Sincerely, Harry || Homicidal Prequel

Entry 18

Dear diary,

I had another successful night in my newfound solo sex life. Talked about it with my therapist, made a new plan, and now I'm okay with it. Sometimes it triggers shit that happened between Dustin and I, but I'm mostly okay.

She asked: “How do you feel about yourself? Now that you've discovered something different about yourself, do you feel better or worse?”

“Better,” I answered. “I like myself a little more. Not a whole lot, but a little.”

“What do you want to see yourself in four months, when you're released?” she asked next.

“Happy.” I paused to let out a snort. “I doubt that'll happen, because there's still so much going on. My brain feels so cluttered most of the time. It's so difficult to be alone because it's just me and my thoughts, and they're so jumbled that it's hard to make sense of anything. I don't like being alone.”

“Even though it's scary, being alone can be a good thing,” my therapist said. “You have to be comfortable in your own skin before you can be with anyone else. We're going to get you okay. Here,—” She handed me a piece of blank paper and a pen— “draw me your family.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“Just do it,” she responded.

I sighed and pressed the tip of the pen to the paper. I drew stick figures, labelled each one, and handed the page back to my therapist. She examined a moment before she spoke to me again.

“Why is your mother so far away from you and your sister? And how come you drew your father so far back?” she asked.

I shrugged, but I look down at the paper again. I hadn't realized that I had drawn my family that way, but when I saw her observations with my own eyes, my gaze dropped to the floor. I've never been very good with expressing my emotions, so I just sat there playing with my fingers.

“Hmm?” My therapist hummed to encourage me, reaching out to touch my hand.

“I don't know,” I said.

“I think you do,” she replied. My therapist says this to me quite often.

“I mean, my dad is dead. I don't know him other than a few sketchy memories. And my mum abandoned me, so.” I stopped and looked at my therapist, my lip sucked in between my teeth. This, besides chewing my finger nails, is a bad nervous habit of mine.

“You're touching your sister's hand in this picture.” She pointed out. “How do you feel about her?”

“She cooked for me, did my laundry, helped with my homework, tucked me in at night. Everything my mum was supposed to do. She was my everything,” I told my therapist. “I hate her a little bit. I don't like that she gave me up for sex with guys at her school. I was supposed to be enough for her. She told me that we'd run away when I turned eighteen, make a life for ourselves, get hitched and live in neighboring houses, but she just tossed me to the side. She forgot about everything we planned and she made me feel alone and hated. I just—if I were a better brother, I feel like she wouldn't have given up on me.”

“It isn't your fault, Harry,” my therapist responded. “Nothing you could have done would have stopped your sister from making the choices she made. You might have been able to influence her, but that being said, you cannot control her.”

“I know,” I murmured. “But it's easier to blame myself.”

“Why?” she inquired.

“Because she's my sister, and I don't like seeing her as someone who could just toss me aside when someone else came along,” I answered. “It was supposed to be Gemma and I against the world. She was so perfect before sex became her reality. She loved me, she protected me. She's not a bad person, I swear.”

My therapist smiled sadly. “She's not a bad person, but she did make some bad decisions, and you need to acknowledge them. If you can accept that she has flaws, I know that this healing process will be so much easier.”

“I know that she has flaws. It's just that I wish she didn't,” I said.

“Every person has flaws, Harry. We weren't designed to be perfect. As a whole, humans have made a lot of mistakes, but a lot of good has come from them,” she replied. “As difficult as this is, something good is going to come from all of it. What do you want to take away from this?”

I have never been good at answering questions on the spot, so I told her I didn't know, but she wouldn't let me get away with it. She told me to think about it, and then to answer. So I thought about it.

I said: “I want to stop being so angry.”

“Who are you angry at? Your mum, or yourself?” my therapist asked.

“Oh. Bit of both. I'm angry that my mum let my mistakes come between us, that she abandoned me. But I'm also mad at myself, because I killed someone and it made my mum hate me,” I responded.

“It's not your fault. It hurts that she hasn't tried to make contact with you, I know that, but it is not your fault. She made the decision, and you cannot control her. It's the same with Gemma, too,” my therapist told me.

I looked at the floor and said: “I don't want to talk anymore. I'm tired.”

“Okay. We'll just continue this next Wednesday,” she replied. “This isn't going to go away, Harry. It's okay to talk about this stuff. It's okay to feel hurt and angry and confused, or anything you might be feeling. I want you to be able to let go of everything that's hurting you.”

I snorted. “Good luck, because I'm sure this is going to take more than some therapist telling me what I should do.”

My therapist closed my file and called for Mrs. Emmerson, and she took me back to my room. I have two more days until my appointment. I'm not looking forward to it.

Sincerely,

Harry.