The Case of The Colourful Murders

How Mr. Whittemore met Mr. Henderson

                                 How Mr. Whittemore met Mr. Henderson

November 6, 2016

I have been told by my therapist that writing a, for lack of a better term, diary, (I prefer 'journal'. There's something professional about it) might help me turn my mind away from the recent turn of events. Obviously, he has got it wrong, since I have, in fact, not forgotten anything, but am writing about it, but I decided to give it a try and see if it helps. It's not causing any harm in any way. He told me I should write down whatever happens in my daily life, so that I don't feel overwhelmed by too many stressful things in a single day. He says, "You will feel lighter once you've written things down. You'll feel like a weight has been lifted off your chest." Now, my life is not too interesting, and all I might ever write in this diary is me going out to work, grocery shopping, coming back from work, watching Television, falling asleep, and repeating the routine. So, I might as well make things clear as to why I have a therapist. See, I'll be as frank as I can be. I am 25 years old, was a paramedic, my twin sister has recently been hospitalized due to alcohol poisoning, both of my parents died 8 months ago, and I was one of the very few lucky survivors of an aeroplane crash, which occurred 6 months ago. I am mentally injured from that experience, and now have a PTSD of anything on which you fly. I'm physically injured, seeing as I lost my left arm (I was fortunate enough to have lost only my left hand. It could have been worse, I am right-handed) and have a prosthetic arm. I am not yet used to moving it and making it act to my accordance, but I am slowly and surely learning. It's only been half a year anyways. As for my sister, she was always an alcoholic, but I never thought she would get so inebriated that she would have to be hospitalized. It only happened a week ago, and she is doing slightly better. Her love for alcohol was why we had fallen out. We barely saw each other, or even talked on the phone or chat. She lived in a crappy place in London with her husband, who cared for her a lot and always tried to make her leave it, but after some time, she would catch that habit again. This is all I can think of right now, my life has not been the best for some time.

Sighing as he looked at the page on which he wrote those things down, Jonathan Whittemore finally acknowledged for the first time just how trying life was, for him. If he looked at things the way he wrote them down, of course it seemed too much. But all this time, he had just taken whatever life threw at him, with a smile. Since he was so badly injured that he lost an arm and had gotten a prosthetic a month later, he could no longer work as a paramedic. It was unfortunate. His work was the only thing positive in his life after his parents' death. At least he could look forward to something, something that would keep him from depressing thoughts. Cue the crash and his sister after that, and there you go, you get a destroyed man. He was surprised how he handled all that until this moment, when he broke down into violent sobs, which wracked his entire figure. He shuddered violently and wiped his eyes.

He looked at his diary entry and saw that he was so confused as to what to write, that he messed up the order in which he wrote the events. His parents' death occurred first, which was the first straw, the crash came next, the second and half straw, and his sister's hospitalization, the last half straw. Straws to what, you ask? Those were the straws to him losing hope.

It wasn't these three single events that made him lose all hope, no. He was a very sad kid. He was always sad. Kids wouldn't befriend him because he would act mature, adults didn't like him because he didn't behave like a child. In fact, his aunt Julia once said to his mother, "Perry, I don't like his grown-up attitude. He barely talks, it's rude to his peers. And when he does open his mouth, he speaks like an adult. It's like he makes fun of us." It wasn't true. He barely spoke to his peers in fear of coming off as rude, not knowing it was apparently rude to not speak to them. And he never meant to make fun of adults, he just had an extensive vocabulary as compared to kids his age (result of him reading too many books). When he was a teenager, he was bullied for being a 'nerd', and when he became an adult, he was a lone one. So, his life was always very sad and dull, and he hoped that when he grew up, it would all change magically, like in fairy tales, but life wasn't a fairy tale after all.