I don't want to be sitting here watching this. I don't want to be sitting here watching you slip away to a place you are afraid of - to a place I have been so many times on my own. Alone.

The three scars on my arm are there for a reason. My own sweet book of a walking death. I like to sit around and think ... about why I did what I did and why you're doing what you're doing. Each time I think, I come up with a new excuse with a lasting half life longer than my life and yours put together. Writing on the wall. But you know I'm just down here trying to get to the top of something I can't even see. I wanted to get to the top so I could pull you up since your hands are tied fumbling with your scissors. I left my pocket knives behind.

There were too many memories in my head, unwilling to get along with each other. I had to let some of them out to reassure myself it wasn't all my imagination. I had to have some release. So I put it on my arm. It wasn't just in my heart anymore, it was real now. So is yours.

I regret it sometimes. Most of the time. But every artist leaves their mark. And they fit so well with my black frame glasses and new found smile.

I remember knowing it wouldn't make me feel any better. I remember it making me feel worse, but that didn't stop me. I remember I did it and thought mine would be so much smaller and more shallow than theirs. But I saw theirs and mine were a thousand times worse. I felt so horrible and yet at the same time hoping my band-aids wouldn't cover it up. Even though I do love Mickey and Minnie.

How come it didn't hurt? It was a prettier shade of red back then.

No, it didn't hurt back then, but now it hurts. It hurts when you do it. But I could never look down on you for it - my eyes have seen the same as yours and my angels have added to my scroll too. It just hurts because in a dream I think maybe if I had done more with mine, there'd be nothing left for your scissors. I hate that you have to feel this way - wish I could stop you from going that way ... down that road. There aren't any stars there. Wish I could at least give you my hand to hold so in the end, I could help you back up. Give you my hand to hold so in the end, you could help me back up. You're not doing this alone - don't make the same mistake I did.

Hold my hand ... I've been down this way before with my red hood and wicker basket of thorns. Maybe if you help me carry it, it won't cut us as we walk. I have a flashlight too. I stole it from a Scully. I want to kiss you on the forehead and tell you later, when you want to give up, that I can't quit ... because if I do, they win. And without you, I'm afraid I'd let them win. And if you quit, they win. They win because I'd have lost almost everything. Nothing left in my hand than the still air in the beginning - before you.

Sometimes I know you don't know how much you mean to me ... and sometimes you know I don't know how much I mean to you ... but I promise I won't say a word if you promise to grab my hand before you go anywhere. Its out there for you, always. ((and an extra winter mitten to share)) I can't let you go alone.

Some of those angels have sharp wings.

Love,

Audrey