Sometimes when it had just happened, Shouto felt like the newly healed scar on his face was a mask. He’d touch it and think of his mother’s face when she saw him, before she’d burned him. He’d think that it looked red, like his hair, like his father and wish he knew how to take the mask back off.
He rolled over in the bed and reminded himself he wasn’t a little kid anymore. He couldn’t turn to his mother for comfort. He had to protect her. He couldn’t go to her when he wearing a reminder of his father.
He rolled over in the bed and reminded himself he wasn’t a little kid anymore. He couldn’t turn to his mother for comfort. He had to protect her. He couldn’t go to her when he wearing a reminder of his father.