son amour - j. potter

fifty seven

TW Panic Attacks, Self Harm
If this makes you uncomfortable skip to the second set of ellipses.

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Late November, 1980

I haven't talked to Henry or Beatrice since that heartbreaking night in my kitchen. I also haven't cried since I broke down into James's arms and sobbed until I could no longer breathe. I've haven't gone through the steps of grieving. Part of me still hasn't processed everything that happened that night, everything that I found out.

Sometimes, when I know James and Julian are fast asleep,  I lock myself in the bathroom and cast a silencing spell, so that I can scream at the world.

Screaming at my mother for the way she raised me. The way that she hit me if I didn't fit into her standards. Screaming at Beatrice, at Henry, for becoming one of them. Screaming at my father for leaving me too soon with my wretched family. Screaming at the world for taking Euphemia and Fleamont away before getting to meet their grandson, for taking them away from their sons who needed them. Who still need them. Screaming at myself for letting my siblings take a vow to be evil.

I dig my hands into my hair, tugging at my roots until the pain is enough to distract me. I grip my thighs so tightly that my nails break through my skin, letting blood spill out onto my legs.

I scream because I can't cry.

I can't feel sympathy for them. Not for the same people who are ordered to torture and kill innocent people.

I only do this when James is asleep. When I know he won't wake up to an empty bed, seeing a sliver of light underneath the bathroom door.

He doesn't need to worry about me any more than he already does. It would kill him.

Right now I sit on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, shivering in just a sweatshirt and underwear. My bare legs rest against the tile as I grip them tightly, rocking back and forth in an attempt to calm myself down.

I don't do this every night.

Only the nights where I wake up abruptly, the trace of a nightmare haunting me, a voice in my telling me that it's all my fault.

It's my fault. I wasn't there for them. I wasn't there for my father. I wasn't there to protect my sister and brother. It's my fault.

I let out a scream, my body trembling as my nails pierce through the skin on my calves.

I yelp out in pain, looking down to examine the damage that I did this time.

Blood was dripping down my legs, from four crescent shaped cuts on each of my legs.

I huff in frustration as I stand up from the bathroom floor, beginning to pace.

I need to heal myself, but I'm not in the right state of mind. I don't want to botch a spell, especially since I don't have my wand.

Sitting down on the edge of the bathtub, I let out a breath that I didn't even know I was holding in.

I rub the tops of my thighs as I try to focus on my unsteady breathing so that I don't spiral again.

"I'm okay, I'm safe, I'm okay, I'm safe," I mutter to myself, repeating words until I start to believe them.

I look down at my legs, seeing the blood start to dry against my pale skin.

"Episkey," I say clearly, focusing on the cuts on my legs.

I watch as the cuts start to close, the blood running down my legs going back to the cuts it came from. Within seconds there was no trace of my panic attack left on my body. No blood, no cuts, no scars.