Stars sparkling in the darkness. Typical sounds of vehicles. The alarm of a car in the distance. I was inhaling the fresh air leaning on the balcony railing as I looked out over a sea of streets and houses. This was the so-called bad part of town.
"(Y/N)!" The deep voice of my father called from inside. Sighing and inhaling once again, I entered the living room, trying to hold my breath.
The air was thick and smelled of smoke and alcohol. There were sounds of the TV and of beer bottles being set down on the coffee table.
"Bring me a new beer!" The man demanded sounding drunk.
"No, you had enough beer already." I refused.
Then I felt a sudden, stinging pain on my cheek. Did he just bitch-slap me?! And when the hell did he stand up!? But I was willing to make this mistake again and again in hopes that he would finally drink less.
"Listen when I'm talking to you! I'm your father!" He loudly lectured me.
This man is not my father! Not anymore! My father was dead, and I was left with this hollow shell of his. He's changed too much to be considered the same person.
Even if I really wanted to yell back at him, I kept quiet, running off to my room, slamming the door shut behind me and locking it afterwards.
I sat down on the bed, my vision becoming blurry as a single tear rolled down my face, that was red from anger and the slap mark he had left on my cheek. I always tried to be strong. I didn't want him to see how weak I was. Though I'm an emotional person, I've learned to cover up my feelings in front of him over the years. I wouldn't let him see me cry.
My life had been so normal before Mom died. And it was all his fault. And the fault of the heroes.
I took the picture frame from my side table. In it was a picture of me and my mom, when I was seven years old and she was still alive. This was ten years ago.... I like that picture. We look so happy and it reminds me of my bright childhood. A few more tears rolled down my cheeks thinking of her. But this was in the past and I was in the cruel present.
Suddenly the all too familiar voice of my father appeared on the other side of the door, interrupting my thoughts, while he tried to open the door. "(Y/N)! Open up! Don't fucking lock the door!"
My eyes widened in fear as he aggressively banged against the door. Would he be strong enough to break it open? Would he punish me? "Go away!" I uttered without thinking.
He loudly complained, and I just quickly ran to my window, climbing outside and sliding down a pipe. This wasn't my first time doing this, so the actions flowed down naturally.
Continuing my way, I ran down the sidewalk to the next alley. It was dark and lonely and that's exactly what I needed. I went here every night to get my mind off of things.
Every night I used the wall of the block as my canvas, covering the picture from the night before. This was also practical to practice with my quirk.
There were many powerful quirks in my family, especially on my mother's side. I'm sure with some more training my quirk could be really strong too.
I can create things, but I have to concentrate on it a lot and it probably has a size limit. So far, it's more visual than practical if that makes sense. I've tried making solid objects like straws and such. They're small and a little wonky, but if I had more practice, I'm sure it could be useful.
Though I really didn't like to use my quirk often, especially if my father was around. If he knew how useful my quirk could be, he would probably treat me even more like a servant. Especially because his quirk was pretty weak and useless. He could grow out his hair in an instant, but because he preferred to keep it short, so it wouldn't be in the way, his quirk wasn't of any use for him at all. I'm lucky I took more after my mother on that.
Drawing on the wall was an important routine for me by now. Because I had to be around my father most of the time to clean up after him and serve him his beer, I also had to keep my emotions bottled up most of the time. I just really needed to express myself and let go of these emotions, or else I'd go crazy.
After activating my quirk and creating my new artwork, I stepped back to take a good look at it. It looked exactly how I pictured it in my mind. I might have gotten better at it.
A tiny little smile creeped onto my features at the thought that I might actually be strong enough to escape my hell eventually. But for now, I had to go home and return to said hell... I really hope he wouldn't be waiting for me...
―――― ❈ ――――
Weird. Every time I pass by this alley, there's another drawing scribbled on the wall. And I pass by here quite often. If you look closer, they seem so full of emotion. They show sadness, anger, frustration, disappointment, but also, buried underneath all the dark colours is something else. Hope.
I wonder who's drawing them?
YOU ARE READING
•Twofaced•| Dabi x Reader
Fanfiction(Y/N) looked up to the heroes once, but now she gave them the fault for her mother's death. (Y/N) loved her father once, but now she gave him the fault for her mother's death. Her father loved his life once, but now he's drinking it away. Her fath...
