Grounded

Rock bottom 

James felt the surge of adrenaline as he heard the roar of the crowd intensify over the wind whistling past his ears. This was what he loved about the game. The crowds, the passion, the everything or nothing feeling. The way the noise of the crowd followed every swing of the game like waves surging and crashing. When the crowd roared his heart swelled, this was the only way to feel truly alive. 

His team was at the top of the league table and were all feeling pretty unstoppable. They were the best, no other team was even coming close. It was almost getting too easy. The whole team was still riding high from their last victory, beating last year's champions. Perhaps the team were overconfident going into this match, perhaps they were not as prepared as they probably should have been. But this game was hard. They were still winning, but they were having to take greater risks against a much more physical team. A team that didn’t mind how hard they pushed. 

It only took him a few more moments to realise it wasn’t the move he had just put past his opposition that had the crowd going wild, but his teammate making an impressive dive for the snitch. Knowing this catch would end the game and get them off the field, James turned his broomstick in a fast but fluid motion to support her if needed. She was an incredible seeker, the superstar of their team. So skilled she made the rest of them look average. He knew the only way she wasn’t ending this game in the next few moments was by the opposition trying something illegal. 

They were known to not shy away from dirty tricks to take the seeker out of the game, and by the way they were amassing they were definitely up to something. They had already managed to stop her and make the snitch disappear an hour earlier. Not that it had helped their chances any, in fact it had given James the opportunity to increase his own personal record, and become his team's highest goal scorer this season. James tucked the quaffle more securely into the crook of his arm as he took a defensive position between the seeker and his counterpart chaser, who didn’t seem to be at all interested in trying to get the quaffle from him. Something was definitely up. Their team were not behaving like a team that was willing to accept the fact they were being resoundingly beaten. 

There was a flicker of something unexpected, a glimpse. All his instincts told him there was no way the seeker would be able to avoid it. 

James didn’t hesitate when he positioned his body to take the hit.

 The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was the announcer calling a good catch. 

He hadn’t seen it coming 

He never thought it would end this way. 

It hurt to open his eyes, or even try to turn his head to the voices speaking in anxious whispers. He thought he recognised his captain speaking but he couldn’t say for sure as the sounds were distorted. 

'Holy shit he’s waking up!' That was definitely his captain’s voice, even if it did sound like he was hearing him speak through water.

'I need to put him under again, it’s not safe for him to be conscious'

He wanted to ask what was wrong, he wanted to tell them he didn’t want to sleep but really he did. It hurt to think, so he stopped and succumbed to the darkness once more. 

The next time he woke up was better, it didn’t hurt quite so much to think. Nevertheless, his mouth felt like it had been stuffed with fabric, his ears cotton wool. There was a throbbing in his head like he was too close to a muggle nightclub. He opened his eyes, the tiniest of cracks, but his vision was obscured, something must have been covering them. He tried to speak but his voice croaked. 

'Here have some water,' a gentle voice spoke, he felt the tap of a straw against his lip and a strong hand on his arm helping to steady himself, and he managed a tentative sip. 'Well done.' The same voice said in a rather annoyingly patronising way. 

'Why can’t I see?' Was his first question his voice was barely more than a raggedy whisper. 

'You are still very sensitive to light so the healers covered them up.' 

'When can I leave?' He didn’t want to be lying down, he had never enjoyed being still. 

'When the Med team assigned to you are happy enough with your progress.' Came the voice again not quite so gently this time. 'You are lucky to be alive, and you need time to rest and heal. This is not something you can just shake off in a few days.' He resisted the urge to groan in annoyance, it probably wasn’t the best idea to aggravate his care further.

'What happened?' He asked instead. It was becoming easier to speak, but there was still too much fog in his brain. His limbs felt heavy like they belonged to someone else. He was as weak as a day old kitten. 

'What’s the last thing you remember?' The voice asked him instead of answering his question. James tried to think, fractured images of flying came back. The sound of crowds cheering, and then pain. He tried to think back to a clear unbroken memory. 

'Strapping my boots on, tightening my gloves. My captain, Edison gave his usual pre-match speech, and warned us about dirty play.'

The straw was back at his lips again and he tried to take a deeper sip. 

'Do you remember my name?' The voice asked him. James went to shake his head in a negative way but a hand stopped him. 'Try not to move your head.'

'Was I supposed to? How can I remember your name if you’ve never told me?'

'I have, but that’s not important right now. My name is Vivienne. Nurse Vivienne. Try to remember that, but it’s time to rest again.' James had to admit he still felt very sleepy and sinking back into the darkness felt like the best thing ever. 

It had been months since the accident. Months of painfully slow progress.  As his mind came back to him James was getting more and more frustrated with his inability to get back to his normal, athletic self. His balance was shot, and as much as he tried to hide it from the doctors whenever they checked his progress, walking about made him feel dizzy and sick. Nurse Vivienne, as kind as she was when he was doing as he was told, was a tyrant when he tried to push himself too far, or tried to bend the rules.

 He wanted to be home, he wanted out of this hospital room, and back with his own things. Ed, his captain visited regularly, the whole team had come to see him at one time or another, to give their support. Telling him falsehoods about how well he was doing, that he would be back on his broomstick in no time. All the while giving concerned looks to each other that they thought he couldn’t see. They meant well but as soon as they arrived he just wanted them to leave, but as soon as they did he felt painfully alone. 

The truth was a bitter pill to swallow. The truth was that magic couldn’t fix everything, and as quickly as his fractured skull had been repaired at the pitch, the brain damage and concussion was something that needed time. 

James had been playing quidditch professionally for long enough to have received a few blows to the head before. However he had not been playing nearly long enough to be ready to leave the game forever, but that was the truth he was facing now, even if not one person had been able to say that to him. But he was being forced to face this inevitable truth with every skull splitting headache, and sickening dizzy spell. He couldn’t even hold concentration enough to use magic right now. 

The only person who could break him out of his spirals of depression was Lincoln, his roommate. A former quidditch player himself, he had not quite managed to become a professional, but was a genius when it came to strategies. And had carved himself a good career from this skill. If it wasn’t for Lincoln, James would never have been allowed to go home so soon. Not soon enough in James’ view. Truth be told he probably should have stayed in hospital longer, but Lincoln had never been able to say no to one of James’ scams. 

He was glad he had Lincoln because he didn’t have anyone else. Not anymore.

He knew he hadn’t given himself any allowance of time to grieve his mother. As far back as he could remember, it had just been the two of them. She had done everything she could to give him everything he had ever wanted, and he had never felt lacking. Never until she passed. 

He still owned her home, the house he had grown up in, with its twisted staircase and secluded meadow where he’d learned to fly. He had left the responsibility to his lawyer to get someone to take care of the place. He had tried to go back, but arriving at the ironwork gate had triggered something deep inside and he hadn’t been able to go back since. He stayed away, he told himself, because he didn’t have time. He was better off not dealing with anything that could put him off his game.

He had his passion, his work, his sport. He had to devote all his time and energy to that, to maintain his place on the team, to win the championship, to be the best. He didn’t need anyone or anything else, didn’t have time for it. Or that’s what he had thought, when he took walking unaided for granted.  When the only thing he had to worry about was letting his team down. What did he have now? 

James automatically reached out for the bottle sitting on the dresser as he got out of bed. He growled and threw it against the wall when he realised it was empty. His head was throbbing. As it always did if he hadn’t drunk enough before going to bed. It was becoming more difficult to drink enough, the booze was having less of an effect. 

He knew drinking wasn’t fixing anything, knew the dizziness was still there, but being drunk made him not care. He could let himself think it was the drink making him unsteady, and not the life ruining head injury. The bottle hit the wall with a satisfying sound, breaking into a few pieces that went spinning across his wooden floor, James noticed this and thought to himself that he would pick up the pieces later, however he didn’t notice the tiniest fragment of glass slice his foot as he walked out the door, so sharp he didn’t even feel it. 

He staggered into the kitchen using the walls to steady himself. The hospital had given him a stick. He hated that stick. He was not an old man, he wasn’t even thirty yet, he shouldn’t need help to stay upright without a drink in him. So he kept himself well lubricated, it stopped him from caring that he couldn’t steady himself. Stopped him from caring about anything. 

There were no bottles in the kitchen cupboards, grumbling to himself he checked his other hiding places. They were all empty. 

'Dammit.' He muttered. 

He surveyed the flat and even he noticed it was looking a bit shabbier than normal. Lincoln was out of town for a few days, so he couldn’t get him to go and buy more bottles, and anyway Lincoln was getting more and more reluctant to give in to his begging, he had stopped bringing even beer home. James knew the newsagent on the corner didn’t like selling him too much at once but all he needed was one bottle. That would be enough, just for now, just to help him sleep. He was still standing in the middle of the kitchen, blood pooling around his cut foot, and contemplating how to get down the stairs and across the street to get another drink when Lincoln walked through the front door. And he wasn’t alone. 

'James what the hell are you doing?' His friend yelled, making him jump out of his daydream. James looked at his roommate as if seeing him for the first time. 

'You’re here?'

'Yes, I’m here, of course I am mate,’ James almost wanted to collapse in relief as he watched his friend stride towards him with purpose. ‘Couldn’t leave you to fend for yourself could I?’ his tone was calmer now that he was standing right with him, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ve been worried sick about you. We’re here to help you.' James nodded, so happy to see his friend that he didn’t pick up on his words straight away.

'Help me? With what?' 

'That foot for starters' came another voice. A voice of no nonsense, of honey covered iron. A voice James remembered all too well. 'How long has this been going on? How have you let him get like this?' She scolded Lincoln sharply, before shaking her head and taking off her coat, 'help me get him in that chair.' She pointed to one of the dining chairs that was sitting on the floor on it’s side.

'Nurse Vivienne.' James beamed at her. 'I’ve missed you.'

'He must still be drunk.' She scoffed, taking no notice of him and continuing to talk to Lincoln as if James wasn’t even in the room. 'thought you said you got rid of all his booze?'

'I did,' Lincoln replied distractedly as he uprighted the chair and put James into it. 'Or at least I thought I did, even told the guy in the corner shop to limit his supply. I tried telling him to refuse but I think that was a step too far for his business.' James obliged like a docile puppy to being directed to the chair, he was feeling a little strange, lightheaded, in a different way from usual.

Vivienne hissed angrily when she took a closer look at James’ foot. She fixed the damage quickly with a wave of her wand, but she still looked unhappy. James felt the tingle as his skin knitted back together neatly. Then she took out her phone and stepped away.

Lincoln looked between his friend and nurse Vivienne. Placing a hand on James’ leg as he kneeled in front of him.

'James, you have to stop this. You are damaging yourself. You are never going to recover this way. Eventually this drinking is going to kill you.'

The old James would have made a joke to misdirect, but he wasn’t even half the man he used to be. This injury had taken everything that made James feel like James. 'Who says that's not what I want.' He eventually replied not bothering to hide the bitterness, letting the hopelessness he felt wash over him. 

'You stop that talk right now.' The nurse snapped at him sharply, striding back to stand before him, for a moment he thought she was going to slap him. 'You are still young. Head injuries take time and are always difficult to predict. You are hampering your own recovery by all this drinking, and not taking care of yourself. As an athlete, I’m sure you know the value of decent nutrition.' She growled deep in her throat in obvious exasperation at him. 'How do you expect to get better if all you are doing is making your symptoms worse?' 

“You think I haven’t been trying? You think I enjoy being like this? I can’t sleep. Everything spins if I’m standing, it’s even worse when I try to lie down. Alcohol dulls my senses to the point it lets me pass out. This is no life, I am 28 and have no reason to carry on existing.”

“I know things feel bad right now, believe me when I say I have treated others just like you. The ones who recovered the best were the ones who refused to give up, who tried everything that was available. You are Not trying, you are letting this defeat you. I thought you were a winner. I thought you were better than this.”

Somewhere in his foggy dizzy brain he knew she was telling the truth. Almost like he had been waiting for someone to tell him he needed to change. Being an athlete meant following the instructions of others, and nurse Vivienne’s no nonsense tone snapped him back to a realisation that perhaps he could recover, if he actually tried to.

'Okay,' he said eventually. 'You’re right. I’m not helping myself by drowning in my own self pity. I took an easier option than facing the truth.’ he paused for a breath trying not to let his emotions overwhelm him. ‘I’m just tired of feeling this way, so helplessly sick all the time. I don’t want to live like this.’

‘You are the one who has decided all is lost, and only you can change that.’

‘So what do I do to get better?'