Chapter 1
He didn’t know when he started hurting himself. It could’ve been weeks, months, years ago really. If he had to guess he’d have said second year, but who could tell? Who even cared? It was fifth year now. All he knew was that it helped. He didn’t know why he felt the way he felt, his life was so perfect and happy; until it just wasn’t anymore. Something broke inside of him, and never really fixed itself. It’s been bandaged, cleaned, opened up and inspected but whatever was wrong with him, and he didn’t know what, wasn’t going away.
James was perfect. On the quidditch team, perfect family, perfect friends, loving, supportive people. He was smart, he could’ve rivalled Lily if he wanted to. But something never seemed to fit right. Nobody knew this of course, to everyone who knew him James Potter was indeed perfect. Not even Sirius would ever know. Nobody seemed to notice if James went quiet, if he winced when someone brushed past him in the corridors, if his eyes were slightly red. Nobody seemed to notice when he’d started wearing long trousers and changing in the bathroom, or if he waited until everyone had left the changing rooms to shower.
So he healed in his own way. He wouldn’t ask for help, because what would he ever have said? Yes, my life is perfect. No, I’m not okay. No, I don’t know why. Or maybe he would’ve confessed that he doesn’t even know how he feels as he feels it. That he doesn’t know who he is. That he made so many different versions of himself he never really figured out which one was him. He started so young it’s too late now. So no, he never asked for help. He never told anyone. There were signs, though. When he cried and sobbed with a hand over his mouth to stay silent. The sudden disappearances. The secrecy. How could someone feel so much for no good reason? He wasn’t like Sirius. Sirius, who came from an awful house that wasn’t a home. Who survived and is still so strong, but James can’t even be strong with a stable life? What was wrong with him?
So yes, James coped, in his own way. He painted his thighs with colourful strokes, with harsh words and ripped. And it felt better. Until it didn’t.
So, he did it again. And again.
And again.
He comforted others in any way he could. And it worked. Until it didn’t. So he went back to painting. Quitting never stuck. It seemed like a cycle that was unbreakable, but it wasn’t truly. One day, things would get better. He would be better. But how could he? He didn’t even know how to identify his own feelings.