Sincerely, Harry || Homicidal Prequel

Entry 15

Dear diary,

I'm sorry that it's been so long since I've last written. What is it now, three weeks? Well. I just haven't been feeling up to writing. My therapist said a break can be good, but she encouraged me to continue writing again, so here I am.

I've had a lot of insightful conversations with her the past few weeks. I only have six months left in West Rock, so she says that we need to make a lot of progress, more than we have so far. I know that she wants me to open up about how that night with Dustin makes me feel, but I can never find the words.

I try. Just last week, I made some progress, but I ended up stuttering and getting all emotional, so I stopped. Here, let me right our conversation down.

She had asked: “So, how about we back pedal today? Tell me how you felt the night of Dustin's death.”

I said: “When I looked down and saw him dying from my hands, I felt like a monster. I felt sick to my stomach when I held my hands up and saw his blood. I was scared and I felt alone. My mum wasn't home and neither was my sister and when they came home, they looked at me like I was disgusting. I remember the way the grocery bags dropped—the way the eggs cracked and how the milk spilled all over the floor. It's stupid, but that's what stands out the most in my mind.”

“It's not stupid,” my therapist answered. “Did you feel like you were disgusting?”

“Not until they looked at me like I was. I felt all of their confusion and anger and hatred.”

“Why do you think they hate you?” she asked next.

“Because my sister has said it to me before, and my mum acted like she did. If they didn't hate me, they would have called and visited me while I was in juvie. They would be here at West Rock for visitations if they didn't hate me,” I said.

My therapist asked: “Do you regret killing Dustin because you took another life, or because of what you lost?”

This was where I broke down. She had never asked me that question before, and I didn't even know where to begin answering it, but I tried to. I rarely mustered up the ability to answer her questions in her office, but rather knew the answers when I was alone in my room with a clear head.

Still, I said: “What I've lost.”

“And what's that?” she inquired.

“My mum, my sister. I had friends, but they're all gone. I've missed out on school and the past three and a half years of my life because I've been locked up,” I said. “Sometimes I feel like I lost myself, because I don't really know who I am.”

“What do you mean?” My therapist asked.

I sniffled and said: “Like, I'm Harry, but Harry doesn't really have a name other than being a murderer. I have no family, no friends, no one that cares about me.”

“That isn't true. You have good qualities. Alyssa saw them, didn't she?” She said.