People love to think that they know everything about my life simply because I’m well known around school. They all think that I’m this obnoxious flirt and that I’m simply the rebel of my family. They don’t know what happened at that house. They don’t know what life was like growing up the way that we did. They don’t know about memorizing patterns of footsteps to know who was walking to your room. They don’t know about having to stay quiet, only to keep the peace that was near non-existent. People who love to tell me that I’m just a spoiled little rich boy who never knew hardship a day in his life, they don’t know the suffering that they caused me all my life.
Very few know that I single handedly raised my brother and myself in place of our parents because they didn’t care enough to take the time to comfort us. It was not their room that he wandered into when nightmares plagued him at night, it was mine. It was not them that he came to as he cried, it was me. It was not them to attend all of his games when he needed the support most, it was me. They weren’t the ones to support him when he came out, to tell him that he was loved regardless. They were only our parents when it was convenient, if there was some ball or gala to attend. If there was a family gathering where we needed to upkeep an image of the perfect family. More regularly, when they needed an outlet to take their anger out on. I always took the burnt end of the curses, I wouldn’t have it any other way if it meant that my brother would be spared. So I took the place of parent in his life where they failed to. I met and threatened his first boyfriend, then ultimately held him as he cried when that boy broke his heart.
Very few people know that my sense of humor stems from all of the beatings that I took. It’s a coping mechanism. If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry, only then to hear about how I am nothing as a man from the voice of my mother that lives in the recesses of my mind. I act like I’m everything that I want to be because of all the times I was told that I was nothing. It’s just another way to spite them. I grew my hair long because she cut it off. I rebel because I was always told to be quiet and compliant. They tried to raise the perfect pureblood son. I tried to be him, but I simply wasn’t. I learned that there was nothing I could have done to earn their pride in me, so I stopped. I live the way that I want for all of the times she tries to make my life her’s. Well fuck you mother, because I don’t belong to you and neither does my brother.
We are both the products of a house that pretended to be a home. A place with people that crushed us down into nothing but a fine powder that they tried to mold to their perfect vision. That didn’t work out too well as it seemed. They aimed for straight, clean cut, obedient children. They ended up with me, their oldest son, dating a male half-blood, wearing makeup and living in a way that would have their parents turning in their graves. Their second son, Regulus, was dating one they deemed as a blood traitor who could have loved him better than they ever did. If that’s not karma, I don’t know what is.
This letter may have gotten off track, but my point is, don’t assume you know what’s going on in someone’s life just by the outside view. Mine could have been seen as perfect and stress free, but there was the weight of the world on my shoulders for the first fifteen years of my life. Someone may seem like they are fine but it may just be a mask that they wear like a shield. Never assume what you don’t know, and fuck all of you that will say that I’m lying. I hope you have to spend the rest of your life miserable sods, while I’m off actually living.
Truth of,
Sirius O. Black