Broken Smile of the Lost Child [MHA fanfic Rewrite]

Chapter 7: Tape the Cracks, Doll

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On the second and third days, Tsuya couldn't find it in herself to come out of her room. Heck, she could barely even drag her body out of the bed to wash up and change.

She tried to ignore how the water, soap and shampoo kept stinging the scar on her left arm no matter how cold or hot the water was.

So she'd drag her butt out of bed, brush her teeth and maybe change and/or bathe if she felt like she needed to and then lie down on her bed, wrapped in her blankets and burying herself in pillows as though she could create a cocoon where she can just stay there and shut out the outside world.

Where she can shut out the harsh cruel agony of reality and society in general.

Her dad didn't say anything. He would occasionally come to her door and knock, letting her know he left food outside her door for her and that he'll come back later to pick it up.

He was giving her space and he was trying, god, he must've been trying twice as hard as her to get through this.

She had cried again but this time, they were tears of resentment burning with self-loathe.

However, it did make her snap out of it. She found it in herself to crack the door open and pull the plate of food in. She finally manage to sit down and swallow more mouthfuls compared to before without feeling like throwing up.

Again, progress.

(Her scar still said otherwise.)

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On the fourth day, after eating her breakfast- it was omurice this time- Tsuya washed her face, changed out of her pyjamas....and brought the plate down herself.

Her dad had been doing the dishes.

He nearly dropped the plate he was holding when he saw her.

"I think it's time I did my chores again. Sorry for slacking off." She said. Then she gave him an apologetic smile. It was just her lips quirking up slightly but to her father, she may as well have given him the stars.

He had smiled, barely holding back tears- that for once, weren't of despair or sadness- and after giving her a hug, allowed her to do so.

Only for her to then belatedly realize that her forearm was still wrapped up in bandages.

It was time to change them again. That meant she'd have to unravel them, take them off.

That meant she'd have to see the scar.

And so she did.

She went into the bathroom and closed the door.

She took the bandages off herself.

She stared at the scar with her own eyes.

She brought a finger up and gingerly touched it. She traced her fingers over the scarred tissue, tracing the crack-like lines that spread out at the bottom.

This was a scar on her arm. It was marred on her body. It was her scar. It belonged to her. It was a part of her.

Her dad had a scar too. One on his shoulder blade where he once stopped a gang from assaulting a couple. One of them had stabbed him when he stood in front of the couple to use his own body to protect them.

He always bared it with pride and had no shame in it. It was a symbol. Symbols have meanings and meanings have stories.

Every scar tells a similar story- that they survived. They were hurt, they went through pain but by the end of it all, they were still alive.