A/n: I was going to not upload this tonight, however, i have received several requests to do so.
This imagine is disturbing. If the topic of crime or murder makes you uncomfortable, please do not read this, skip this entirely.
I am no author, nor a man of any knowledge or experience in writing. But, I, Harold Edward Styles, am here to write my defense for my trial. The trial of a robbery I freely admit to committing.
People of the Jury, before I begin to explain myself in the most confidential of ways, I want to make clear that I am not trying to plea myself innocent. The robbery was a crime I can admit I had participated in. I am in no position to lie about my own decisions. However, I feel I am no criminal. You see, there are many people like me. There are too many people like me. People who drown in the toxic they feed themselves; burn in the ashes they’ve inhaled. It seems as though throughout the time I have been held captive in my own self-destructive mind that there was no release. We can test ourselves; create many scenarios on ourselves to feel some sort of unnoticed security. What we don’t realize is that it actually makes the matter of the cause worse, if it wasn’t the worst to begin with.
To me, what had happened had to be the worse, and if it wasn’t, then I don’t want to ever run into a nightmare more horrific than this.
Ladies and gentlemen, for us humans to get to this point, it takes more than an unsatisfactory comment, or an act of betrayal. It’s not the pain of our own unjust actions. We can believe that every human has to answer to a higher calling, and that it’s the only way we can we rid ourselves of the pain we are in. For me, it’s not that at all. It’s the pain from losing someone.
Think of the term “mass murder.” The act of murdering a significant amount of people, humans, simultaneously or over a short duration of time. This is what happened to me. Well, not to me, but to my family.
My brother, Alfie, and I are the only survivors of the heinous crime. We were the only two left alive, untouched, unharmed—unharmed in the physical term, that is. We were harmed, emotionally, left scarred, exposed, alone. Left to fend for ourselves, and in my case, left to care for my little brother, when I was barely capable to care for myself.
The murder was committed on December 17 of 1993.
It was during a numbingly cold night. The power had gone out after a series of winds and blizzards that had taken over the town. I was out at a local bar, Cheers, it was called, downing countless shots of whiskey, smoking our cigarettes, in honor of a guys night out. I was out with my childhood mates, enjoying the time with them after coming back for the holidays. It wasn’t too festive, we weren’t planning it that way. It was casual, just six men going for a drink. Innocently.
The wind was blowing quite harshly that night, I remember. We were planning on leaving, but we figured it would be best to wait until the storm had passed. Besides, it had only been a solid hour, and catching up wasn’t anywhere near done.
It wasn’t until around 2 a.m and when the winds had settled down and the snowing had calmed when we decided it was time to head back home. I remember once I was on the road back to my house that I had called my girlfriend at the time, as you know to be Y/n Y/l/n. She was visiting the states for the funeral of her aunt, who had committed suicide due to the divorce of her and her husband. She was explaining her trip so far, and how her family has been holding up with the recent death. She claimed she needed to stay longer in the states because her mum wasn’t holding up the way she had expected. Apparently she had become her own personal wreck, and that she had been turning to bottles of gin to help “cleanse the depression”, as Y/n had said. After hanging up with her, I remember being only a couple blocks away from home. I had expected my family to be sleeping by the time I had gotten back. It was late and by the looks of the town, the power had still not come back on.
Everything after that was a blur, and the only thing in my memory that has remained clear was arriving home, tired from the whiskey, and seeing blood drench the walls of my home. It was everywhere. A handprint on the door, that seemed to have left no fingerprints. Drops of my family’s insides dripping from the walls. It was everywhere I turned. It was surrounding me, taunting me. It was as if it was perfectly designed to kill a part of me along with my family, whose bodies were lying dead, limp on top of one another, on the floor in my living room.
Somewhere, between my haziness and my disturbance I ended up trying to revive them. As if somehow my shaking hands and desperate cries and begs were so powerful as to wake the dead. I wasn’t sure what I was doing. I was only 18 and it was the only thing that felt right.
I remember the sound of crying, and I wasn’t clear whether it was mine at first, but after a couple of moments, it turned to screams. I wasn’t screaming. I was too distraught to scream, and my throat was sore from the crying. Tracking down the mysterious screams and cries, I found my little brother, Alfie, hiding in one of the kitchen cabinets. He was in fetal position when I found him. He was sobbing, screaming, trembling. I held him. I held him to keep him together—to keep us together, and I refused to let him go until police and investigators had showed up. Alfie and I were no longer permitted to stay inside at that point, which I am sure he didn’t mind. I surely didn’t, anyway.
An investigator by the name of Detective Declan had asked us a series of questions. Where were you at the time of the murder? Alfie, did you see who did this? Has anybody in the family had any problems with another individual? Do you have any idea how this could have happened?
I do not remember my answers to these questions, however, there are three absolutes I have no qualms about. I was absolute in my response to where I had been. Out with some mates, out having a good time, while my family was being mutilated. I am absolutely positive Alfie was the last to have seen our family and saw what transpired. And, I am absolutely positive that my family had not had any problems with another individual, as far as I was concerned, we were naturally an exclusive family.
To this day, nearly one year later, and maybe even two, depending on the time you are reading this, I still manage to have flashbacks of this. It was only a couple of weeks, or months, ago when events started to unfold again in my memory. They were little moments, moments my body and brain were able to handle; giving little glimpses of events like a film that has lost its frames. Tiny segments that exposed themselves to me, yet left the most important details hidden. I do, however, distinctly remember that after the murder I had to move in with Y/n in a small town of Holmes Chapel, since she had come straight back to England after she had received the news about my family. It wasn’t until after Alfie and I had moved in with her that I discovered more things about her than I ever have before. I was able to capture her intriguing beauty, capture the delicacy she was. She was beautiful, I remember observing, so pure and delicate. Her movements matched her voice, which matched her personality—soft, gentle, innocent, just like her favorite song. The one she sang every morning. She always sat in the same position, hiding behind a cigarette, doing the same thing between 7 and 8 a.m. Her bare feet were always propped up on our wooden table. Her right ankle always on top of the left, bouncing it up and down as she sang I Know It’s Over by The Smiths. This was the time she was most herself, I suppose. She was always willing to talk then, always willing to open up her most secretive and private thoughts. Throughout the duration of these most treasured moments, I almost forgot who she truly was.
Luckily, for me, I was the one that was able to admire her during her time of sanity.
It was a little while after I moved in when we began to struggle with money. With neither of us working (which now that I look back on, was a very stupid and unwise decision, especially if we were taking care of Alfie), and neither of us managing our budgets, we were threatened with the loss our home. Y/n was finally able to secure a minimum wage job, and we both agreed that taking care of Alfie would be my responsibility. Alfie, and I, became solely dependent on Y/n.
This, in my mind, was the most perfect opportunity to do what needed to be done.
This, here, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, was when I came up with the crime that has placed me in this position. I planned on robbing a bank, but not for the reason you may believe.
I remember my plans for that day exactly—the day of the robbery. Frame by frame, I remember what happened, and also know it wasn’t what I envisioned. For me to tell you is not hard. I am not under oath. Figuratively, yes, I am. I am under the oath to not lie to or deceive God. Personally, I am not. I do not believe in God. No God would create the things I have seen. And since I am not in any way in oath to anybody or anything other than myself, lying would be more stupid than what I have done.
Y/n, my darling Y/n, she was standing still, as if observing her surroundings. Her thumb pressed down the knuckles of her fingers, something she had always done when she was nervous. The air blew gusts of white winds against us, the ends of her untamed blonde hair flying behind her. I wish I could have seen her entire face, not just her cold blue eyes. I wanted to see the indescribable beauty that had only been seen in magazines, the beauty that most people have never been fortunate to experience. I wanted to study her. I wanted to remember her face before the tragedy that was to come before us. But who she was then wasn’t what she used to be. The further down her face, just under the dark circles of her eyes, a balaclava was covering the rest of her. Hiding her face, hiding the person she had become.
I remember our gun not working at first. She kept hitting the weapon with an open palm. Her eyebrows were creased inwards, looking as if something had gone wrong. What more could have gone wrong?
With the gun finally loaded, we were more than positive it was time to head into the bank. My adrenaline seemed to have increased. My body was shaking, my hands sweating, my breath shallow and broken. But on top of all the nervousness and tenseness, I remember kissing her between our fabric-covered faces, for this would be the last time I would do so.
It was when we entered the bank that the plan had come into action. We both had our guns in the air, screaming at the bankers for all of the held money that was hidden in the building. They screamed against their will, claiming that the money will not be given to us. Y/n and I suspected that the responses to our demands would be nothing but objections. In this case, we were able to threaten the manager with his life if the combination of the vault was not given to us. He was quick to oblige, I remember. He didn’t object to any of our instructions, and had given us the combination that led to the 2 million euros that we would soon steal.
Y/n then fired gun. The shot was at nobody in particular, just an action to manipulate the victims. “Put these on! Everybody put these on!” Y/n screamed, throwing each person in our view a single orange jump suit that we had brought with us. They were scared and intimidated enough to follow our instructions, and soon enough, everybody held hostage in the building was now wearing an orange jump suit, including Y/n and I.
The room turned from crazy to chaotic. People were crying, nobody knew who the robbers were. We had all looked the same. All in orange jump suits, no person with a gun in hand anymore, no faces covered.
Once we reached the vault, entered the combination, and were no in clear view of the cash, she was quick to collect all of the remaining money. Her hands moved fast as she placed the stacks of money in her purse very carefully.
The money was then in our possession.
When we were about to leave, Y/n grabbed my wrist gently. She looked at me with those cold blue eyes, boring into me that I nearly forgot what our task was, however, she pulled me back.
“Take this bag, Harold. And put on your mask, trust me on this. Climb out the window when you reach the hall, alright? Run the second you exit this building. Okay?”
Her eyes didn’t leave mine when she instructed me, and I ended up doing what she asked. I took her purse gently from her shoulder, reaching in for the mask I had worn previously that was now under all the money. I slipped it over my head, only my eyes uncovered from this moment on.
She reached my hand, I remember, kissing the knuckles of my fingers. She smiled, almost evilly, but I remembered thinking it was because we were about to get away with robbery. However, I could have never been more wrong.
When I climbed out of the window in the hallway, police were surrounding me, guns pointing at me from every direction my eyes could see. My breathing slowed, I was almost suffocating. I dropped the bag from my hands, placing my arms above my head with reluctance. She had planned this, this whole time, she knew this was going to happen. The second I planted my feet on those grounds, I was a goner, a destined felon.
I was thrown against the building, being hit and spit on, handcuffed, my words then being used against us in the court of law.
I looked up at her, through the window. She was smiling, smoking her pack of cigarettes, as if this was a dream come true for her. She blew me a kiss, flicking the ashes from her cigarette down upon her feet.
Now, Jury, I know what you’re asking, or what you’ve been asking. What does the murder of my family have to do with my trial for robbing a bank? How had the murder of my family lead me to commit this crime?
Luckily for you, I happen to have an answer.
Y/n, the founder of my soul, the fire to my heart, my wonderful, beautiful, psychotic girlfriend, had kidnapped me.
Jury! My Y/n, my soul, my heart, my desire and life had completely held me captive in her beauty. What she did, it wasn’t done with originality, nor was it in the process of being acted upon with a well functioning brain. What she had done wasn’t normal. It wasn’t expected. It was a new stage of crime. She didn’t take me away in physical darkness. Mental darkness, maybe, but not physical. She didn’t take me away when I was alone in the middle of an abandoned alley with vulnerability taking over me. No. She was more careful than that, she was much smarter than that. It was a slow process, not something that could have been planned overnight.
I know she had committed the murder of my family. I know she had.
A couple of weeks before the murder, I had began to drink more frequently. I was too succumbed in my addictions of drugs and alcohol to have any intentions of communicating with her. She became my first priority to my last within a matter of days. I had only used her for my own bodily desires, and within those couple of months I was becoming too disconnected. I had even slept with numerous other women, too intoxicated to even notice the wrong.
This was also during the time my parents have been persuading me to dump my beautiful Y/n. They claimed she was psychotic, dragging my own sanity down with hers. They claim she will ruin the family, to leave her in the dust so that I can become the healthy, smart man I was supposed to become. However, picturing a day without her beautiful face was nonexistent. She has hypnotized me completely, and there was no getting rid of her.
It wasn’t until after the murder and after depression had completely taken over me that I had noticed my lovely Y/n to be more attached to me. She rarely let me leave the house, and if I did, it had to be with her guidance. She disconnected my phone, claiming that the murderer of my family could later chase after me. She sold my car, explaining that we had needed the money in order for us to look after Alfie with our greatest intentions. At first, in my entirely naive mind, I thought she was nervous that over a period of time, she will lose me like I had lost them. Like, maybe, she was holding onto me because she was worried for me. But it was after nearly four months of her loving me too much that I had realized that she was holding on to me so dearly because I was able to hold her like she had held me.
What had really made me figure out that she was the one that had executed my family was when the topic of her trip to the states was mentioned. Whenever Alfie and I had any curiosity about her stay, she always gave short answers. Quick responses with an immediate change of the subject. Y/n, I must say, was always a private person; very secure of herself. So at first, this did not concern me. What did concern me, however, was her lack of evidence that she had even left her home in Holmes Chapel. She was always the type of girl to buy a new book from every different place she had explored. From French fiction, La Recherche du Temps Perdu, to Russian classics, Lolita, to Slovenia novelas, Trik Je v Tem da Brathing. She was always the woman to get a book as a souvenir wherever she had gone.
On top of this, photographs on her polaroid were not taken, which was extremely rare of her. She was always on it, snapping pointless pictures of buildings, people, outfits she had wanted to wear, and even strange people she had found interesting. She was always one to capture the beauty of things, which was one of the primary reasons as to why I had fallen in love with her.
I had figured out through the process of her actions that she had murdered my family to be closer to me. It was clear that she was the only woman I was allowed to be with. Maybe the only person I was allowed to be with. I was held hostage with whom I was grown to believe was my safety and love. But in reality, I was held hostage to a murderer, a monster, a brute.
How did I not know this? Why did I just figure this out? She was in front of me the whole time and I was too blinded by her beauty and by the thought of her that I could not see. I couldn’t see, ladies and gentlemen! Was I just as mental as the women I had slept with every night or was I my own self-destructive maniac?
It was because of her course of action that I had decided to rob the bank. Not just because I wanted to fix our financial issues and keep our home, no. I wanted to get her arrested for her twisted, sickening, disgusting mind. Since the case of the murder of my family had been dropped due to lack of evidence, I needed her to be imprisoned. Whether it was for closure or for the injustice she has created, I wanted her arrested.
I hadn’t planned on getting caught, actually, but caught I was. I had planned on leaving back to the front of the building by the time Y/n was collecting the money from the vault. I planned to act like a victim under Y/n, the criminal.
However, I am guessing she had figured out my plan before the robbery, possibly by my lack of privacy, writing out every bit of my plan in my journal. So she had reversed the roles by using her twisted mind, manipulating me by her infatuating beauty. She knows what she does, and does it without a trace of guilt. It’s her specialty, her weapon.
Although I question how Alfie is doing when I’m alone in my cellar, I do know he is safe. I made sure that he’s safe. Before my plan, I sent him to stay with our aunt for a few days. This would distract him from what we were going to do. Y/n didn’t know of this, especially since I refused to have Alfie be near her without my presence.
For this, I am able to keep my sanity.
It’s hard for me to confess that I am still in love with my dearest. Her beauty and poise had captivated me in her insanity. I am still under her control, I feel like. I feel like I will always be.
Ladies and gentlemen, I do not care for your verdict. I just want my Y/n in jail for the rest of her life. I want her trapped the way she had trapped me. I want her to grow more insane than she already was. I want her to be tortured.
I hope this letter has helped my trial. I hope this was of benefit to you. I apologize for the troubles of my crime, and I apologize for my actions. I hope my reasoning is understandable. And I hope that there is a lessoned learned throughout my reasoning. I want you to remember, Jury, that you can feel love for anybody in this damned world, but always remember this lesson of which I had learned in the duration of my time being with my Y/n. The surface of a person’s soul could be the most beautiful thing you encounter, and it will make you believe you have everything you have ever dreamt of. But our minds betray us, and our eyes begin to disguise the dirt on purpose, just to satisfy ourselves.
Always be on guard. Always protect yourself. And always, always be prepared for the worst.
Harry Edward Styles.