Psychotherapy || HS

Two

HELLINGLY ASYLUM

Maximum Security Ward for the Criminally Insane

SESSION TWO

 

Harry wore the same dull and dark blue jumpsuit the next Tuesday-the day he fucking hated. He even smiled the same smile when he sat down and the cuffs were removed. "Destroyers of true art. The world is better off without them." I instantly knew he was speaking of his victims, all dying at the hands of Harry Styles. Lured in by his seemingly nice demeanor and handsomeness, the women and occasional men weren't asking for death, but walked into it nonetheless. Complete lack of remorse and guilt. Sociopath.

I remembered his last monstrosity all too well. I'd been drinking tea on the morning of February twenty-first. There was crisp dew on the front lawn and my best friend had stayed over to discuss how hard work was, and also the fact that we were too young to be complaining about work. The news anchor brought on the sad news that a young girl, fifteen and scared, was found dead outside her home. Her body was left on the front porch with the well known handwriting of Harry Styles on a note that was placed inside an envelope and folded to make a swan read: She wasn't pure. She wasn't getting into Heaven, anyway.

 

The mother cried, the father cried, everyone was just crying. I never thought I'd been given the disturbing opportunity to sit across from a serial murderer and rapist. "Let's talk about your sister, Mr. Styles." I looked at him.

 

"Don't call me that." His teeth gritted and I continued on.

 

"You tried killed her first, didn't you?"

 

He nodded and suddenly seemed to open up. "I feel like there's nothing worse than having a family disappointed in you and watching you in court after being found guilty. So, I had to get rid of her. I, uh," he chuckled sourly, "I tried to do it while she was in the shower. I remember she had some shitty band playing in the background while she sang. And, God, was her body hot. I opened the curtain. She tried to scream, but-"

 

He stuck his hands in the air, as if reenacting, and gritted his teeth, "I wrapped my hands around her neck while I fucked her. She wasn't a virgin. I remember the night she came in crying because she didn't want to have sex with her boyfriend, but did anyway. They broke up the next day. Anyway, she felt so good."

 

I couldn't do anything but to listen to the disgusting details. The conversation drifted from his sister to the attempted murder of his whole family. "She waxes, in case you wanted to know. She was so tight. And I was choking her, because I knew she wanted it, too. She looked at me with fear and lust, she wanted me." Delusional. "My father came into the bathroom after I was done fucking her, in the middle of slitting her throat open. I cut his wrist and ran to my mother's room with his screams in the background. She almost looked beautiful in her sleep. She almost didn't survive. I think I even saw the bruises around her throat when I went to court."

 

"Do you feel sorry for what you did?"

 

"Sorry? No. No, of course not." He shifted in his seat. "I mean, I feel somewhat sorry for my mother, yes. I should be thankful for her, shouldn't I? She gave birth to such a wonderful person. Not my sister, in case you had those sarcastic thoughts in your mind. But me. Me. I'm so lucky to have her." I didn't speak, waiting for him to say something. "Have you ever heard the saying, 'If someone dies for another good person to live, you've accomplished something,' or something along those lines?" I shook my head. "Well, I mean, even though I didn't kill her physically, I killed her emotionally. She can't trust anyone anymore. She died so I could be a better person. Isn't that great?"

 

At this point, I wasn't sure what the future held for Harry and I as patient and therapist. My mind had yet to wrap around the fact that he'd raped his own sister. It was a surprise his whole family made it out alive, but I feared that not even intense counseling could bring the spark that might've never been ignited in the Styles family. The next moment, Harry flew into unjustifiable rage. He yanked one of my paintings from the wall, and I didn't stop him. The glass around the picture shattered and he dug his nails into the paper that held the artwork.

 

A couple hundred down the drain to satisfy an angry patient. Guards came in through the door after hearing his yelling, but I dismissed them and sat back in my seat, watching the anger pour out. Maybe it was sudden guilt, or just plain anger that he actually hadn't finished what he'd started. Either way, whatever was going on in Harry Styles' head was pissing him off. The casual brutality blew a chill down my back and I wondered if he even considered how much damage he was doing to a single painting. A murderer has to take his anger out on something when he can't kill, I suppose.

 

Once the anger subsided, he sighed, blowing the hair from his face and taking his seat. "Do you feel any better?"

 

My question first posed as a threat to the man, but he looked up and nodded. "I don't have anyone to take my anger out on."

 

"Use words, not your hands. Fighting is done better with words, not your hands. Your wrists will get tired, but your words won't."

 

"Don't get poetic on me, I'm not fighting a social justice. I'm fighting the urge of wanting to kill someone."

 

I cocked my head to the side. "And why's that? Why don't you want to kill anymore?"

 

"I didn't say that, don't twist my words, that got me in a lot of shit."

 

"Okay, what did you mean then, please elaborate." He sucked through his teeth, making an air mixed with saliva sound and I slightly shivered. I'd become accustomed with insane men and women that wandered through my door daily, but I'd never met one like Harry Styles. So introverted, yet too open with others. Bipolar disorder is a definite maybe.

 

He sighed and rushed his right hand-oh, look at that, he's right handed?-through his hair that'd been tousled in his anger tantrum. "You're the only person in the room. I could easily wrap my hands around your throat. Or grab one of those trophies and beat you. I could even, ironically, perform a lobotomy with the corner of your college degree's frame, because, you know, knowledge is power." Harry took his seat and stared deeply into my eyes. "But I can't, nor will I. I think I somewhat respect you, Sophia. You've managed to live through two sessions with me. Not even Bing could do it without calling a guard to make sure I was clean."

He sat back on the couch and said, "I guess they did give me the best-what I deserve."

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it's lunch time and i'm being harrassed by my friend in english while pretending to finish this essay that i finished yesterday... i just needed to update lol

i love you and stay in school kids... help me