The unsent letters of convicted double murderer Harry Styles, explaining why he ended up buried in a world of broken dreams. What happened to innocent till proven guilty?
( cover design: @crescend )
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day 9➜ a letter to someone I wish I could meet
Dear Mike,
In prison, my hair's been growing like mad. Although I did need a haircut before I came in, now it's just ridiculous, it's past my shoulders!
It reminds me of all the times you'd cut my hair at Aldertree when I refused to go the barbers like everyone else. Now I think about it... dang, I was trouble.
"Harry! You need a haircut, come on. Everyone's already gone with Shelley, I told her I'd get you done today." You told me and I grimaced, I really hated going there and if there was a way to delay, I was going to find and I did.
"No! I don't want some stranger's hands chopping off my hair!" I exclaimed stomping my right foot on the ground and crossing my arms, defensively.
"What about if I do it?" You offered and my arms dropped to their sides.
"Really?" I asked, my eyes dancing with triumph and a smirk setting on my face.
"Yes really. Now, will you let me cut your hair? It's only a trim, Harry. You have terrible split ends," you chuckled grabbing the ends of my hair and shaking.
"Okay, Mike," I said, giving in and you motioned to the chair, by the island in the kitchen. I sat in it while you went to get the things you needed.
You were standing behind me, after putting your comb and scissors on the island in front of me you started to grab my hair, "let's have a nice catch up chat 'n' cut, eh, Harry?"
"Great," I said slowly and you laughed.
"So Harry, how's school?" You asked and I shrugged my shoulders, at the time school was... painful, but it had recently become not-so-gloomy since I met Christine in the library that day.
"You ask me that every day. There's no school today. It's Saturday," I say dodging your question as I hear the 'snip, snip' of your scissors.
"I know that silly. Got any homework?" You asked as you glided the small toothed wide black comb through my hair.
"Yeah, I have to write an essay about 'Of Mice and Men' for English," I said with a sigh.
I remember the Friday Mr Micheals set it so well. It was terrible. I really disliked the novella, because teachers year after year wouldn't stop going on about it. Then Micheals told us it would be on our GCSE syllabus for English Lit and Language in Year 10 and 11. The whole class groaned, as did I. Three years. Three years I'd have to write about Curly's wife and her stupid red dress and Lennie's child-like manner and that godforsaken American Dream. It was endless.
"Ah, I hated that book," you said with a slightly annoyed tone. Every time I heard you speak like that made me wonder what you were like when you were younger. I'd guess but I could never quite come up with a solid theory. You just had so many sides, Mike.
