I think back to my loneliest days often. Days where pain would become routine – dragging the cold blade across across my warm, white skin, white turning to deep crimson, pain to relief. Those days I do not think upon with remorse, but with a strange sort of fondness that I can't seem to shake. As the scars stay with me, I suppose those feelings will, too. I believe my deep depression began the day my dear Kate was shot. It was a warm day – the sun shining lazily with a light breeze that rustled the leaves on the trees – and her hair. Her hair was one of my favorite things about her. It was so soft, so warm that day in the light.