2
James had been told everything that had happened. Or, mostly of it. There were some things they didn't specify but could be figured out in other ways.
Doctor McGonagall had made sure that the hospital's psychologist would speak to him after she had told him the truth. Why nobody else was there.
Because they hadn't survived. They hadn't had the chance. McGonagall hadn't told him specifically this piece of information but after Doctor Fenwick had went through his injuries for him (broken arm, two fractured ribs, various cuts all over his body, a heavy blow to the neck, as well as a burn mark on the side of his body, slightly bigger than a palm.
When Nurse Fortescue, along with Doctor McGonagall, had removed his neck cast (which had been why he had had such trouble looking around first) was the first moment he could actually see his body. His injury. Each scar (which actually was a few), contrasting on his usually smooth skin. Or. Maybe not anymore.
He had needed to ask them to leave as he took it all in; everything seeming so utterly disgusting.
It wasn't that James didn't like scars. He knew lots of people who did have them; Remus Lupin, one of his best friend's had them after an encounter with a wild wolf years ago. His best friend Sirius Black also had them; though he had them from his parents. His childhood friend Marlene had them too, after having struggled with her parents to come to terms with her liking girls.
The thing was that he didn't particularly like any of their scars because of the reason they were there, but, they were also constantly there to remind them of how strong each of them were. None of them deserved the scars that had been caused to them, but they all wore them.
But James scars only served as a purpose of reminding him of his lost ones. Every time he saw the scars he would be reminded of them; the crash. The few memories he had of it. Every time he saw the burn mark he would smell that smell again. Iron. Iron and Gasoline.
The way his parents had died.
McGonagall wouldn't return until later as she refilled his medicine and did her usual check up.
"Pain level?"
"Six." James shrugged, staring into the wall as he laid on the side. His ribs didn't really like it, but the again, nor did he like any of this, so they could survive.
"And if you stop torturing your poor ribs and lay down on your back?" She questioned, raising an eyebrow to which he simply complied.
"Four."
"As expected." She nodded. "How's your arm?"
"Fine."
"And your stitches? None have bleed, that you know off?" She turned to him, who just shook his head but sat up, and she skimmed over his back. "Great. Any pain in your neck?"
He shook his head.
"Perfect." She nodded, before sighing. "You are on the bettering path; and as soon as your ribs seems to better we can look at rehab exercises so that you can regain your muscles again."
He nodded.
"Since you've been here for about a month now it's really important that you do the rehab exercises when they're given to you." McGonagall gave him a stern and knowing look. "I don't wish to have you back here because you broke your ankle."
James had already been here for a month. He hadn't left it once, as the Doctor's found it all to risky to actually let him leave. Not even for his parents funeral, which had been held a week after he had woken up.
He watched as a priest live sent it for him. There wasn't anybody there. He wondered how many of them knew. Did any of them knew? That the Potter's was gone? All that was left was James. James. His parents personal shine of joy.
He hadnt been older than three when he had gotten the nickname 'Sunshine' after having been particularly excited about the sun shining on a day when they were at the beach.
Something his mother had called him every time since then. It was almost a miracle he knew his own name; not simply 'sunshine'.
Though, he didn't feel like a sunshine right now. So he simply nodded in response to McGonagall.
His ribs wasn't one of his biggest problems right now, he found. Actually, none of this pain was the problem in itself. Sure, it didn't really make matters any easier, but he could manage that. What he couldn't manage equally as good though was the increased loneliness he felt.
James, who was used to constantly have the people he loved around him, who now found himself completely cut off from everyone.
His parents who he usually found himself accompanying during the Summer, well, and his friends who he couldn't reach as his phone had been destroyed in the crash, and he didn't know their numbers in his head.
Not that he would actually have called them, but it always felt like some kind of comfort to at least know there was some kind of possibility. The thought that he, maybe, just maybe, would actually call any of them if he deemed it to be a need. Though, somewhere in James heart he knew he would'nt, no, not once in a million years would he call them for help with something of this magnitude that he considered his own fault.
Because that's what he did. It didn't matter that the psychologist reminded him of it, or tried to give him various exercises. Nothing about it mattered! His parents were gone, and it was his fault. Had he maybe not played the music so loud; had he taken the opportunity when his dad had asked if he wanted to drive, but he didn't. Fuck, why didn't he?
He didn't know. He. Didn't. Know.
And it ate at him, not knowing. If he knew, remembered. Maybe he wouldn't blame himself for it. But he didn't know.
Never would he know either.
Never would he know how his mother had shouted at his father to swerve for the car as it drove straight at them. Never would he know that the other car's fuel tank had begun leaking about fifty meters before the collision. Never would he know that Fleamont had pushed him upwards, to get out of the car. Never would he know how Euphemia begged, for the first time in many years, and begged for James. Never would he know that he couldn't have done anything to prevent what happened.
Never.