Okay, trigger warnings for self-harm, homophobia, suicide and all that. If you ever think about suicide, just don't. You're worth so much more than you realise and so many people love you, even though it probably seems like you're all alone. Get some help, just talk to someone. There's so many sites where you can talk anonymously to someone, just don't end your life. YOU ARE WORTH SOMETHING. Okay, little rant over. Let's get on with this angst. Of course, it's Jeffmads.
888888
James Madison was a freak, plain and simple. There was no point denying it. Everyone knew it, everyone saw it, everyone whispered and snickered about it. It's okay, though. He knew it, too. He was unnatural. See, he liked boys. Weird, right? Everybody else seemed to think so. James was beginning to believe what they said as well.
Freak.
Fag.
Fatty.
Weirdo.
Mad hatter.
Just go die, will you?
James sobbed quietly, his hands pressed hard over his mouth in an attempt to silence the sounds of his anguish as so not to wake his mother. Not that really it really mattered: she was in an alcohol-induced stupor. She wouldn't be awake until at least tomorrow morning. A broken razor, smashed with the blade lying next to it sat on the grimy bathroom floor. A thin sliver of light filtered in through the tiny window and bounced off of the shiny metal of the blade.
James was sat propped up on the ancient ceramic bathtub, his knees drawn up to his chest as his feet splayed in different directions. He was dressed in a pair of shorts and a simple white vest top that exposed his muscles, but of course he couldn't see that. All he saw was fat, fat, fat, most of it non-existent.
Lurching forward, he swiped up the blade, his skin itching to be cut open. He deserved it after all, didn't he?
James didn't cut his wrists. He thought it a little obvious, plus it would mean having to always wear longs sleeves and having the always make sure they weren't rolled up. No, he cut behind his knees and under his arms, places where no-one would look. No-one will question someone who always wears jeans, because most do. He didn't want any more attention than he already got.
Straightening his leg in anticipation, he grasped the thin silver blade, the edge digging into the skin of his finger a little. The pain was freeing. Invigorating, even. Slashing behind his knees, he sighed with relief as the blood ran down his leg, a bright oxygenated red next to his dark chocolate skin. He smiled a little to himself, resting his head on the bath as he thought about his crush.
That's right, he had a crush. That crush was ever so popular, probably richer than James' entire family combined, and incredibly beautiful. He had light mocha skin, pearly white teeth, a dark shadow of a beard and huge poofy hair that most people would kill for.
His crush was Thomas Jefferson.
James' knee gave a sudden lurch of pain, bringing him out of his thoughts. As he came back to reality, he heard his mother stirring outside. Leaping up, he snapped the window open and threw the broken razor out of it after checking nobody was walking by. He turned on the shower, pulling off his vest and plunging his upper half into the icy water, frantically rubbing at the still trickling blood on his leg. Shutting off the water, James grabbed the longest towel he could find and tied it round his waist, making sure it hid the new cuts as well as the old ones. As long as he kept his arms down, she wouldn't see the ones on his arms. She didn't need that sort of worry: it would only give her another reason to drink.
"Mum?" he called, careful to keep his tone even and jovial. "You awake?"
All he got was a grunt in reply, which was enough. Opening the door, he saw his mother leaning drunkenly against the wall, a bottle of vodka clutched loosely in her hand. She was in a sorry state: her hair was lank and greasy, her lipstick scrawled over her cheek and her clothes stained almost beyond recognition. Even leaned up against the wall, she was swaying.
"Jamie?" she slurred, resting her hand on her shorter son's head. James was very short for 16, only 5' 4", and it didn't look like he was going to be growing anytime soon.
"It's me, Ma," he replied in a kind voice. "Maybe we should wash your hair, yeah?"
She nodded, clearly in a distant land. James rushed to his room, slamming the door and pulling on a pair of joggers over his shorts. Zipping up his hoodie, he entered the hallway and picked his mother up as if she were a small child. It scared him how light she was, her bones prominent. They ate enough, James' job at the local diner, the movie theatre and the florist combined with the benefits ensured that, but the alcohol was wasting her away, bit by bit, little by little eating away at her mental faculties. He felt a tear form in his eye, but blinked it away.
He set the water running, sitting Eleanor on the closed toilet seat. Luckily, there was no blood on the floor.
"No cold," Eleanor said in a timid voice, wrapping her arms around her thin body and shivering as if to prove her point.
"It's not cold," James said softly, holding his hand out to her. She crept forward like a scared animal, sliding off of the toilet seat and kneeling next to her son. "Feel. It's warm, isn't it?"
She repeated his actions as he swirled the water with his fingers, giggling at the warmth. She's like a toddler, James thought. Sadness stirred deep within him as he stripped his mother down to her underwear, lowering her into the warm water. Reaching for the old mould-infested jug, he poured water over her head. He squeezed the 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner into his hand, massaging it gently into her scalp.
"Close your eyes," he told her before washing the shampoo out of her hair, watching the bubbles mingle with the now cloudy water.
"Out," she said in a stubborn way when James put the jug down. Admitting defeat, he lifted her out, wrapped her in a towel and carried her to her room, drying her hair before leaving her to sleep.
Trudging back to the living room, he lit a couple of a candles to introduce some light to the room. Their electricity had been cut off almost a month ago when James couldn't afford it anymore, opting to pay for water, heat and food instead of light. Anything perishable was kept in the old camping coolbox. He could get relatively cheap light from candles. They both had mobile phones, yes, but that was only because when James' grandfather had died last year and left them $3500, James had decided to treat them. He had paid a few months' rent in advance, then gone out and got two pay-as-you-go phones. His mother, being pretty sober at the time, had insisted he get a half-decent phone for himself. So she ended up with a button Nokia and he had a second-hand IPhone 5C. The pay-as-you-go was $10 dollars a month for each of them, cheap enough for them to afford.
Grabbing the letters, with urgent stamped on in imposing red ink, he ripped them open in dread. They were just like most: bill overdue, if not paid next month will be cut off. Dropping his head into his hands, he began to sob.
What was he going to do?
888888
He walked to school the next morning.
On other day, he would've taken the free school bus, but he wanted to clear his head after the night before. Plus, it meant that he could leave the house as early as he wanted and get to school before everyone else, avoiding the bullies. He could hide in his toilet stall until homeroom at 8 a.m. The walk took roughly half an hour, so he left at half 6, giving his mother a quick kiss on the forehead before silently closing the door and heading towards school.
The cuts from the night before rubbed against the material of his loose black skinny jeans, sending small spikes of pain up and down his leg. Not that he cared; he liked the pain. Checking his timetable, he groaned when he saw that he had gym first. Please, please, please don't let me have Washington, he prayed. Washington was nice enough, but he was a sucker for rules, and whilst the other teachers would let them wear joggers, Washington forced them to wear the school shorts.
He was near school now. His battered old Adidas that he'd found for $10 in a charity shop crunched on the gravel as he ran down the school drive, sprinting straight to his stall in the bathroom and locking the door, sliding down the graffittied wall. All of the messages were addressed to him.
Pulling out the book he was currently reading, a copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire he had got for free from a yard sale, he opened it at the point he was up to, beginning to immerse himself in the fantasy world.
He pushed his undrunk tea back at Percy and waited for Ludo to rise; Bagman struggled to his feet again, swigging down the last of his tea, the gold in his pockets chinking merrily.
"See you all later!" he said. "You'll be up in the Top Box with me- I'm commentating!" He waved, Barty Crouch nodded curtly, and both of them Disapparated.
"What's happening at Hogwarts, Dad?" said Fred at once. "What were they talking about?"
"It's classified information, until such time as the Ministry decides to release it," said Percy stiffly. "Mr Crouch was quite right not to disclose it."
"Oh, shut up, Weatherby," said Fred.
Before he knew it, the bell rang shrilly and he was scrambling to gather his things, grabbing his books from his locket before running to homeroom.
James made his way to the very back corner of the room, sitting down ans attempting to remain inconspicuous. No-one sat in front of him, in the seat next to him, or on the desk directly next to his. It was as if he were as plague to be avoided at all costs.
"James?" their teacher, Mr Washington (he taught debate as well as gym, and was James' homeroom teacher) called monotonously.
"Here, sir," James replied, barely audible. Washington looked up momentarily, but upon seeing James focused back on his computer.
"Louder next time please, Mr Madison," he said, sending a ripple through the room. James slid lower in his seat. "Monroe?"
"Oi, Mad Hatter!" Hamilton jeered as the bell went for first period. James had been trying to make a sneaky exit, but now sighed and turned to face the Caribbean teenager. As usual, he was flanked by his buddies Hercules Mulligan, John Laurens and Marquis de Lafayette (although he stood behind a bit, looking guilty). James had long ago dubbed them the Hamilsquad.
"What do you want, Alexander?" he asked, his eyes glued to the floor. His hand rested protectively on his satchel. Alex opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, James bolted out of the door and ran all the way to gym.
Alexander isn't that bad, he thought as he joined the back on the boys' queue, panting a little. The boys at the back, a gaggle of nerdy kids, shuffled forward a bit, not wanting to be associated with the freak. True, Alex had instigated the Mad Hatter insult, but he wasn't homophobic. Everyone knew that John Laurens and Hamilton were totally doing it, but no-one questioned it. They both relatively popular, so everyone overlooked it. James didn't have such luck.
They filed inside, and as James was about to enter the toilet stall to change (the other boys claimed that they didn't want him 'perving' on them) he felt a hard shove on his back. Stumbling forward, he nervously turned around to see who had pushed him. He groaned a little when he saw John Adams, Charles Lee and... his heart skipped a beat as he lay eyes on Thomas Jefferson. He was wearing a tight magenta t-shirt, which showed off his muscles perfectly, and his hair brushed his face, framing his sleek yet slightly bulky black glasses. James could've sworn that he flashed him a pearly-white smile, but it was probably a grimance.
"Hey, freak," Lee sneered. "Get some last night, did you?"
"No," James replied in a timid voice, unable to take his eyes off of Thomas.
"Ewwwwww!!" Adams suddenly squealed, taking an exaggerated step backwards. "The fag is checking out Tommy!"
The whole locker room seemed to burst out in screams of laughter, and Thomas' face flushed as he looked downwards. James felt tears come to his eyes.
"Awwww, is the babba gonna cry?" Lee cooed cruelly. "Poor creepy babba!"
"Can we go?" Thomas asked quietly, his Southern lilt thick. His voice was like music to James' ears, but he still hurried into his stall, locking the door firmly. Even inside here, where he felt relatively safe, he could here them making fun of him. He got changed into his old grey joggers and the red school t-shirt, lingering until it sounded like everyone had gone. Stepping out, he suppressed a groan when he saw Mr Washington standing there, arms folded over his chest.
"You can take those off," he said, motioning to the joggers. James trudged back to the stall, slowly changing into the shorts and pulling up the black socks as far as they would go to hide the cuts. He checked them quickly before pulling the socks over them. They were red, swollen and hot to the touch, clearly becoming infected. He came back out of the changing room, and followed Washington to the sports hall.
They were doing dodgeball today, one of James' most hated sports. He was always last to be picked, and everyone aimed for him, even his own team. Washington had them running around the hall to warm up, and James was so absorbed in thinking about Thomas and his mother and the overdue bills that he didn't realise that his socks had pulled down, revealing the cuts, until Charles Lee announced it to everyone.
"Look, the freak cuts himself!" he shrieked, pointing directly at James as if no-one knew who he was talking about. James swivelled around, his face as pale as it could go, trembling like a leaf. Washington was giving him a sympathetic look, but everyone else was laughing, or at the very least giggling. Lee continued to jeer until Washington bellowed:
"Drop it, Charles!"
Lee fell silent, but James, who had been frozen in one spot, had regained control of his muscles and sprinted out of the hall, into the bathroom stall in the changing rooms, out of sight, away from the cruel, laughing people that hated him so much...
Hot tears slid down his face as he slumped in the stall, his hands obsessively scratching at the inflamed cuts. He heard the door open softly, and someone pad over to the toilet stall, knocking on the door.
"Go away!" he yelled hoarsely, curling into a ball.
"I'm not going away, son," Washington's voice came. It was softer than James had ever heard, and it somehow reminded him of his father, who had died just 3 years ago. He sobbed harder at the memories of his happy family, before his mother was an alcoholic and he was a stressed 16-year-old on the border of madness.
"I'm not coming out," he found himself saying. "Not with them near."
"They're not here," Washington replied. "It's just me, James."
"It's Madison."
"I'm sorry?"
"Not James. Madison. Mad Hatter. Freak. Fag. Take your pick."
Washington gasped quietly as James drove his fist into his stomach, whimpering at the pain despite himself.
"You need to come out at some point."
James flicked the lock, walking out suddenly. His face was tear-stained, and he glared at Washington with a passion.
"Happy?" he hissed. "Now, I'm getting changed and going to English."
And he pushed past Washington to grab his clothes.
888888
English was disastrous, to say the least. Rumours flew around like jumbo jets, and everyone seemed to know about James'... um... issue. There was no to the stares, the strange looks, the judging eyes.
"Lee says he cuts himself..."
"On the back of the knees! He can't even cut himself like a normal person..."
"Ran to the changing rooms, the wimp..."
"I heard he yelled at Mr Washington..."
Mrs Washington (Mr Washington's wife) shot him a pitying look as soon as he walked in, but he ignored her as he took up his regular seat at the back. The rest of the class filed in, whispering to each other.
James was fond of Martha Washington, and she was fond of him. She treated him like a normal person, and had helped him in more than one sticky situation. She was his mother figure, really, and he felt almost as if he'd let her down.
"Today, you have a paired assignment," she announced at the start of the lesson. Many peoples' faces split into evil grins. "I have picked your partners for you."
Everyone groaned as she began reeling off names. "Thomas Jefferson, you're with James Madison," she said. James could barely contain his excitement as Thomas' friends pretended to throw up, shoving the taller boy towards his partner.
"Hey," Thomas murmured, looking at his fingernails.
"H-hey," James squeaked.
"So what do we have to do?"
James immediately began to ramble on about how they had to take a Shakespeare play and rewrite at least 3 scenes in modern English, and then act it out. Thomas nodded along, not really listening, but as he reached over the desk, he accidently brushed his fingertips against James' shoulder. James froze instantly, watching in horror as Thomas pulled out a portable hand sanitiser and squeezed the gel onto his hand, disinfecting the entire area of skin that had touched James. At that moment, James knew that he was going to have to do it.
After leaving class, he went to his toilet stall and didn't leave until the bell signalled the end of the day.
888888
After school, he headed to the shady back alley near his house, where he knew all the drug dealers hung about, waiting for business. He could feel the $50 he'd been hiding in his locker for the last month or so in his pocket as he slipped into the alleyway. Instantly, 3 scruffy men emerged from the shadows; one of them held a gun.
"Whaddya want, kid?" the one with the gun said gruffly, waving the weapon threateningly. "Pot? Coke? Make it quick, we ain't got all day, 'ave we?"
"20 Vicodin, please," James said, sounding much braver than he felt. The men exchanged a few strange looks, but threw him an orange bottle, which he caught with some trouble.
"25 bucks, buddy," another growled, and the gun was waved at him again. He shoved $30 into one of the outstretched hands.
"Keep the change," he murmured, heading home.
Once inside, he didn't bother to lock the door. No-one at school knew his address, and his mother would be too drunk to remember how to use a key when she got back. It was Happy Night at the bar, she wouldn't be back until midnight at the very least. Everything was set, everything was ready. All he had to do was do it.
Before he started, he grabbed some paper, the back of a bill, and scribbled a quick note.
Mum, it's not your fault. Look after yourself.
Thomas Jefferson. I know you probably hate me, but I just want to let you know that I love you with all my heart.
No-one will see this, most likely. I have my reasons for this.
Goodbye
James Madison
Unscrewing the bottle, he eyed the small white pills. Would this really work? Reassuring himself that it would and reminding himself that this was the best thing to do, he tipped the bottle into his mouth, swallowing the pills with a gulp of vodka from the open bottle on the makeshift coffee table (a milk crate). Already feeling woozy, he staggered to the kitchen, seizing a knife. He sat cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor, and plunged the knife deep into his wrist. He watched in fascination as the blood ran down his arm and dropped onto the carpet, joining the plethora of stains.
His last thought was of Thomas before he felt himself falling backwards and the world turned black.
Meanwhile...
Thomas walked up the third flight of stairs, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He'd bugged Charles Lee and managed to get Madison's address. Something felt terribly wrong to Thomas, and he wanted to make sure. No-one needed to know, right? He knocked when he found the right number. No answer.
"Hey, James, I-" he said as he opened the door to Madison's flat, but it was cut off by a scream when he saw James' limp body. He was soaked in blood, and when Thomas ran over and felt his pulse, it was weak and thready. Whipping out his phone, he dialled 911 as he applied pressure to the deep cut on James' wrist and studied the discarded pill bottle on the floor.
"911, what's your-"
"Help, please, I think my friend tried to kill himself!" Thomas shrieked, starting to panic. Think? He knew damn well what James had intended to do. "He-he cut his wrist really deep and took a whole bottle of Vicodin, about 20. The address is 51 Independence."
"Stay calm, sir," the operator said. "Is he breathing?"
"Barely. Please send help?"
Thomas wad surprised to find himself crying in anguish. Maybe he was in shock or something.
"Someone's been sent," the woman replied kindly. "Stay with him..."
The paramedics arrived after a few minutes, racing in stabilise James and keep him breathing. One of them put his arm around Thomas, and the Virginian burst into tears, shaking madly.
"He's in shock," the paramedic whispered, leading Thomas to the ambulance, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders and handing him a squishy plastic cup of water.
"He'll be fine," the paramedic reassured him as he took a shaky sip. "You did the right thing."
James was rushed into the ambulance and they sped towards the hospital.
Thomas took out his phone, trembling as he texted his mother.
Thomas: Ma, can you come to the hospital? xx
The response was almost instant.
Mum: OMG WHAT HAPPENED ARE U OKAY?????
Thomas: I'm fine just a bit shaken. U know the Madison boy from school? xx
Mum: Yeah? xx
Thomas: I went round to talk about the English project and he'd tried to kill himself. I'm in the ambulance with him now. He can't afford the bills, can I pay for them? I have like $10,000 in ny account xx
Mum: I'll be right there, of course you can pay the bills, I'll put some money into ur account for it xx
Satisfied, Thomas put his phone as he realised they were at the hospital.
"I think you should read this," one of the other paramedics, a female one this time, said, passing him a note. Thomas read it, and immediately dropped his head into his hands.
"I feel awful," he cried. "If I hadn't-"
"If you hadn't gone round, he'd be dead," she said gently. "He's very lucky; you probably saved his life."
But Thomas wasn't listening as he suddenly realised something.
"I love him too," he proclaimed. "I-I just figured it out."
"You'll have to tell him when he wakes up."
Everybody heard the silent if.
Thomas headed into the lobby, where he saw his mother waiting for him (they lived around the corner, see). She ran straight over to him and tackled him in a hug, only reaching up to his chest. He sobbed into her shoulder, holding her close.
"Oh, baby," she whispered, rubbing his back as she pulled him over to one of the hard plastic chairs, wiping his tears away with a gentle thumb. "Oh, you've got blood on your t-shirt, darling."
He looked down in surprise to see a deep crimson stain on the magenta material, the sight of it bringing back the memory of James lying on the floor, bleeding out onto that dirty carpet... the waterworks started all over again as he shuddered.
"I-I was so scared, Mama," he mumbled as she cupped his face with her hands. "I-I walked i-in and he-he was j-ju-just lying there, b-blood everywhere..."
He couldn't stop stammering, even when he pulled himself over to the receptionist to register James' details. Well, what he knew, anyway.
"Charge it to the Jefferson account," he told the receptionist when they got to the issue of insurance: James had none. He'd managed to speak normally again.
"Where is my son!?" someone suddenly yelled despairingly. Thomas turned to see a thin, dirty-looking woman rush in, looking around wildly. A doctor came out, steering her towards James' room.
"Mrs Madison, come in," he said in a calm manner. "They brought him in a half an hour ago, he lost a lot of blood-"
"Is he alive?"
"Yes. But you have to understand, the pills may have caused a lot of damage-"
"Can I see him, please?" She was almost sobbing.
"I'm doing everything I can, but he's currently being stabilised and asleep. I can't let you in yet."
She spotted Thomas over from the other side of the lobby and rushed over to him, almost knocking him over in a hug.
"You saved my boy," she murmured into his ear, and Thomas was surprised to hear a Virginian twang to her voice. "Bless you, Thomas Jefferson. Bless you."
"I've paid for this," he replied as she pulled away, wiping her eyes. She beamed at him. Thomas' mother joined them, putting her arm around Thomas.
"Mrs Madison, I'm so sorry that we had to meet like this," she said, offering a hand to her. Eleanor took it tentatively. "Jane Jefferson. Thomas told me."
"Eleanor," she said shyly. "Your boy saved mine. I can never repay you."
"You don't have to," Thomas cut in, tucking his hair behind his ear. "I-I'm going to ask him out."
The two women squealed madly, Jane almost suffocating her son with how tight she hugged him. Their conversation was cut off when the doctor came out.
"He's waking up a little," he said. "You can see him."
They all rushed into the room. James was hooked to a million different machines, and there was an oxygen mask over his mouth. His eyes were flickering slightly, and the bandage around his wrist was thick.
"Wake up, baby," Eleanor whispered, clasping James' hand. "Mum's here, darling."
His eyes opened fully, and he looked sadly at her.
"Ma..." he croaked out, tears pouring out of his eyes. "I'm so sorry."
"It's not your fault," she reassured. "There's someone here to talk to you."
She stepped away to let Thomas talk.
"I-I don't know how to say this, so I guess I'll have to do it like this," he said, leaning forward. James pretty much threw the mask off, and their lips crashed together.
James Madison was complete.
Three years later...
"Thomas?" James called nervously. "I did a thing..."
Thomas poked his head around the corner of the door. James could see that he was shirtless.
"Yeah, babe?" he said. James wordlessly lifted his arms to show the new cuts, looked ashamedly at the floor. Thomas came forward and swept him up in a hug, peppering him with kisses.
"It's okay," he whispered. "We can work on it."
James Madison was not a freak.
888888
Hope you enjoyed this angst fest! Please drop a review if you enjoyed!