Writing Letters [completed // editing]

| letter twenty july 4 2000 |

"No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart." 

                                   ~the great gatsby 

Dear Angel, 

Let me tell you about a time I think you'd enjoy hearing. 

I was a small girl, unaware of the goings on in the world. One day, my father came home, I believe I was around eight, and he said to me, "Ash, I just want you to know that I love you. You know that, right?" I had nodded in return, not knowing what he could have possibly been talking about. 

That night, Angel, my parents had a blow out fight. Screaming at each other, it was non-stop. Such things were said such as my father screaming that my mother was such a bitch, and that he was glad that he cheated on her. 

Or my mother retaliating that she had slept with his best friend and co worker. Needless to say, the divorce came swiftly. But that's not the part that I wanted to tell you, Angel. 

No, I wanted to tell you about the sight that greeted my eyes as I came out of my room the next morning. 

Glass everywhere, tables overturned and broken, the couch cushions thrown everywhere. Looking back on it, it reminds me eerily of myself when I have relapses. I guess the point I wanted to make is that it doesn't take much for me to go off. 

So my living room was similar this morning to what it looked like so long ago. 

Just... how could you, Angel. I hope she was worth it, you fucking douche. 

As always, 

Ash