In The Bird Song | TWD

chapter 41 - coping

Harlow pov

I'm sitting in a small court room next to my state issued lawyer, he is a broad-shouldered man who hasn't so much as glanced at me this entire trial and keeps checking his watch irritably making sure to let out an exaggerated huff every time the clock displeases him.

I believe it to be the seventh day of court though I'm not entirely sure, however what I am sure of is that the trial has only dragged on this long for two reasons. Reason one being my lawyer is trying to prove I was mentally disturbed when I committed murder and therefor rendering me not responsible for my actions. And reason two being on the second or possibly third day of court one of the jury members had a meltdown and was later deemed to unstable to serve so we had to start all over with a fresh jury. However I cand find it in me to be mad at the woman because I recognised myself in her and though I have no proof I cant help but think she was on the spectrum, or as my lawyer would say, retarded.

Speaking of my lawyer, he doesn't seem to have forgiven me for refusing to plead not guilty in court and judging by the condescending manner in which he speaks to me I think he has deemed me as slow or particularly thick. But he will just need to strap on a pair of balls and get on with it because I'm not ashamed of what I've done and I won't deny my actions for the appeasement of others.

I just want this whole thing to be over, the smart shirt Mrs berry insisted I wear is too rough on my skin and the button of my trousers is cutting into my flesh painfully. Not that I'm ungrateful for Mrs berry's efforts, she has been doing her best to help me through this whole thing despite us never having been particularly close. Don't get me wrong she was never cruel nor was she ever cold but she wasn't particularly warm either. She is a stern-faced, strict, matriarchal type of women, sort of like how I imagine Minerva McGonagall would be from the harry potter books Enola loved so much. Despite only being in her late forties she appears far older due to her grey streaked hair always being pulled back into a painfully tight bun and her long sleeved, high collard, full length, black dress she always wears which aged her forward about twenty years.

I have unfortunately been subjected to seemingly endless appointments with a child psychologist whose job it is to determine my sanity. Both my phycologist and the court have forced me to rehash the events between Enola's "alleged" rape and me placing a bullet into that monsters skull.

At least the state of gorgia have given me the small mercy of a closed trial and they agreed to keeping my identity out of the papers due to my age.

My mind is pulled back to the courtroom which is silent save for the scraping of a chair and I look over to see Miss mills, the mother of Enola's rapist, standing up and taking the stand. Mills must be her maiden name due to it not matching her sons which frankly I'm grateful for.

There is the sound of shuffling papers and the judge saying something before miss mills testifies "I can say in confidence my son would never act in the manner that disturbed girl is accusing him of and to even entertain the idea is an insult to his memory."

The woman stops to wipe a tear from her eyes and I almost feel sorry for her, almost. maybe she truly does believe that her son wasn't the monster I know him to be but either way she's wrong and she raised him into the man he became so I will never respect her. I look down at my hands not wanting to look at her grief stricken face any longer.

"He was sweet and innocent and that sick girl is the reason my baby is dead. I trusted her to keep my baby safe and now she's rotting away because of her failure!"

A chill runs down my spine and I nearly fall out my chair when I look at the stand only to find that I'm no longer standing in a court room and the lawyer, judge, and jury are nowhere to be found leaving me alone with a crying Miss mills. I feel my stomach lurch with fear when I take in the woman's face and find it marred by the handle of a blade that's buried in her skull.