Dear Diary.
It hurts.
Bloody hell, it hurts.
It hurts to move. It hurts to breath. It hurts to think. I feel like every freaking atom in my body is a different, painful wound. I want to die. I want to just lie here, quietly, emptying my head of all thoughts forever more.
I want to never see his face again.
Why? Why did she have to marry him?
I guess it's kind of weird for a guy to write a diary. Maybe I shouldn't call it a diary. A journal. That's more like it. Or just a plain notebook that I am doodling on in my intense pain, trying to forget I just got beat up by my own step father for the who knows what time.
Darn. Why did I remind myself?
My brain must not be working properly. Maybe I should rest.
Ok. Scratch that. I can't bring myself to get on the bed. I was barley able to get this stupid book opened again. And the pen to move. Bah. I fell pathetic.
Not a good feeling.
So.
In my boredom I will squiggle a bunch of lines. No, not a poem. I hate poems. They're so confusing. I'll just… remind myself who I am.
Which is kind of strange, because there is no sign of amnesia in my family. Some of my uncles got their memory erased with a spell, though. I hope I will ine will be erased one day, too. Not only will that give a point to witting this so-called 'journal', (which is not very enjoyable with my fingers leaving blood marks all over the paper), but it will also help me forget these horrible last few weeks.
So here we go.
I am going to write about myself. Spill my soul through this blood stained quill and write a full-blown story about the life of… me.
something now male should ever be forced to do.
Here we go.
Right now.
Just let me think for a sec.
All right, let's start from the basics. My name is James Potter. Actually, my name is now officially James Laurence. But I do not, (repeat) DO NOT recognize my self as such. I was born James Potter, and I will remain a Potter for the rest of my life, and I don't care who my mum marries. She can marry Voldemort himself if she wishes it. I don't think she does, but I also thought she loved dad, and will continue to love him even after his death. But no. She went and got herself a new husband. And- oh, joy! He's a drunk!
A violent drunk, as it is.
Bah.
Ok, back to me. I'll be 16 years old in a few days, August 31st. that's only one day before I get away from this damp. Thank Merlin. I will be attending Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. Obviously, I'll be doing the wizardry part. I'm no witch, thank you very much. I hope I can snick a visit to Diagon Alley before boarding the train. I didn't have any time to get my supplies this summer. Although getting a detention on the first day of the term will make Padfoot droll with envy, I don't intend my 'dad' to get 'upset' with me so early this year. He, being my legal guardian, will be able to get me out of class. Which is not a good thing; because I'll be gasping for breath while receiving deadly kicks, shouts, and spells instead of enjoying the free time.
Not so pleasant.
Grr. Something just fell on my leg. PAINFULLY. I think it's a book. Can't master enough strength to raise one self's head and actually check. If I had a wand, I'll be able o conjure a mirror and see behind my back. Or not. I am currently spread on the floor in a pool of my own (unpleasantly smelling, if you know what I mean) blood, marvelous hair soaked with the disgusting substance, head resting on stone floor, writing in this bloody (literally) book. Why? Good question. I am probably just killing myself here, wasting energy I no longer posses.
I used to have enough energy to jump off walls. Play Quidditch twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 325 days a year. Not including, of course, detention hours I would have gotten for exceeded pranking with my fellow marauders. Or stalking Lily Evans. Or fighting with Slytherins.
That isn't what's important anymore. Now I know life isn't all about having fun. Life is a cruel place where fathers beat their stepsons and mothers don't care. Where Death eaters roam free, killing innocent people on the way. Where the ministry of magic is helpless against the growing threat that is Voldemort. Where the hope of the magical community is dieing off, one dead friend, relative, or neighbor at a time.
I have grown up this summer. I can feel it in my beaten veins. It toke a drunken new father and more then a few injuries to get it through my thick skull that people are actually dieing out there. It took my dad's death for me to realize what agony people are going through, day by day. It took long sleepless nights of blood lose for me to understand what pain the dieing are feeling every day.
I feel like I just came out of a story. I finally closed the book, and, looking around me, came back into the real world, for the first time in my life.
I do not like what I found out here. But I'm glad I found it.
Because now, I have the ability to deal with it. To make it stop.
Once and for all.
So no one will ever again have to go through
That would be the first chapter.
Hope you enjoyed.