8th November 2015
I’m a worrying child. Well, that’s what my parents always say. That’s what my teachers say to each other. And it’s also the one thing my therapist tries to tell me through paragraphs of cryptic words. I guess I’m doing it too now.
My therapist is also the reason why I’m writing any of this at all. She said that “writing my thoughts out would stop me from expressing them in worse ways.” Well, Doctor Lilly, I, Harley Shaw, don’t believe you.
I don’t even need you. I’m fine without you digging my head open for something that’s going to through me in 24-hour surveillance.
I know you want me to write in hand rather than type, just in case of the very slim chance that the worrying thoughts I have get online and others are exposed to them. I don’t think you should worry about that though. Don’t worry, I’ll keep writing in it. You know, for the big reveal. You said to treat this book like a diary, but that implies that I’m the only one to read this, that all the information is private. So, if anything I’m just doing what you’ve told me to do. Sorry for obeying orders, I guess.
Since this information is private, and now that I’ve explained why, I can be honest.
I want to kill someone.