Learning To Heal
Disclaimer: All Fantastic Beasts names, characters and locations belong to J.K. Rowling. I own nothing that you recognize.
Prologue
The first thing he remembered was light. Blinding whiteness penetrating the shadows that surrounded him.
The second thing he remembered was pain. A pair of voices screaming in unison, a terrible beast howling from within. The world around him was then torn to shreds, leaving him broken and drifting, a whisper on the wind.
His consciousness dissolved, returning only when the snows began to fall. Then, little by little, the darkness gathered around him, clinging to the brick wall where it solidified in the corner.
'Where am I?'
That was the first question that entered his mind. He remembered looking out from within the darkened mass, hugging his knees against his chest. He was alone. He was cold, his body aching, bleeding from the injuries he'd sustained. He wept in silence, wishing they had killed him. Wishing that he didn't have to exist.
It was some time before he began to explore his surroundings, waking from a troubled sleep and crawling through the wet snow and muddy garbage. One of his eyes was swelled shut. His throat burned, tasting blood on his lips each time he swallowed.
He found the wall and leaned against it, pain stabbing his insides when he made his first step forward. A feeble cry escaped his lips. His knees buckled and he fell forward, fresh tears forming in the corners of his eyes.
Lowering his head, he took a deep breath and began to walk, using the wall as a crutch to keep some of the weight off his injured foot. What had they done to him? He assumed it was magic. All those spells in the subway. It made him realize his foolishness, thinking only that magic was a great and wondrous thing. He knew better now. He knew that magic could wound, that it hurt worse than anything his Ma had done to him. It was the first time he learned about pain through magic.
At some point he must have fallen. He didn't remember it, but he remembered lying in the snow and thinking how comfortable it was. He felt sleep drawing over him like a warm blanket, like the hand of death.
He closed his eyes. He remembered the silence of the deserted street, flakes of snow falling from the heavens. He was too numb and tired to be afraid. It didn't matter anymore.
In his delirium he imagined death in the form of a great bird with dazzling wings that flashed like lightning. Had he seen it somewhere before? He couldn't remember, but he welcomed its embrace as he drifted off to sleep.