Writing Letters [completed // editing]

| letter five october 1 1999 |

"Everyone wants some magical solution for their problems and everyone refuses to believe in magic."

                                   ~the mad hatter

Dear Angel, 

I'm writing this, a bottle of whiskey not leaving my hands. I guess you could say I'm drunk, but sadly, I haven't reached that wonderland yet. I can still think rationally and the world is still frighteningly sharp and clear. Yesterday I wrote you a letter, and I'm writing you another today. You see, when you came over yesterday, after I gave you my letter, and hit my door, yelling at me to let you in, I had a life changing revelation. You don't know what it's like, not having anyone care for you. And I envy you for that. 

As I sit here, drowning my sorrows in hard liquor, listening to my music at full volume, and writing this letter, I wonder, why do I keep going. I have nothing to live for, nothing to lose, no reason to keep breathing. And then I laugh, take another sip of whiskey, and the whole process starts. I must be sober enough, to be able to think this. And yet, maybe not enough. Because yesterday, when I threw my door open, to bitch you out for the noise, I could've sworn I saw something in your eyes. 

Something like caring. 

You had thrust your hand up in my face, the four letters I had sent you previously, clenched in your fist, wrinkled. "These," you said, violently. "What are they," you asked. 

"Letters," I said, angered at your slowness. "I know that," you said, briefly, "But why are you sending them to me," you just about snarled. 

"Look," I had said. "I don't know. But you're here for a reason, and I know this is not it."

Do you remember your response? 

I do. 

You blinked. Once, twice, then cleared your throat. Then you said the five words that have me sitting here, swigging whiskey to wash away the confusion. 

Do you remember them?

"I want to help you." 

As always,

Ash