BNHA || white lie

05

"Should we go to the cafeteria then. . .?" Midoriya mumbles to his friends. Todoroki, Iida, and Uraraka nod in agreement, and begin to make their way to the stairs.

"Oh, Midoriya! Wait up!" Kirishima jogs to join them, an angry ash blond trailing behind the red-haired teen. "Let's go together!"

"Like hell we're going together!" Bakugou snaps, but makes no move to leave.

"Well, we're all headed the same way, so why not?" Ashido grins, and 1-A gathers together again, walking towards the bottom floor.

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"Have a good day!"

"You too," you mumble out of reflex, opening one of your bags and peering at the contents inside. Simple groceries, like meat, vegetables, and fruits fill it to the brim. You close it and look in the other one, moving aside the milk and bread to reach what you wanted. Feeling around, you graze the metal tin before tugging it out, revealing a small container of wet dog food.

I wonder if she ate the last ones.

You leave the block where the grocery store is and check your phone. At school, it would be around the end of third period right now, half an hour before lunch started.

"Ah."

Lost in your thoughts, you pass the alleyway. Retracing your steps, you stop in between a rundown apartment complex and a small floral shop, and enter the gap between the buildings.

The alleyway is dark and gray, despite it being bright out. The mood shifts from warm streets to somber shade. On the ground is an array of thin metal cans, each empty and reeking. You could read the labels if you looked closely. They are all dog food, in a variety of different flavors.

"You must've been hungry. I brought some more," you call. As usual, there is no reply. You walk forward until you reach the end of the alley and kneel down to peer inside the trashed cardboard box laying on its side.

Immediately, you hear growling and snapping. You frown.

"Come on," you coax softly. Opening the container in your hands, you nudge it forward. "I know you've been eating them."

"[Name]?"

Turning your head, your gaze meets an elderly man's. He is wearing a black apron over his blue tee and gray slacks, and holds a broom in both of his shaking hands. "Mr. Evans. Good morning."

The owner of the adjacent flower shop huffs. "Don't 'good morning' me, [Name]. What are you doing out of school?" he chides. He walks over slowly, but stops when he sees what you are sitting in front of. "You skipped school just to feed that dog again?"

"Yeah," you mutter, slightly guilty, and poke at the food again. The growling only increases in volume.

Mr. Evans is quiet. "She's been eating it. I see the empty containers when I leave her water," he informs you, and you nod. A moment of silence passes before he speaks up again. "It's kind of you, to bring her food every day. You can't see right now, but she's getting less skinny."

Your eyebrows push together. "Kind," you repeat, trying out the word, "I don't do it out of kindness." No, it is the opposite--it is because I am selfish. You do not add that in.

Thankfully, Mr. Evans does not press further. He simply nods, before hobbling back to his store. "I see. Well, have a good one, [Name]. Don't forget to visit your mom. She's been asking for you." He disappears around the corner.

You tense. Your grip on the plastic bag tightens, and it crinkles in indignation. A bubble of impatience rises in your stomach and you suddenly want to take it out on someone.

"Eat it," you snap angrily at the dog, whose snarls had lessened during your chat. Irritated, you grab the container and shove it in the box. "I don't have time for this. . .!"

She bites you.

"Shit--!"

You recoil, dropping the food, and cradle your bleeding arm. Your mood only worsens and you resist the urge to break the closest thing to you--which happened to be the unfortunate canine snapping angrily in its box. "You damn mutt--!"

You cut yourself off. Your rage has suddenly died down, and in its place a strange weariness has filled you. You lean against the wall of the apartment buildings. It feels wondrously cool. Sliding down, you bury your face in your hands. "I'm sorry," you say, "I didn't mean that."

The silence that follows is deafening. "You don't have to say it," you whisper, desperate to break it. "I know I don't deserve to be a hero."

You do not hear the quiet sounds of a parched tongue lapping at the food as the poor excuse of a pet hungrily devoured the meat. You are too caught up in yourself.

How disgustingly selfish.