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Harry didn't mean to do it.
There were times when his bad behavior was intentional, and times when his behavior unintentionally turned bad. But he didn't mean to do it.
His mother never saw it this way. He was hyper, more often times than not, because he was a kid and kids have energy and are curious and ask too many questions and make messes they forget to clean up. She was an addict with little to no patience and, for the better half of her life, was pronounced with EUPD until its formal diagnosis of BPD in '79. Harry was gone by then, though. And a huge part of her was, too.
His life was unstable for as long as he could remember. They slept in stranger's homes, the streets, twenty four hour markets, made tents and camped for weeks in the rural parts of the country. During the rough winter months, they would hitch hike to Seville or Alicante because the weather was tamer in Spain than any other part of Europe. There, his mother would dance, and meet different men every night, and just like back home, they would stay in their houses or cheap hostels.
Harry knew their situation wasn't normal, even from a young age. Sometimes on Saturday mornings he would wake up to watch cartoons in these men's homes. It was the only part of his day that was quiet, reserved just for him. Sometimes he would make cereal with milk if there was any, and surely the men would wake up and protest if they saw him or if he forgot to wash his bowl and put it back, but he didn't mind. Because most days that stolen cereal was the only meal he'd have. So he ate Cornflakes or Coco Pops and watched infomercials and wondered what it was like to have a parent who woke you up in the mornings and made sure you brushed your teeth and helped with homework when you needed it.
He watched these cartoons and fantasized that it was his life. That it was just a lazy day inside after a long week of learning, and his mother would come cuddle him on the couch and whisper how much he means to her, and they would walk down to the beach and find shells or rocks to put in jars. He pretended all of this was true, every morning for a few hours, and that there weren't empty liquor bottles and cigarette butts all around him in the carpet.
Not only was his mother neglectful, she was abusive in all the ways a monster can be. There was the verbal (which hurt him most), the emotional (she was a horrible manipulator), and then the physical (which happened only when she couldn't find a fix, he learned to keep his distance on those days).
"You're gonna be a fucking pervert, just like your fucking father, get the hell away from me, don't look at me. Why're you looking at me? Wipe that look off your face. Crying? Only little bitches cry. Am I raising a bitch or a man, Harold? If you're a little bitch, you won't be able to support a woman. You see what happens to women who are left to fend for themselves? LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU."
