Friday has come around again. Now it has been 3 weeks and 2 days since Harry had left Zayn with those men. After his visit with Dr. Kershman, Harry had gone home that Tuesday to ponder the three steps she had given him. As much as he thought it would be extremely difficult at first, it didn't take long to make his mind over. So now, after he's just left the first soccer match of the Spring season, he finds himself here, inside the city jail located about 25 miles from where he lives.
"He will be at window five soon." The guard says in a stern voice to Harry and he waits just inside the door to let him walk on his own, down past each little opening in the visitation area.
Harry notices that each station only has two things: A phone, and a gray stool which non surprisingly, matches the dull walls. He's only seen something like this in the movies, and he always found it hard to imagine how it must be for the visitor when they realize they have to go through a full body search and scan, just to get in here and see there's bulletproof fiberglass between them. But as he takes his seat at window 5 and looks at where his father will be sitting, everything makes sense. It's overwhelming to think about.
After sitting for a minute or so, he hears a buzzer off to the right, coming from the other side of the glass. By the sound of it, he recognizes it's the sound that signals a door is about to open. He's right. Because 4 seconds later, he hears the faint sound of chains jiggling and another guard is standing in front of him holding firm to his father's arm, directing him to sit on the stool.
There are a few things Harry notices about his father then. Things he's never seen, or imagined seeing. First, he sees that his dad has cut all of his hair off. He's bald now. He still looks the same for the most part, but Harry only remembers him with hair and he remembers his father saying he never wanted to go bald. Prison must have changed his mind. Secondly, Harry knows his hands are cuffed, but he realizes that the chain-like sound that he heard are shackles on his feet. More than likely so he can't so easily run away. And third, the jumpsuit he's wearing, isn't orange as TV often portrayed all jumpsuits to be, but a horrible navy blue color. It doesn't suit him. But then again it's jail. Nothing has to suit him.
When he notices his father pick up the phone on his side, so does he. It's quiet before anyone speaks.
"Harry..." His father says. "It took six years and you're finally here, huh? Oh wait. It's March. That means you're 18 now. How about that? A big boy."
Harry stares at him and when his father sees he's not speaking yet, he continues. "You see this hell hole they put me in because of you? Literally, it's a hole. I stay in solitary confinement away from everyone else. I do get one hour of recreation everyday though. But it's spent by myself and then when it's over, it's back to the cave. Ha... Can you believe it? I've got this for 24 more years. They say it will save my life because other inmates don't take too kindly when you fuck your own kid. But they may as well put me in general population and let them kill me. Because I'm probably going to be dead by the time my sentence ends anyway right?"
Harry can feel his heart split when he sees his father's sly smile.
"So what brings you here after all this time Harry? Why you want to see me for? I bet it's just to laugh at me, so you can get your feel of finally seeing me in jail. You always wanted that didn't you? Yeah, I know."
Harry is still quiet.
"Listen boy, why aren't you talking? I could have stayed where I was if I knew you were just gonna sit here and look at me. What the hell do you want? Harry sits up and leans over the small counter. He only wants to know one thing right now. "I want to know why? Why did you do it? Why did you do all those things to me?"
Now it's his father's turn to be quiet. He just stares at his son blankly.
"Just a moment ago, you couldn't close your mouth. But what?... All of a sudden, you can't talk now?" Harry asks.
His father's lips purse and then he opens his mouth to speak. "Yes, I can talk. I did it because I felt that I could." He simply says.
"And what gave you the right to think that way? What in your fucked up head told you that touching me like that was right?"
Harry's father frowns. "Hey, don't you curse at me. I may be in jail, but I am still your father. You got it?"
"Shut up." Harry says as mild anger temporarily takes over him. "You are not my father. My father is at work protecting the city from people like you. He is a real father." Knowing that he has finally, officially disowned his father to his face, Harry puts his elbow on the counter, leans into his hand, then sighs very heavily. His father knows he's crying, but he stays quiet and watches him through the glass.
"I was six." Harry mumbles as his lips quiver. "I was six years old when you first started touching me. How could you do that to me? How could you treat me the way you treated me?"
"Let's get one thing straight. No matter what I did or said, I still loved you Harry-."
"-Stop it!" Harry yells and his lips tighten. "You did not love me. If you loved me, you wouldn't have made me do all those filthy things with you. If you loved me, you would have never given me to those men. I was eleven and you let them hurt me! And then you took money from them after you let them have their fun. You are sick."
His father fidgets. "Listen, I was the only parent you had. Be grateful. Your so called mother was too worried about her addiction to care about you."
"Be grateful? What world are you living in? And you stop talking about her. Regardless of what you say, she was still my mother. I know she would have done better with help. Do not say things like that."
"Still your mother?! No, all she is, is the woman who gave birth to you. You don't even know her. You can't even remember her. But I do. She didn't give a shit about you Harry. That pathetic little slut left us alone. Left me alone with you. Mothers don't do that."
"But fathers don't shove a knife into their own kid's arm or force them to give them hand jobs you son of a bitch."
His father begins to justify himself. "When that woman left, it was you who kept me from having a sex life. No woman wanted a man who already had a kid. So I used you instead to satisfy my pleasurable needs. And I only gave you to those men because we needed the money. You should be delighted that you were able to please me in so many ways, while helping us keep a roof over our head."
"Delighted? Are you fucking crazy?! You don't understand what you did to me! You changed my life! I have been going to therapist after therapist because of you. You scarred me forever in every way imaginable. And because of you..." There's a pause and a sniffle. "I can't even tell this boy I like him because I know that once I tell him, I won't even know how to show him I like him in the right way. All I know is everything you've ever done to me and that isn't right."
"Him? Oh so you're gay now?" He laughs obnoxiously, completely unfazed by Harry's little breakdown. "You know, I heard that little boys who get sexually abused have a greater chance of growing up to be a homosexual, but I did not expect to have a living example sitting right in front of me. Wow. But by no means should you ever feel embarrassed. You know how to please a man. I taught you almost everything. You were such a good little boy when you would pay close attention, remember?"
"Stop it." Harry mumbles and he shakes his head at those memories, uncontrollably spilling tears.
But his father continues. "Sometimes it haunts me that you were only twelve when I got put in here. Because you were still too young and we never got to do certain things that I really wanted to do with you. But when I first came in here, I used to get myself off to the memories we were able to make."
"Stop, right now."
"I used to imagine that my hands were yours. But it was so hard, honestly. Because my hands were way too rough. Did you know you had soft hands like your mother?"
"No. Don't talk about me in that way anymore. I'm sick of it."
"Why? Face it Harry. Face the truth. You did those things with me for six years. You're eighteen now and you turned out to be a faggot just like the statistics said you would. I wouldn't be surprised if in a year, you turned out to be a manwhore. But if you do, just make sure you and whoever you're with is always wearing condoms, okay? I wouldn't want you to catch AIDS."
"I SAID STOP IT, YOU PERVERT! YOU ARE A SICK, SICK MAN!" By now Harry has jumped up off the stool and began hitting at the glass. He's screaming with everything he has, tears still pouring heavily from his eyes. "YOU DESERVE TO DIE FOR WHAT YOU DID TO ME! YOU DO NOT DESERVE TO LIVE! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!"
"Hey! It's time for you to leave, sir!" The guard says to Harry but he continues to scream.
"HOW CAN YOU CALL YOURSELF A FATHER AFTER WHAT YOU DID?! YOU WERE AN EVIL, MANIPULATIVE AND MIND CONTROLLING PIECE OF SHIT! AND YOU STILL ARE!"
"You!" The guard is now coming his way at full speed, ready to grab him.
"BUT YOU KNOW WHAT?! I FORGIVE YOU FOR EVERY SINGLE THING YOU HAVE EVER DONE TO ME! ALL OF IT!"
Arms pull at Harry. But Harry is resisting as hard as he can, refusing to let the phone go until he finishes what he has to say.
"I WON'T SEE YOU EVER AGAIN! I'M NOT GOING TO LET IT GET TO ME ANYMORE! I'M GOING TO LET GO, PUT IT ALL BEHIND ME AND LAUGH AT YOU WHILE YOU ROT IN PRISON!
"Let go of the phone now, before you break it! If you do, I will put you in jail for destroying property and that is a guarantee! Do you want that sir?!"
Immediately when Harry hears that, he stops to look at the guard. He doesn't say anything. He just stands terrified. He looks scared, broken, needy and truthfully, Harry doesn't really know what to do. He sits the phone down on the counter not worrying about placing it back on the hook and he wipes his eyes with his and.
"Alright let's go." He mumbles. "I'm sick of looking at him anyway."
The guard grunts and begins to lead him from the visitation area and back toward the front of the jail.
Though Harry looks like he wants to be alone right now, he actually wants to fall into the guard's arms and cry into his uniform. But he knows it would be in vain because just like everyone else, this man won't understand his pain. This man will never know all he had to go through. He won't come close to knowing.
So he figures he'll just go home and seclude himself in his room. And then he'll figure out how he will go about accomplishing step 2.