Ershin started awake, blindsided by the glaring morning sun and a painful thumping in his chest. He drew in great breaths of air, mouthfuls at a time and let the sweat drop from his brow. His heart hammered away, going a mile a minute and suddenly the blankets wrapped uncomfortably tight. The soft covers turned into abrasive snares that wrapped around his throat. They slithered, they clenched, tighter and tighter, and his eyes darted around the dimly lit room and its lengthening shadows. Air. He needed air!
With a single lunge, Ershin stormed from his bed and ripped the window wide open.
Air, crisp and bright, dispelled the ghostly hands around his neck.
Fuck! He slumped to the ground none too gently and let himself rest.
Relief coursed through him, followed by shame and a backdrop of fear.
It wasn't always the same.
Sometimes the night passed uneventfully. Sometimes he roused—and likewise groused—as any other teen would have in the early morning hours.
Today wasn't such a day.
Today was one of those days.
The pain remained an... arresting memory. Even as he stood and floundered towards the bathroom, it held him in a tight grip, pressing on his lungs like leaden weights.
Ershin cupped his hands under the faucet and just stood there for a moment. Water bubbled and splashed into the sink from his still hands, yet he was rooted to the spot, staring at his reflection.
Weird. The strange, tense moment passed. His skin was still the same, pasty white and slick with cold sweat.
"Blegh." Ershin rinsed the grime from his face. He swore something had been different, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Did it matter? Not really, not in the grand scheme of things that was his schedule. What did matter was the time and the suffocating institution that was school, insisting on punctuality as it was wont to do.
Ershin wasn't fond of school, not by a long shot. It had nothing to do with how his classmates perceived him as a snobbish loner, which hurt more than he cared to admit, and more with the bouts of pain that plagued him periodically. Concentrating was a chore and being friendly to his peers was... challenging, what with all the teeth-gnashing and deadpanning. Add onto that the superhuman abilities quirks endowed most of the population with, and suddenly the trouble idiots got themselves into increased manifold.
But what had to be done, had to be done.
With all the quickness he could muster—a slow jog is all that amounted to—he went back into his room. Sweat-soaked sleepwear was chucked into a sad, growing pile of crumpled clothes in favor of a fresh T and jeans. Sure, mum would have his head once he came back, but that wasn't here nor now. To the kitchen, it was then.
Mindful of his aching gums, because everything had to hurt today, he packed himself some fruit and plain yogurt for lunch - a sad snack for a sad sob -, hoisted his backpack, and was out the door.
The wind was brisk and spring in full swing. A bit of gloom still clung to the clearing skies, the sun yet to break fully past the horizon, but all in all, it was a wonderful morning.
The streets swelled quickly with the morning rush. People bid their goodbyes and said their hellos and added themselves to the growing press of bodies.
Ershin carefully bobbed and weaved through the pedestrians while he crossed the worst of the main streets, otherwise sticking to less frequented byroads like a skulking urchin. Again, this was not a 'loner-thing' he willingly did, but when a runaway elbow of a careless salesman sent his brain into DEFCON one and lit already frayed nerves like a Christmas tree... yeah, he looked at things through an entirely different lens.
As it stood he was a 14 year old with the chronic pains of a bedridden 80-year-old. It forced upon him an unhealthy amount of introspection (what some overzealous parents might misconstrue as a nascent and oh so very 'adult' mindset): How could he avoid the pain? Why did HE have to suffer the nightmares? When will it stop? These things eroded whatever semblance of a childhood he had. It was insidious. He would drop everything for a shred of normalcy, to be childish, and get into trouble with friends and family.
None of his classmates were stupid or loud or obnoxious, yet a part of him hated them nonetheless. After all, why didn't they wake up tortured by bloody visions? Why did they get Quirks, literal superpowers, and he got... nothing? It was unfair and God hated him, obviously. And it wasn't their fault but he couldn't accept that, and that nudged him farther into isolation; isolation he put himself in!
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
"Ahh... Fuck," a great sigh escaped him, and with it went the tizzy he was talking himself into and that came none too soon. He bumped into someone, which was odd because he swore the road was empty.
His alley of choice, flanked by unlit storefronts on the left, cobble walls on the right, and spaced by pylons, was 'blocked off' by... somebody.
And he was sure it was a somebody and not a something. It was a man, definitely, tall - inhumanely so - and visibly muscle-bound even underneath the green and gray trenchcoat. The stranger had skin like raisins and dried plums, wrinkles, and leathery hide the same color as the coat.
Ershin hissed and rubbed his nose, a sharp zap passing through the nerves right into his eyes. He blinked and wiped the tears away—this is why he hated going outside as much as school itself, and by God he knew how cringe that sounded in his head.
The man twisted around, his head at least. As if on a swivel, inch by inch, bulging, scarf-skinned eyes, independently flitting this way and that, much like the eyes of a chameleon, were revealed. A lipless, scaled mouth smacked noisily.
"Whaaaaat?"
Like a quasi dear in headlights, Ershin stilled. He had seen many mutant-type quirks on TV. He had read about them as part of his curriculum; two of his classmates had transformation quirks! He even had the joy of shaking Gang Orca's hand while he was a toddler—or so his parents told him. That is to say, there had been enough instances of him interacting with mutants that he wouldn't consider meeting another... odd.
But here he was, stunned, speechless.
"Come ooooon kid. What's the matter?", the chameleon-man rumbled.
"I-....."
He couldn't even stutter before something smacked into his cheek and sent him flying. For a moment his world was a blue sky, then a featureless wall, and finally pavement and a whole lot of pain. Fortunately, his backpack took the brunt of the worst.
'Wha-wh-...'
There was blood on the ground, little sprays. A fair bit even. And his nose was stuffy. Ershin wondered why his nose was stuffy? And then that sound, where was that coming from? A sharp whistle. A policeman? Wait, why was blood running down his nose? Right! That man! He could help and tell him where that blood was coming from. But he wasn't there anymore. Until he was, then he was gone again. He appeared in two places at once. He couldn't quite tell, his eyes were all blurry. No, the man-meleon was there! And had blood on his wrinkly hands. The chamel—the man?—the man had hit him.
He got hit!
He got sucker-punched!
'This piece of shi-'
Attempting to brace himself against the wall earned him another smack, more a shove really. Nevertheless, the strike sent him sprawling on the ground again and tangling around with his backpack. A part of his mind wondered why no one was helping him, a bigger part was busy steadying his battered body. But the idea stuck and anxiety build up.
Surely people would notice a kid getting beaten up by some giant half-lizard, right?
Braving the danger he shot a look back. Behind him, the foot traffic continued undisturbed. The hows and whys remained a secondary concern for him, the mutant reaching for his collar... a primary one.
Unceremoniously he got lifted into the air, face to face with the hideous, snarling grimace of the mutant.
CHOKED AND BEATEN ERSHIN STARES AT HIS ASSAILANT, HIS THOUGHTS ARE A MESS. -VOTING CLOSED - 7 VOTERS
Votes
"What... the fuck... is your problem?"
3/5 1
Spit in his face.
3 1
"Help. Please."
2/2
Give his ugly mug a kick.
0
Piss yourself
0
Snap neck
0
+musk
0 1
Although there was anger bubbling deep inside his chest, a white-hot emotion, and he felt his blood dribbling down his chin, Ershin erred on the side of caution and did not spit at the man. Apart from being poor impulse control, he realized how bad of a decision that might have been.
Instead, through grit teeth and a mounting sense of shame, he spoke with the mutant.
"What... the fuck... is your problem?"
The words came slowly, painfully. His hands tried to gain purchase on the man's wrists but his strength was flagging. And through all that effort the man just stared him down.
Again, scaled lips smacked about.
Ershin saw nothing in the man's eyes, just absolute boredom. Maybe he was working on a reply, maybe he was just goggling for the heck of it; absolutely he was a psychopath.
He almost believed this was it, kept in the air by some demented mutant until a hero came and rescued him. He was wrong.
"Booooooy. Youuuu... don't! Interrupt! MY! FUN!"
He felt it. Unbridled, apoplectic rage.
Effortlessly the man—a villain, in hindsight—tossed him into the air. The moment was difficult to describe. It was relief, floating weightlessly for however long it lasted, and fear, a heaping lot of it.
Then came a tongue, quick as lightning, and latched around his chest, a giant, pink tentacle.
An instant later he was airborne no more.
There was a crack that his mind belatedly recognized as bones cracking, his legs breaking, a brief flash of pain and then the lights cut off.