Writing Letters [completed // editing]

| letter four september 31 1999 | *

"Some people feel the rain, while others just get wet."

~bob marley

**EDITED**

Dear Angel

Angel, sometimes I stop and wonder the meaning of life. Who decided, "Oh, we shall make her have cancer, and make his mom die, and give her the perfect looks," tell me Angel. Who. Who thinks they have the right, the bloody fucking right, to control people's lives.

Do you remember a few days ago, we ran into each other again? It was just me, and you with some girl hanging off of your arm. I gave you a forced grimace, remembering our last run in. Gage had completely flipped, leaving you on the ground with a bloody nose. You were pissed at me because I had laughed at you.

"Oh," you said. "It's you again.." I had flinched, knowing how Gage would react. His hand gripped my arm tighter than it usually did.

"Do you know this asshole?" Gage had asked, his eyes had glared daggers into the side of my head.

Do you remember how everyone broke into conversation, yelling and screaming at each other. I do. I remember the way my eyes teared up, as vicious memories rolled through me. I fled that scene, shouting obscenities at you, quite clever, weren't they? Nobody bothered coming after me, not even you, Angel. Maybe that's what hurt the most. That not even a stranger could help me. I sit here, writing this, knowing I shouldn't be surprised. Nobody cares. They're all too wrapped up in their own lives. I know you have scars, I can see them. And this brings me back to my question, Angel.

Is there a God in this world, who knows the meaning of his life? If there is, I want to kill him for fucking me up.

Even if I go to hell.

I am not a religious person, Angel. But, I still suffer.

I think I'm already in hell.

As always,

Ash