(Not related to the story, but I love this picture lmao)

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My mom grounded the fuck out of me when she found out I fell asleep during class. Getting only two hours of sleep does that to you though; what do you expect?

Anyway, my mother took away my phone when my teacher told her about the incident. I was forced to explain that I went to sleep at 4:20 am. She said I had 'a fucking problem,' to put it lightly.

Well, she's not wrong.

She made me go to sleep next to her at 8 pm that night, just to make sure I wouldn't go on my laptop and what not. Let's just say, her snoring made me go to sleep at around 12 am that night. Not that much help, Mom.

The next day I told Katsuki he couldn't send me nudes because then my mom would receive them instead.

"Oh shit. Too late," was his reply with a smug smirk plastered on his face.

"Nooo!" I whined with a small blush forming on my cheeks. "It's not fair that she can see them and I can't!" Really risky shit to say, (F/N).

"You can see them personally after school if you want," Katuski said, putting an arm around me. Wait, no, I didn't mean it-

"Uhh, no! Sh-shut up!" I exclaimed, attempting my best to eliminate the lustful thoughts forming in my head. "Besides, I'm grounded, and I have to go straight home today!" I nudge my shoulder to shrug his arm off, and then I slump forwards, running away from the blonde-haired male. "And, I gotta go to class right now! I'm pretty busy today so uhh, see you later!"

"Weird ass," Katsuki mumbles as he watches me run away from him. "We have the same class right now."

~~~

Ahh, yet another dreadful day in Writing-Tech class. Can't wait to fix my grammar on shit. So fun! Oh shit, let me edit that- see teacher I'm editing shit in my brain as well, give me extra damn credit- I meant to think, please fucking end my suffering.

"Today you guys are writing an on-demand-essay," the teacher announced after giving the entire class his shut the fuck up stare. "This will help me see how well you guys are in writing, especially when you have to write something without havinga lot of time to plan for it."

Fuck.

"Fucking great," I heard Katsuki mumble. He sat right behind me me in Writing-Tech class. Yes. Very fucking great.

It takes me like a fucking year to come up with a decent lie to fool my mom over who ate the last ice cream bar, but now we're expected to write an essay in an hour and 30 minutes. This is gay.

"Wow, I love your guys' enthusiasm!" the teacher exclaimed with his dead-inside look. Me too.

I kept quiet as the entire class gave totally non-sarcastic replies such as, "Of course we are!" and, "Suck my ass!" I turned around to find Katsuki giving me a devilish grin after his comment.

Forcing on a serious face, I reverted my gaze forwards. This boy who wants his ass sucked (How is that even possible, like, it's a fucking hole. You could have said eat my ass or fuck my ass, etc.) has gotten me in trouble in all the classes we have together so many times, it isn't even funny anymore. Jin's dad jokes are hilarious compared to Katsuki's comments at this point.

"You have the rest of class to write an essay about a sad time in your life," the teacher informs the class, who groan in return. "Some examples could be a pet or family member dying, or even getting lost at the supermarket. So long as it's a sad event in your life," the teacher adds, ignoring most of the class' sounds of protest.

The thought immediately came to mind, but I forced myself to push it back into the deepest, darkest, loneliest crevices of my brain. Back to the useless memories.

To say I haven't experienced enough in life to come up with a story for this essay is a stretch, an even bigger lie than the emptiness I feel whenever I finish a good TV-show.

I could hear students asking questions and the teacher giving back not-so-helpful answers, though I didn't comprehend the words.

How much time did we have again?

No, I'm sorry. I don't have time to understand your words since it's taking all my focus to hold in ny tears. All my brainpower to eliminate those memories from my what's-supposed-to-be-happy childhood, the one where everyone brags about being the time of their life. Me? I dread my childhood.

Write about something sad? Well, the teacher mentioned that I could write about anything that's sad, even something as simple as getting lost in the supermarket. I could come up with a story, no one would ever know that it came from my horrid imagination. Or I could write about how my saddest moment is not being lost in a supermarket, but being lost in this world. I might have lived to experience a lot of events, but I have not lived long enough to understand who I am as a person. That's sad in a way, right?

Does it have to be a story? Or could it be an essay of my thoughts? I'd say my thoughts are sad-

"Five minutes have passed. I hope you all have come up with a topic by now," the teacher announces. The words just happened to be background noise that interfered with my helpless rambling, but once I analyzed how much time I spent - time being something really valuable to me - I realized I had to think of something quick.

The pressure of coming up with something to write about is unbearable. I just want to cry right here and now, just let the entire world know that I feel miserable and I wish nothing more, but to be in the arms of someone who loves me. But at this time, it's hard to believe anyone one love such a rechid human being such as myself.

I'm such an imbecile at times that I can't even focus on writing such a simple essay.

Fuck it, (F/N). You came up with nothing else. Just write your saddest memory.

But how do I start? However harmful this memory is to my emotional health, it's very precious to me. Too precious. Writing about this is even worse than announcing my darkest, deepest secret - if I had one - to the entire world. Though everyone has a secret- stop it, you need to focus on coming up with a hook.

As I stared down at my paper, (since that will obviously help bring the magic words to start my introduction) I realized I hadn't even written down my name yet. How irresponsible of me.

(L/N) (F/N)
1-4-18

Well, that's a start.

All of a sudden, I feel a cold gaze loom over my shoulder. Turning back, I catch Katsuki peeking at my basically-empty paper.

He gives me a mocking grin. "You haven't written anything yet, dumbass? And here I thought you were the smart one."

I was in no mood to let his words affect my behavior today, so I simply didn't give him a response.

He kicked the bottom of my seat.

"I wrote my name, okay?" I snapped back in a hushed tone, being pissed off by his actions. I didn't dare look back at him as my eyes dropped to the empty, blue, thin lines on my paper. Somehow, him kicking my seat made me feel weak and useless.

Katsuki must have sensed my pained expression since he didn't bother replying with a smartass answer. Though I was grateful, I was at the same time confused. He didn't care who it was, he didn't let anybody talk to him the way I did. Why is today any different?

He's weird. That's all I can say, since right now I need to focus on my paper. I gave a quick glance at the clock only to find out I wasted 10 minutes with my useless thoughts. Fuck.

---

My hand was cramping so badly, it felt like it would explode if I put any more pressure on it. I had gripped my pencil with so much ferocity I wouldn't be surprised if I ended up with callousous in my fingers. Either way, my attention was no where near focused on my pained hand since I was using most of my brain power on forcing myself not to cry. I wanted to, but I realized I didn't want anyone to think I was weak. As I wrote the last word in my draft I realized I had gone through so many traumatizing experiences to end up having people thinking I was as fragile as a cobweb by crying in the middle of class.

It was too late though as I felt my eyes get foggy, but I quickly diminished the droplets forming in my eyes with a quick swipe of my hand. With the amount of time I had spend messing around, I didn't leave much time to write, though I would say every sentence is a work of art, since I put my entire heart and soul into it in a matter of around an hour. Besides the fact my heart felt as if I was stabbed by an ice pick, this task wasn't difficult considering I sprawled out sentences aimlessly into my paper at a fast pace.

This being a school assignment, I decided to revise my work since this was only a draft. But before I did that, I titled my essay, Wine. Now to the actual essay...

To this day, my mom hasn't cried in such a long time, the last time probably being when she was sitting against our old, disheveled, leather couch with an almost empty bottle of wine in one hand as she hold her head with the other. Of course, this story isn't supposed to be about my mother's suffering, it's supposed to be about my own. About one of my own experiences with sadness. What you might fail to see though is that watching my mother in an utter state of depression and solitute is easily enough to make this event one of my saddest memories by far.

My dad - if you could even call him that - leaving my mother and I affected her the most. She took to drinking to 'forget' her pain, but if you asked anyone who she shut out of her life, it only added more to it. My dad never sent money to my mother and I, and my mom wasting whatever was left of her money on alcohol didn't help our situation. My mom stopped showing up at her work, since she spend most of her time sobbing in her bedroom. It was as if she didn't have anyone to take care of anymore, as if I didn't exist. After so many weeks of suffering, I came to the conclusion that on that day I would put an end to her pathetic behavior. If only I had known better.

I tried to take the thing I hated the most away from her. I grasped onto the bottle, but my mother's grip was stronger. I was a small kid and I just wanted one of my parents back. My dad physically left me, but my mom was still here, yet it seemed like she was even farther away than my dad, wherever he was with his new family. I just wanted to bring one parent back. A parent who would love me. Just one.

As you might expect from an alcholic, my mother was furious at what I tried doing. She couldn't help what she did, I understand that now. The alcohol running in her system turned her into a ruthless being. Not only did she slap me, but she used her quirk against me, against her own daughter. No, my mom isn't a world famous villain, but on that dark, bitter day, she certainly used her quirk for harm, even if it wasn't her intentions.

The wind from her palms send my body sprawling backwards, making the back of my head and back slam hard against the wall. My body itched with pain as I could imagine my face burning red, and dark, plum-colored bruises forming on my delicate skin. My mom looked at me with empty eyes and grinned. Not only did her behavior confuse me dearly, but the immense feeling of solitutde I experienced made me start crying. I was ashamed of showing her how weak I was, and my mother's teasing grin only made me feel more useless.

A river of tears streamed down my face, yet my mom didn't seem to care. She stopped looking at me and gazed at the almost finished bottle of wine in her hand, as if contemplating whether she should chug it all down at once or take small sips. Her eyes looked mesmerized by the contents in the bottle, and this was when I realized that such a drink hold so much power. So much power that it could turn you against the ones you love the most. Who knew drinking this kind of liquid was secretly a contract, that if you drunk too much of this beloved drink, your soul would practically be gone. Your loved ones would be thrown into a pit of enternal suffering, and although this is even worse than your own suffering, the liquor is too strong to make you see anything past the blur in your eyes. So you keep drinking. It's all you know how to do at this point.

Being the small child I was, I wept until I started hyperventilating as I hid my face in between my knees. Not only did my head hurt from the crack I made on the wall, but my heart and longing to live ached with such a strong passion and desire, I wished it would stop.

It's a habit, really. To call out for help when you're in desperate need. At least for a seven year old it is. My shrill, weakened voice called out for my mother. To think that's all it took. To this day it still baffles me.

The moment this confused, broken yet beautiful woman heard her daughter's voice against her ears, she snapped back to reality. The reality was, she had a daughter she needed to get back to. A daughter who depended on her - and still does - for nourishment and growth, both physically and mentally. Although all she actually heard was, "Mommy!" I could have sworn it was as if she was reminded of all the responsibilities she had. I like to think that she broke free of her wretched contract. She wasn't going to let alcohol control her life anymore.

My plead for help was answered. My mother threw her despicable bottle to the side, and then she joined me to the tear fest. She crawled towards me and hold me in her arms. "I'm sorry," she mumbled-half sobbed into my hair, her voice trembling with self-hatred. My (h/c) (h/t) hair clung against her face thanks to her tears.

After what seemed of hours of a mother and her daughter crying together, I watched my mom furiously clean up the wine stain from the bottle as I fell asleep on the living room carpet.

Although it took a while, she sobered up with the help of a therapist, which she barely managed to afford. Soon after that, she managed to get a job in an office, which she still has to this day. My mother doesn't really explain much to me about her job. With her new salary, she was able to pay to get the crack in the wall repaired. Although this day hurts to remember, it was also the day my mom decided to quit drinking. Therefore, not only is this day the saddest day of my life, but it's also the happiest one.

It was too much for me to handle. Not only was writing this a pain in the fucking heart, but rereading it had forced tears to come streaming out of my eyes. Although I tried to cover them up, muffled sobs could be heard errupting from my throat. I could feel glances coming from all over the class, but at this point I no longer gave a damn. Let everybody know how weak I was, however hard I had tried to prove otherwise.

Some classmates quickly rushed over to whisper comforting words such as, "It'll be alright, don't worry." Other people had the nerve to ask what was wrong. Please don't ask that of me, just tell me everything will get better. Either way, I was grateful to everyone who cared to make an effort to make me feel happier. Grateful for everyone who tried to put a smile on my face.

But he didn't. The boy with the explosive temper wasn't one of those people who comforted me. Not even a pat on the shoulder. Don't get me wrong, I didn't start crying for the attention, but he was a close friend. He was my closest friend. Yet he stood back.

I had a lot of encouragement coming my way, and of course being one of the liveliest people in the class, Izuku hugged me in an attempt to brighten me up, which did work a little bit. Even when Katsuki's rival hugged me the only thing the blonde did was stare at us. I know this because no one else could deliver such a harsh feeling of dread other than Katsuki Bakugou when he was angry. But being in the arms of Izuku was when I realized that, out of all the people in the classroom, the only one I wanted to be in the arms of was Katsuki Bakugou. That will never happen though, since he doesn't seem to care about me, and I'll learn to accept that.

~~~

I tried not to make this depressing since I don't like making people cry lmao, but I wrote this when I was in a bad mood XD

Here's an accurate meme I stole from my friend