Sincerely, Harry || Homicidal Prequel

Entry 21

Dear diary,

The meeting with the social service worker... What can I say about that? Hah, there's no answer to that question. Nothing good can be said about what went down today. Basically, it called for an emergency two hour therapy appointment.

The social service woman's name is Becky, and she's rude. I thought everyone in the children services was supposed to be so overly friendly that it's suffocating, but not Becky. She's more of a get the job done and worry about feelings later type of person. It's not neccisarily a bad thing, but she's a little cold.

She explained all the legal things to me, and what was expected of me in a foster home. I didn't understand most of what she was telling me, and I think Mrs. Emmerson realized that because she decided to take over after half an hour of Becky's rambling.

Basically, I'm supposed to be kind, and respectful, and I'm not supposed to compare them to my real parents. I have to treat them like Mum and Dad, not a court-ordered placement, and I don't want to. I think adults are incapable of understanding kids' feelings when they're so focused on saving their own asses from the legal system. It makes it hard to respect them.

Becky told me to follow their rules because they have my best interests at heart, and I wanted to laugh. I almost did, but I saw Mrs. Emmerson's pointed look a split second before I did and stayed silent. It's still funny to me, how they're trying to convince me that these people will be a real family when they know damn well no one wants this. Not the foster family, and certaintly not me.

In the therapy appointment, we mainly talked about how I feel about this situation. Therapy is supposed to be finding ways to solve the problems, getting advice on how to fix them. No matter what I do, I can't change this. I get put back in juvie if I don't comply, and I don't want that.

I feel bad for my therapist, because no matter what she says or does, she can't help me fix this. She tries really hard, but we can't get anywhere. Maybe I'm not supposed to get anywhere right now. Maybe it's supposed to hurt untl I turn eighteen and can make my own decisions, until I can move out and make my own life.

I expected this big Light Bulb moment, but I didn't get that. I was sitting in the middle of my therapist's office as she wrote things down and it just came to me. It wasn't magical, it wasn't a moment that made me go I know how to fix myself! It was a moment that made me think I'm starting my journey. I'm starting to realize how to cope.

I explained this to my therapist, and she listened very intently. I like how she listens to me, and doesn't judge me for anything I say. She encourages it, and she makes me feel comfortable with telling her how I feel.

“I'm proud of you,” she said. “This is a big step, and I'm glad you took it.”

I think this is the right time to finally tell you about her. Her name is Linda, and she has big brown eyes and long dark hair. It's always up in a bun, and she wears pencil skirts with matching blazers. She always looks profressional. Her nails are always long and French manicured, she's always wearing these sparkly silver flats, and she always has a warm smile.

She keeps pictures of her kids on her desk. She has twins, a son and a daughter, and they don't look indentical, but they don't look like polar opposites, either. They're somewhere in the middle of identical and fraternal twins. They both have the same gap between their teeth, the same eyes and mouth, but their noses are different. Her daughter has her nose. They look to be around nine to eleven, and they have the same dark hair Linda does. She has beautiful kids.

She doesn't wear wedding rings, and I used to think she was divorced until I saw a photo of her and her boyfriend on her desk with Twelve years! handwritten on the frame. I think this is why she seemed to understand my views on marriage so well, because she too doesn't want it with her boyfriend. Maybe she's been married before and it didn't work, but that isn't important with how wide they're smiling in that photo.

One day I asked her about the picture. She pointed to the waterfall in the background and said: “We were in Niagara Falls without the kids for our twelfth anniversary. That's us at the falls. We had a little cabin up near the falls.”

She didn't say anything else on it because it could have been considered inappropriate. I was touched with the small piece of information she shared with me, and I still am. My therapist—no. I'm not calling her that anymore. From now on, it's Linda, because she deserves to finally have a name is this journal of my messed up thoughts.

I'm going to sleep now. Mrs. Emmerson's request, so I can't argue. I'll write soon.

Sincerely,

Harry.