Chapter 1
James is convinced he was born wrong. Something happened during the nine months he spent in his mother’s womb and he came out wrong. His parents, being the lovely people they are, decided to keep him despite his flaws, and raised him like a normal child. But he wasn’t a normal child, and he isn’t normal now.
He’s supposed to take pills. Quite a few of them, actually. One for his ADHD, one for his insomnia, one of for his depression, and one for his bipolar disorder. He’s good at taking his ADHD and insomnia medication, the other two not so much. He can’t act like he actually feels any different with the pills or without them, but he takes them every morning just in case they finally fix him one day. He knows that not taking all of his medication means any progress he might see won’t last more than a few days. He also knows that not taking the medication meant to tame his biggest issue will make all other issues ten times worse. But after tonight, none of that will matter.
James will take all four of his pills. He’ll catch up on the many days he’s missed. He twists off the cap of each bottle, dumping out a generous amount onto the cold tile of the kitchen floor. It’s hard to calculate how many he’ll need to successfully take him out, so he decides the more the merrier. The more he takes, the quicker he’ll be free from the Hell that he calls his life.
He’s spent the last four years of his life feeling like a ghost. Like his spirit has been floating above his body, watching him trudge through the meaningless, repetitive every day actions of his life. He doesn’t smile like he used to. He doesn’t storm into his friends’ flats and intrude on their space in a way that should make everybody hate him. But they don’t. Nobody hates him. Not Sirius. Not Remus. Not Peter. Not Lily, or Marlene, or Dorcas, or Mary. Not his parents. Nobody. James wishes they would hate him. He wishes they would be mad at him for being too loud and obnoxious. They should be annoyed by his presence, counting down the minutes until he finally leaves them alone. But they don’t get mad, or annoyed. They don’t count down the seconds until he leaves. They laugh at his stupid jokes, welcome him with open arms. They frown and beg him to stay longer when he says his goodbyes.
If they knew the real James, they would all hate him. If they knew the way he clenched his jaw and dug his nails into his palm to stop himself from yelling when someone spoke too loud, or made a bad joke, they would hate him. If they knew how angry he felt when someone asked him how he was feeling, they would hate him. The evil, torturous thoughts that plague his mind every second of every day should make everyone hate him. To drop everything and run far, far away. They should cower at the sight of him when his mind tells him he should grab the knife from the kitchen counter. But they don’t, because they don’t know. They don’t know anything about the way James really feels, because he refuses to tell anybody.
The only person he’s ever opened up to is Sirius. Once, when they were seventeen, when everyone was figuring out how they were going to spend the rest of their lives, James had confessed that he had no idea what he wanted to do because he hadn’t planned on living long enough to have a future. The look on Sirius’ face was enough confirmation that James was crazy, and that in order to make it through life, he needed to bury his thoughts somewhere deep inside him, where nobody would ever find them.
The myriad of pills lay between his thighs, tempting him. Suicide is a selfish thing, a permanent solution to a temporary problem, that will cause everyone around him unbearable pain. But what about his pain? What is it about his twenty-three years of suffering that apparently isn’t bad enough for anyone to actually care? Why is it always the effects of suicide on other people, and not what caused the person to die?
James reaches for the beer next to him and swallows a large amount. He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jumper, letting his head fall back and smack against the cupboard. He’s been sitting on the floor of his kitchen for a good two hours, an ongoing battle between the part of his brain urging him on and the part screaming at him to stop. He knows which part will win. He’s known for the past two years. He just wanted to see if there was any part of him that wanted to hold on. To finally reach out and ask for help, to gain back the reasons he had for living.
He thought about writing letters. Or at the very least, sending a text to Sirius and his parents. But the letters would convince James to stay. And the texts would ring alarm bells and Sirius would be at his flat in five minutes tops, his parents not far behind him. So he doesn’t write letters. Or send any texts. Sirius has been left on read for three days, his mom for a week, his dad for a little over a month. Another day without a text won’t worry them. In a few days, they’ll find his body. It’ll probably be a gruesome sight to see, and an even worse smell, but he won’t know, because he’ll be dead. He’ll be spared the pitiful looks and unbelieving glances when he lies for the millionth time and tells everyone he’s okay. He’ll be free. Free from the world and free from himself.
James scoops the pills into his right hand and lifts them up to his mouth. He takes another large gulp of his lukewarm beer and holds it in his mouth. He leans forward and tilts his head back, inhaling deeply before opening his mouth and dumping the pills in. They stay in his mouth for a moment, floating around. For a brief moment, he thinks about spitting them out. He thinks about spitting them into his sink and calling Sirius and telling him everything. But he doesn’t. He swallows hard and forces himself to not gag as he feels the various sized oval-shaped pills travel down his throat. He feels them settle in his stomach and allows himself to breathe freely.
It takes about ten minutes for it to start happening. He gets extremely nauseous, but slaps a hand over his mouth to prevent himself from throwing up. He takes another swig of his beer, hopeful that the alcohol will speed up the process of death. The next is dizziness. The world starts to spin and when he reaches for the counter to try and lift himself up, he misses completely. His vision blurs and everything fades to a mess of dull shapes and colors. The dull throbbing in his head turns to an unbearable headache, causing him to lurch forward and bury his head in his hands, pulling at his hair. A sharp tug and the warm feeling on his scalp makes him sit back up. He winces as the world spins and looks down as his hand. To him, he has four different hands, each holding a large chunk of hair.
James lets out a sob, feeling hot and sweaty and exhausted and in unbearable pain in every part of his body. His body suddenly feels very weak and he collapses onto the cold tile. The world is still spinning and he’s shaking uncontrollably. Faintly, through the numbing feeling of his body, he feels something coming out of his mouth. The taste is horrendous and it clicks in his head that he’s vomiting. Not actively vomiting, more-so drooling vomit, but it’s still there.
It’s at that moment when James realizes he really should’ve written letters. He should’ve sent those texts. He should’ve been honest about anything in his life and maybe he wouldn’t be here on the floor, shaking and choking on his vomit. It’s too late now. Even if James regrets it now, if he was given the chance, he still wouldn’t write any letters. He doesn’t want to be a burden. He should’ve at least given someone a warning. A sign on his front door telling whoever walks by to call the police and not let anyone but them inside. To cover up his body before anybody gets the chance to see it.
What if Sirius is the one who finds him? His best friend, the man he truly believes is his soulmate. The person who made him realize that you don’t have to have romantic feelings for someone to be madly in love with them. Sirius Black, the brightest star in the universe. Sirius Black, who stuck by James’ side through everything and never once doubted their love for each other. Sirius Black, who was always so worried about him, but never once forced him to open up. How would he react to James cold, lifeless body? Would he sob and scream for help? Or would he stand frozen at the sight of his body.
What if his mother finds him? Euphemia Potter, who loved him with every bone in her body, even when he screamed at her and told her he wished she was dead. James apologized countless times for everything he said to her during an episode. He sobbed in her arms and told her that she shouldn’t forgive him. That she should give up on helping him and let him suffer alone. His mother, who held him in her arms and whispered soothing words into his ear as he fell asleep sobbing. He knows how she would react. He doesn’t want to think about it.
In the haze of his final moments, James feels himself floating out of his body. He watches from above as his body trembles uncontrollably. His breaths are shallow as he struggles to stay conscious through the tears streaming down his face and the bile racing up his throat. The endless racing thoughts that plagued his mind are gone, replaced with a vast emptiness.
James doesn’t think about anything as he dies.