcorn ceiling, I pondered the same thoughts that came to mind whenever I thought of my grandparents: why not use the money for quirk counseling instead of taking the 'easier' route? This was a question I didn't take lightly; the thought of never knowing the reason my life was torn apart.

I stood up from my couch, hoping to ease the thoughts in my head before I headed out for the night. Reaching for my phone to check the time, I walked toward the coat rack near the door.

I'm late.

Grabbing my black coat, I pulled it on as I felt the ends touch my thighs, the collar rubbing against my earlobe. I paused for a moment to adjust myself in front of the mirror near the hallway. My eye bags seem to have gotten worse with their purple pleads covering my undereye. I'd need to figure out something to help myself sleep better. I've tried my fair share of methods, illegal and legal, to help my growing insomnia, but nothing ever seemed to work.

Tearing my eyes away from the mirror to prevent myself from inspecting further, I slipped on a pair of boots and adjusted my black pants. I grabbed my keys dangling on the side of the fridge before walking out of my apartment door and closing the door behind me.