Chapter Text
The cracking of his mother’s jaw is a sound so visceral that he is certain he’d hear its echo even in death. For weeks, it was her screams, the sound of wet gasps, or the jangle of a key. But today—today it’s the sound of her jaw shattering.
He pushes both hands against the closet door, eyes darting to the metal keys Mama had dropped just a few inches from the door crack. She always locks him in here, always assumes the folding doors shut properly, always assumes that he can’t see through the small sliver in the door. But if Mama has endure the torture, then he has to see it, has to remember it.
He decides right then and there, with his small fingers sticking through the gap of the door, eager to grasp those keys. He decides right then and there, as thuds sound against the wall, as his mom tries not to scream or cry so he won’t hear her. He decides right then and there, as sirens sound down the road from the neighbors calling the cops yet again. He decides then and there, that from this point forward, nobody is going to hurt Mama again.
He never reaches the keys.
It takes an hour before the closet doors gingerly squeak open. He counted every second, quietly pushing against the closet door, silently pleading to get out. But it opens then, and his small body tumbles from inside, his fingers rimmed red and useless. He never hits the floor. Despite her injuries, Mama catches him against her chest, tugs him close.
He wastes no time at all. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”
Mama tenses, stroking a hand through his dark hair.
“Let’s go away. Let’s go away, Mama.” He grips her shirt, eyes wet. “I don’t like when he hurts you.”
Mama is usually quiet, but she talks today in a soft whisper despite her ruined jaw. “Okay, baby. Let’s go away.”
It takes no time to pack their things. They don’t have much to begin with. He is tasked with it, stuffing his and Mama’s clothes into garbage bags. He ransacks the kitchen for scraps of food, he steals their thick blankets and paper plates. And when he stands in his parents' bedroom, facing the bedside table on his dad's side, he makes sure he is just as quiet as Mama taught him to be when he creaks the drawers open.
He takes his dad’s watch, his black tie. He takes his glasses, his ring. He takes his wallet, his car keys, he takes every trace of his dad out of this apartment and stuffs it into the garbage bag. One thought later, and he pulls it all out, filling his pockets instead. Only then does he leave the room, guilt eating away at him, but not an ounce of regret.
Mama is on the landline, whispering into the plastic. He catches only vague hints at where they’re going, small pleas for help. He sits and waits until Mama hangs up, and when she turns to him, it’s with a lopsided smile.
“What’s your favorite color?” she asks him.
He thinks for a moment, watching as she walks to the oven, flips the nobs aimlessly until they click over and over again.
“Green,” he says.
Mama smiles. “Midoriya. That means green in Japanese.”
She reaches into a drawer, pulls out a wad of aluminum foil. She crumples it, tosses it into the microwave. Then she approaches, crouches down in front of him and strokes a hand down his face.
“I always loved the name Izuku. Do you like it?” she asks. Her jaw moves all wrong, but she talks anyway.
He nods.
“Then that’s your name.” Mama’s eyes turn hard, dark. “If anyone ever asks you what your name is, you tell them that, do you understand me?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“And I’ll be…” she combs a hand through his hair. “Inko. We’ll be the Midoriyas, do you like that?”
Midoriya nods eagerly, and Mama frowns at the curls that bounce wildly.
“We need to go before he comes back.” Mama stands, grabs a bag, and hoists it over her shoulder. “We’re going to stay with an old friend of mine.”
She ushers him to the front door, telling him to stay in the hall while she runs back for something. Midoriya does, tapping his feet to the sound of his Mama pushing buttons on the microwave. She appears a moment later, grabs his hand, and all but sprints down the concrete stairwell.
“Keys?” she asks, catching them when Midoriya tosses them her way. “Don’t ever do what I just did, you understand me?”
“Yes, Mama.”
She pushes open the front door, tucks a strand of thick hair behind her ear. “You will be smart, smarter than I ever was. You understand?”
“Yes, Mama.”
She unlocks Dad's car, helps him inside, and buckles his car seat. There’s a moment of pure silence when she shuts the car door. He’s unaware it will be the last silent moment he has for a very long time. Mama tugs her door open, slips inside. Their eyes lock in the rearview mirror for only a moment, a tear running down her face before she looks away and turns the ignition.
They peel out of the rundown apartment complex quickly, cars honking when Mama jerks in front of them. She keeps driving, only glancing at him for a moment before clicking on the radio. It’s not quick enough.
A loud, window-shattering explosion erupts. Midoriya doesn’t scream; he’s quiet as he turns around in his booster seat. He stares out the back window, bright eyes watching their apartment complex. Smoke fills the air, hot fire raging from the windows. Police sirens rage down the road, fire trucks blare their horns.
Mama turns the radio up. Midoriya turns forward again, and when their eyes lock once more, he smiles. No one will ever hurt Mama again.