Greetings to the few people reading this xD

I'm sorry to have once again taken so long to publish.
Good news for you is that I'm now confined and remember that translation exist, so I think I'll just publish one chapter a day or every two days for a while. Maybe I'll even publish more than once a day, dunno.
If someone is motivated to beta read me, I'd really appreciate, cause I'm not always sure whether the words I use sound natural in English, and I might also be mixing US and British English xD

I hope I'll get some feedback from you, but in any case I let you enjoy the chapter.
TW: self harm

When Mrs Winston finally puts me into bed, I wait for a few minutes to be sure she won't come back before letting myself remember. First, I recall my childhood, and my parents, the real ones. They were in love when I was young. They loved me, they loved Jérémie. My brother. Asshole. Asshole. Thinking about him make my thoughts travel into time, skipping at a fast rate the memories of holidays at the beach, camping, summer camps, school, high school. Everything. So fast. And him. So wrong. He even managed to ruin the past. Every second spent with him, even joyful, destroyed by his treason. "You were happy, sure, but see what came next. See.". And I see. I remember. I curl into a bowl. The powerlessness. The incomprehension. Be like paralysed, unable to act nor react. Is it even real? It is, it's too ugly to be a dream. Even if it's surrealist. "Stop. Stop. Stop." Litany trapped in my head that he couldn't hear and that wouldn't have changed a thing. The tears that came eventually, when he went away, when I realized. In my bed in London, I can't catch my breath. I am still scared. I try to bite myself, but my teeth are too young, it doesn't relieve me. I try to hit the wall next to me, but I'm so weak. I'm unable to calm down. I curl up even tighter, I hold myself as tight as possible. I put my head under the pillow to muffle my tears. But I still know how to cry silently. I didn't forget my reflexes. My mind knows what my body hasn't learn yet.

I remember. The loneliness, at first. The incomprehension. I never talked about what happened with Jérémie, we both pretended nothing had happened. I hated him. Physical contact revolted me. I isolated myself. Above all, I hated myself. I started cutting, it helped calming me down, channelling myself. I was made of ice, acting as if nothing could reach me, as if I didn't need anyone. And actually, nothing was able to reach me, I was way too deep, way to captive inside my pain. And then, six months later, my brother died in a car accident. Common death. And my dad at the burial that didn't want to know anything. He didn't want to listen to me. My parents tore each other apart. My dad left to live far away. Meanwhile, the countless marks on my arms, my legs, my belly, were always more and always deeper. It was fine for me. It was my way to stand my ground, and to pay.

But then, I met Quentin. Thinking about him makes me forget about the rest to open an enormous hole in my chest. As if there was nothing. So empty! I'm running out of air. He did everything he could to help me. He took time, he learnt everything about me. He let me walk at my own pace. He took care of me. And I died! I've lost him. I loved him so much. The pain, the pain is always there. Why would he have kept worrying about me? I was a weight. He had to be happy. I should have died. Fuck, why am I still alive? Why? Why...
I needed him, I called him before doing it, killing myself. But he couldn't take care of me. It was right to swallow the poison. I did well jumping off that roof. I did well getting him rid of me. He can be happy now. He can be free. And I have to mare sure to die for real. I have to inform myself. I'll find the answers. I'm not able to focus right now, everything is too painful. I need to cut. It'll be fine afterwards.

I get up. I try to move towards the bathroom, but I'm not very discreet, in my young body. Yet I reach my goal without waking anyone up. I think shortly and turn around. I sneak into my father's office and climb his desk with the help of his chair. I find his cutter. I look for the spare blades. Taking the cutter would be too visible. I eventually find them and try to let everything in the same state I found it. I get some tissues before finally heading back to my room. I can't contain myself any more. I take the blade and rapidly draw fire lines on my arms with my clumsy hands. Again. Again. Again. The pain releases me. The pain burns me. But the pain is vital to me. I calm down pretty fast however, it's like getting out of the fog. I'm supposed to be a three years old! How the hell will I hide this?

xxx

« Certains paradis sont des mirages
Parfois tu te perds au détour d'un virage
Tu ne reconnais plus ton propre visage
Tu te retournes pour observer ton sillage

Quand ai-je donc perdu ma voie ?
 Pourquoi fallait il que je me confie à toi ?
J'aurais mieux fait de suivre ma loi
 Plutôt que d'écouter l'espoir auquel tu crois »

x

"Some paradises are mirage
Sometimes you get lost in the curve of a turn
You can't recognize your own face any more
You turn back to observe your trail

When have I lost my way?
 Why did I need to confide in you?
 I should have rather followed my law
Instead of listening to hope you believe into"

-SMS sent by Aurore Berger to Quentin Lemage on the fifth of August 2006-

At least if I really rush the translations, you should finally see her interact with other human beings relatively soon, and also see that it's really a HP fic, cause for now I know it's not obvious.

See you and stay safe,

Kuro