*picture is of Kristen Stewart, she is kind of who I picture for JoAnne*
Harry's POV
I press my fingers against my temple in pure aggravation. The throbbing pain thumping against my skull brought sudden flashbacks of my colleagues shooting their guns at the target while I watched in ignorance. I wince at the distant memories, some which I would like to keep buried.
Sitting up from my bed, I head over the my cherry wood desk and open up to a fresh page in my journal. Even though my vision was blurred, I began to scribble on the page:
¡Ay! Esta imagen no sigue nuestras pautas de contenido. Para continuar la publicación, intente quitarla o subir otra.
Dear Journal, I was overtaken once again. I became a slave to the clutches of alcohol. I nearly lost control and I succumbed to a negro. I cannot fathom why I found a desire, a lust, a need for such a thing. I am disgusted with myself. Yet, even with this self-shame, my hunger, my lust still remains. Whether or not it is that slave, I am in dire need for satisfaction.
- I bid this day Hx
Signing the first letter of my name to top it off I turn to the first page of my journal. I had this bloody journal for nearly a decade yet the pages seem never-ending. I sigh when I come to my messy handwriting from when I was young and I begin to read:
¡Ay! Esta imagen no sigue nuestras pautas de contenido. Para continuar la publicación, intente quitarla o subir otra.
Dear Journal, I have a secret. One night while everyone was sleeping I went outside. It was very cold. There was snowflakes littered over the grass. That made the legs of my pants wet causing me to shiver. I walked back into the woods again where I saw that girl. I retraced my steps and found the same trunk I remember crying at. I thought I was going to see her again. But I didn't. I got scared for a little bit when I remember what those dogs did. I heard a howl which caused me to run. Me being the clumsy person I am I fell. I fell. I got a deep scratch from my wrist to the inside of my elbow. I got this scratch waiting for her. I haven't seen her so maybe she wasn't real. Maybe she was a ghost, maybe she was dead. I cried again but this time I cried for her. But she wasn't there, maybe she was never really there. Maybe I'm just a crazy little twit like my father said I was.
