When It Comes To You [√] BOOK TWO

24

I'm sure you guys are tired of these WARNINGs but here's another one: This is straightforward and to the point. In this chapter Harry is being blunt and it is a bit...unnerving so be prepared.

X

Harry

20/02/2017

Journal Extracts

Back in high school, I acted like a cool teenager who just wanted a bit of a laugh with his mates but in actual fact, I was just a scared little boy who had been abused more than his friends in the orphanage. I had always been a, I quote "cute and happy little curly-haired boy" and my beauty was noticed by the sex-deprived brothers that ran the orphanage. My innocent and pure soul was tarnished, broken,  destroyed by what they did to me.

My undeveloped brain couldn't understand, didn't know, that it was wrong. A small part of me actually enjoyed it. It hurt me and the brothers often left me bruised but I was proud of the scars. I thought it proved just how much they loved me more than the others.

When I was adopted by Danny and Kelvin, I was devastated that I would be leaving the orphanage but I figured that my new dad would love me the same way they did. I was disappointed and very confused when I asked my mother why daddy didn't love me.

My mother looked absolutely horrified as she listened to the dark and twisted tales that I had to share. My young self was oblivious to the filthiness of what I so desperately craved. When my parents weren't around, my friends and I would experiment on each other. I told them how great it felt to be loved and that all of them just had to experience it.

As I grew older, I realised what horrors had been done to me and that I in fact, wasn't being loved by those men but abused. I was angry and hurt and I hated myself for enjoying such decadence. I tried as hard as I could but my teenage body was developing and was begging for things I knew were wrong. At school my friends wouldn't shut up about it and eventually, I gave in to the temptation.

My friends and I did things to each other and to the girls at our school. We always wore masks so no one would recognise us and in a way, that was my way of handling the guilt. When I put on a mask and went out at late hours with my friends, I was a different person. I wasn't Harry; I was a dark and disgusting creature that had absolutely nothing to do with my true self.

When my small band of friends was discovered, I told the truth and pleaded guilty of all my crimes. Many different psychologists and therapists assessed me and they all came to one conclusion: I was psychologically damaged and needed major rehabilitation.

During my years in Juvie, I healed both physically and psychologically. I realised the error of my ways and that I needed help. I learned to control my darker self and to be a better person. My therapist once told me that I had always been a beautiful soul but it had been tainted. Now that I could control my urges, that beautiful soul shone for everyone to see.

Unfortunately, I got older and turned 18. The courts decided to transfer me to a bigger prison, with older men to carry out the rest of my sentence. Out of all the horrors and misfortunes I had ever been through, those years in that prison were by far the worst. I was Curly or Curly head, the new soul that had been delivered to the devils that lived there.

These men weren't like the brothers because they didn't disguise what they did as love. They made sure that I knew just what they thought of me. I was their release, their punch bag, the piece of shit that was only good for one thing. If I tried to defend myself, my abusers would only hurt me more.

I felt sick. I was disgusted with myself for letting them objectify me like they did. I knew that I had no control over what they did to me and that thought scared me half to death. I never got used to it but over time I learned to endure it. I hated every minute before because I could only think of what they'd do to me and I hated every minute afterwards because they always left me in pain.

The psychologist that had transferred to the prison with me noticed the behavioural changes in me and asked everyday what was bothering me. It took me a year to finally admit to it and as soon as I did, I was moved to a quiet side of the prison.

Most of my time I spent alone but I quite enjoyed the silence.

I spent my days staring at grey brick and thinking about my life. I made plans for whenever it was I would get out. I was going to get professional help and I was going to do my best to help others. I hated what I had done and what had been done to me and I swore to myself that I would try my best to make sure no one had to go through the same pain I had.