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Hands.
Teeth.
Wrinkles.
Ribs.
He can count them all with a clarity so unlike how he counts, admires, the stars.
His weary hands are numb from the cold, but Theo doesn’t mind. Nothing can be colder than the feeling in his chest when he sees his classmates’ families sending them off every year at Platform 9 and 3/4. Nothing can be colder than his father, or perhaps his absence.
Mum is dead, and Theo has no one left.
He isn’t even sure if he’s still there. Not really. A red heart thumps from within his ribcage and his hands flip the pages of books, write letters, and bring forkfuls of food to his lips. But he is not truly there.
Theo watches the world through a shattered glass bottle, his body a distorted blur and those around him so much larger— so much more real. Their voices are thick with emotion, or with carefully perfected formalities, but their eyes are vibrant with the movement of life.
Brown eyes are glazed, empty, lost.
His fingers find his ribs again and he pokes the gaps between them, idly wondering what it would feel like to have a knife slotted through his ribcage, splitting his sternum and stabbing into his heart. He shudders, but it’s a feeling of intrigue and loosely detached bliss.
The sound of his heart in his ears would slowly stop until it thumped several times more before falling still.
Theo doesn’t want to die.
But he wants it to be over.
He wants to get out.
The tap spurts cold water from the almost freezing pipes and Theo is sure it is warmer than his own hands. They have turned a harsh purple over the passing moments where he remains stuck— stuck in thought— stuck in motion— stuck in stillness.
Theo is stuck and he wants out.
A monster bubbles beneath his skin, growing heavier and more insistent with every moment. He is the monster, and his body is a prison that leaves him tethered to a life that is not his— a life that is of lies. He is the monster that snaps at his classmates for talking too loudly, thinking too loudly, breathing too loudly. He is the monster that wishes to dive for his father’s jugular like a wild animal. He is the monster that retreats into the shadows to avoid interactions with humans who think him approachable and kind. He is the monster who seeks blood in the dark of the night, wandering the forest with bloodied hands.
His body is tall, where he is so short of everything he wants and everything he needs. Hands that are too large and face that is too small. It is not his body, and he watches with parted interest in how each finger turns only greyer.
Theo does not feel pain.
He wishes he does.
So many days he wishes for the feeling of a knife, the drawing of blood, the bruises of a heavy hand, the ache of hunger, the whine of his slowly dying body. Anything is better than the silence in his mind that pervades all of his existence.
A low drum is like a cacophony in his ears and Theo wants to scream. He wants to open the mouth of the body he inhabits and expel himself from this cavern of heavy claustrophobia and thickly repressed emotions. Theo manages a croak and he sinks to the floor.
Let me out, he bargains.
Let me out, I’ll do anything, he tries again.
Let me out or I’ll tear the world down, he threatens.
Let me out.
Theo has never been so close to shattering and so far from being put together in the first place.
He realizes at some point that his hands are shaking. He doesn’t move. When a house elf pops into the room, it wrings its hands and tugs at its ears before magicking the room warm and the frostbite from his fingers. Theo doesn’t move, but he dimly remembers forming the words “thank you for everything.”
A formality.
His hands are on the windowsill, open once more.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Make. It. Stop.
He jumps, silky curtains fluttering in the wake of the body that has just fallen so many meters. Most witchards bounce, landing softly; Theo’s bones crunch as he crashes into the hard Earth— and he laughs.
Something about this pain is more jarring than anything he has felt before and he lays back in bliss. His heart is still racing in his ribs, but the pain makes it feel so much more free. The erratic thumps behind his ribs are like the footfalls of a swiftly-moving fox, neither the prey nor the predator, but something more sinister and unworldly instead.
Theo laughs until his voice comes out hoarse.
He looks up at the stars, head twisted roughly to the side. They twinkle above him, and Theo counts.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
He counts until his mind fades away and his heart slows enough for the Nott Family Magic to call his aid.
It’s something akin to peace.