Violence, gore etc in this post. Be warned.
I’ve written enough of these journals to know by now I have issues. Of course I do. Maybe they’ve grown worse over the years I can’t be entirely sure. They’ve always seemed to be there. I re-read these from time to time. Watch my mind progress deeper into the realms of what must be inherent madness. It seems to be my companion now. Although it’s always been my companion, I just didn’t realise that until I came here. Until I saw all these other people, all these happy people and I wondered – How can they be so happy? So content with their lives. Isn’t it unfair? To be a person who suffers so often, to be thrown into a pool of people so blissfully unaware of what people here go through?
People see me as Pureblood supremacist – sure I suppose I am. Do they bother to learn the reasons? No. Do I want them to bother to learn the reasons – Simple answer. No. I see the way people look at me in the corridors, feel their glares behind my back. I act like I don’t care, like I couldn’t give a damn. No one’s noticed, not a single person just quite how insane I might have become – because you need to be insane to deal with my world. Most of these fools wouldn’t survive a day in my shoes. Every morning a new howler. I’ve ended up getting up earlier just to avoid the Owl Post. To avoid having a howler dropped in my hands in front of the entire school. To avoid them learning what my secret is. The secret that I currently hide behind my scarfs, behind these ascots, the collars. The reason when even in summer, I continue to wear shirts rather than T-shirts unless I’m a hundred percent I won’t be found.
The truth would make them all pity me. I don’t want their pity. Pity is for the weak and I . . . Evan Rosier am not weak. They can go on with their lives unaware of what might be going on in my head. Behind the scowls, the disdainful looks – They assume I hate them. In a way I do. In other ways it’s not hate. It’s bitterness. All these people, they go home during holidays to families that . . . look after them. Give them time, actually give a damn.
However, that isn’t what I’m going to write about. . . Well in a way it is. It’s more the result of what I’ve had done to me. The effects it’s had. The fact that every night I can’t sleep without the help of a potion, or a drink so strong it’d probably knock out a hippogriff for an hour or so. They wonder why I drink well here’s the reason. . . This summer I was nearly murdered by my own father.
My own blood, tried to murder me in the dead of night – an interesting phrase that. Dead of night. That could’ve been me and none of these people would know. Hogwarts would receive a letter informing them of my transferal to Durmstrang. Little would anyone realise the truth. He’d probably end up taking my cold corpse to a pyre and burn it there. Maybe he wouldn’t even give me that respect. I know he wouldn’t inform anyone, I’ve taken steps in case that happens but they wouldn’t find me. Better they think I just left without giving a damn about them than know the truth right? I’m the heartless bastard. The one that had no respect for life and all things in it. That would spare them the misery. . . Although I sometimes doubt anyone except Emma would really give a damn that I was dead even if they knew.
Again I’ve digressed. I suppose I just don’t know how to explain what happens to me. Why I take such measures to make sure I sleep at night. They rarely work. The events occur as follows:
It begins on a late summer day, the sun disappearing down over the trees of the forest near my childhood mansion. My father, sister and I are stood on the lawn. Charlotte is stood opposite my father and I – she’s only ten and I six. She’d thought maybe she could escape, she should’ve known better. I tried to tell her. Oh how I tried. My father’s voice echoes through my mind, cold and calculating. His wand is pointed at my back I know what he wants me to do. Charlotte was a loose end. Loose ends had to be sorted before they unravelled. My great grandfather gave me this particular wand, it somehow felt foreign in my hand the wood aged over time and yet somehow the power held within seemed to seep into my veins. My father had taught me all about the three curses that mattered. I was currently debating turning and using this particular one on him but I knew he’d kill me first. My hand shook as I looked at Charlotte – my sister stood in front of me crying. Pleading. Begging that I didn’t listen to him.
“Do it. I’ve taught you the curse. I’ve made you practice it. You know what to do.” He encouraged leaning down to speak in my ear. Again my hand shook as the wand levelled at her. The next events are vivid, a flash of silver I feel myself being grabbed by the collar being dragged over to Charlotte. I’m terrified, I remember the fear and before I know it I have a dagger in my hand – befitting really. He’s gripping my hand and drawing it up to her neck. . . That scream will always haunt me. That was the first human blood I shed. No one can know. . . How can I explain I murdered my kin. . . Sure he forced me to, made my hand move. . . But somewhere deep down I gained a twisted sense of satisfaction. . . Maybe now he’d be proud of me. . . But no.
Yet I don’t wake. The scenes diminish.
This time I’ve had my power taken from me. I’m nothing. I’m a Muggle. . . I’m filth and an outcast because my magic was stolen. Emma looks at me with such hatred I never realised she could manage and it hurts. I don’t even know why. Why should I care what Emma thinks of me. Maybe the fact that even my best friend. . . My only real friend hates me. Maybe that’s why. I can’t be sure. They all laugh. Again the scene shifts, papers printed about the disgraced heir being killed by a ‘freak accident’ after losing all his powers. He died a ridicule, a laughing stock. No one mourns his death, instead they laugh and make a mockery. . . Evan what’s his name. Rose something? Well he won’t be rising any time soon the freak deserved to die.
Usually that’s where it stops. But lately they continue. They’ve grown worse. Every night after experiencing the death of my sister. . . The ridicule of a disgraced version of myself.
This time I’m at home. In my bed, after my summer with Emma. I usually lie awake – that night was no different. The grandfather clock chimed twelve times signalling midnight. I swear the shadows were moving that night. Alive. Hunting something. . . Hunting me. A creak of a floorboard somewhere in the house causes my eyes to flicker around the familiar room. And then his eyes. . . Cold, murderous filled with a hate I never knew a person could be capable of. . . He attacked without warning or hesitation. I still feel his fingers wrapping around my neck nails digging into my flesh. . . He brings the dagger down and I recognise it – the same blade he used to make me murder my sister. Ironic how he was trying to do this to me now. . . I tried to fight, the blade caught my neck once before I fought him back. The book cases toppled, glasses smashed. My father was stronger, overpowering me again far too easily. . . A second attempt. The blade caught and I remember the howl of outrage and agony mingling together. A sharp knee to his gut he was off. . . It wouldn’t last long. Grabbing my wand I ran, ran to the one place I knew I could always go – the small alcove in the basement. Usually here I kept my stash of potions. Things that had saved my life on numerous occasions. Although this time there was nothing. Just an empty space. . . I end up dying there. . . Beside a dusty alcove. And then I wake up in a cold sweat. . . I never wake up before then. I always wake up precisely after I see the life leave my eyes and the blood pool around my body.
It’s become a habit I sleep with a dagger now. . . It just seems customary. Usually I slip out of the castle. I never spend the entire night in the dorms. No one notices. I go and spend the night sat on the end of the pier when the nightmares strike. So far it happens about four times a week but it’s gradually increasing. . .
Maybe it’s a sign I’ve finally lost it. I don’t know.
I’m not scared anymore. I accept what happens. I accept that I die. Death is a thing that comes for all of us. Why should I be special and live? I don’t deserve any kind of special treatment. . .
And he accepts that he is mad.
