(A/N: Part two. Again, warnings for extreme gore, language, violence, and disturbing imagery. I am not anywhere close to sorry, at all. As I said before this came off of my Tumblr account (does-my-url-have-to-be-funny) and you will find many fun things there. :) Drop by and shoot me an ask! Hope y'all like it and, as usual, please leave a review when you're done!

And to XxSkullCandyxX: What? There was literally no point to your review except self-promotion fro a film that doesn't yet exist. I don't understand what you were thinking when you placed that there because it's completely random, but I appreciate your praise nonetheless.

Raxi: You know what happens. You will still hate me, but you know what happens. Less-than-five.)

Dear Mabel,

I am so, so sorry you had to do this. I am so, so sorry I didn't come back with help sooner.

It's all my fault.

—Dipper

Dear Mabel,

I saw what was inside the Shack. As you can tell, I found the journal. I am so sorry…

The pills…the blood…the vomit…everything. I saw everything from the inside…it was…I am so, so sorry…

My very deepest regret is that I wasn't able to suffer alongside you. I'm your twin. I should share everything with you. I shouldn'tve been so selfish…the good days I took without even thinking…but I…when the going got tough I…I left…

Please stop screaming...I—I can't take it when you scream…or when you cry…I want to hold you. I just want to take you into my arms and let you know that I am here and it is going to be okay and that you are safe but…they won't let me get close to you.

They say you're too dangerous right now…too unstable. I don't know if they mean your physical state or…something else…

I just…be okay, alright? Just be okay for me.

—Dipper

Dear Mabel,

Mom and Dad called. I had to tell them the truth…about everything.

About Stan and Soos and Wendy…

They're on their way. Mom took unpaid vacation time and Dad called up his publisher and told him to postpone the chapters because of a family emergency. They're driving from Piedmont to Gravity Falls nonstop. I hope Ol' Reliable doesn't break down on the way here…you know how badly her uns under pressure…

I think they're scared…they should be…I am.

Please be better when they get here.

—Dipper

Dear Mabel,

Please stop fighting them. Please stop screaming. Please stop clawing your skin. Please stop pulling your hair.

You aren't a monster. You're just sick. Just take the injections. Just take the pills. If you give in, they won't have to strap you to the gurney again.

Please stop biting them…you're not helping your case…

I want to hold your hand and tell you it's okay but your behavior keeps them from letting me near you.

I suppose…I should have been always there for you.

When we were little, remember, we would do everything together and share everything. We were born at the same time…well, cuz you won't let me forget it, you're five minutes older than me…and we shared the same birthday. We shared beds, bedrooms when I got into my 'girls are icky' phase, parties, and even looked a lot like each other. You kept your hair short like mine because "Twins should look alike. Besides, I wanna look just like my lil' brother!". It wasn't until you got bullied that things started getting weird.

You always had imaginary friends when we were younger. They would range from the cute ones—like Waddles, the pet pig you would feed food to (and then the food would "mysteriously" show up under out bed a few days later smelling like rot)—to the absurd—mainly Craz and Xyler, the teen dreamboats you modeled after two guys from an 80's movie you saw. But…after you got bullied…there were no more imaginary friends. Just the ghosts.

I never had any of those imaginary friends when I was younger but it didn't bother me. You'd share yours with me and we'd have a grand old time. I just figured that having imaginary friends was a girl thing.

It wasn't.

(You have schizophrenia. The diagnosis has just been confirmed. Full-blown mental disorder. I was lucky, they're telling me. It skipped over me. "Males are slightly more likely to get it than women and it's usually more severe, but it varies from case-to-case." Fan-flipping-tastic…if yours is a less severe case, I wonder what mine would have been like.)

You screamed at Mom whenever she'd try to cut your hair past a trim after that incident, you know—the one with that kid who wound up smearing your face in the mud? I covered myself in the gunk to make you feel better…it didn't work…You didn't want to be "twins" any more. "Twins" was bad. "Twins" got you hurt. "Twins" was only okay on Halloween, when it got us more candy and no one called you "freak" or "loser"…it was…hard…

I wanted to be "twins" with you, I wanted to share everything with you like we used to. I wanted to hold your hand in public and laugh and smile and have tea parties with Waddles and Xyler and Craz but it just wasn't going to happen. You didn't want to be "twins" and I loved you too much to go against your wishes. I was your "younger brother" after that and it hurt to be stripped of a status and degraded to a title.

…the doctors say you exhibit extreme "positive" symptoms and a few "negative" ones…what does that even mean?! "Positive" "negative" what does that matter?! I just want my sister back!

I just want you back…I just…please…

—Dipper

Dear Mabel,

I said I would do it…I told Mom and Dad I would write down what happened…I don't want to though…

I can imagine you leaning over my shoulder, grinning widely and telling me that if I don't want to do it, t'not to.

I have to though…

Okay…so here goes…

…

The ghosts didn't normally bother you all that often, usually when you were under extreme duress or very tired, but lately you've been pretty stable. Stable enough that I pushed aside my anxieties and begrudgingly didn't tell Mom and Dad. Then Gravity Falls happened and, sad to say, I was too preoccupied with my own issues and obsessive need to prove the paranormal goings on real that I neglected to keep an eye on your mental state. I wasn't a very good "little brother".

When I noticed though, it was too late…the ghosts were gone but something more dangerous had taken their place. You worried and fretted about the monsters now; the monsters that had taken the place of our friends. You were hysterical and even Stan noticed; that's why he decided to let me go and get the local doctor and for him to stay here. He promised he would take care of you.

You refused to let me go so I told you I was getting help, that I was going to come back with someone who could save us from those monsters. Placated, you allowed me to go and I ran as fast as I could. I wasn't fast enough though…

The doctor was out of town, Blubs and Durland were uncooperative, and I spent the night at Soos' Abuelita's place (simply because he insisted and she was making tapas (though I never did figure out exactly what type she made…something with "salad" in the title…) The next day I still could not get a hold of the doctor and spent another night on Abuelita's couch. The third day is when everything went down.

Stan left you to come drive me to the city a few miles over, where the doctor was at a medical convention and that's when stuff started going down. More than normal…

Apparently, according to secondhand sources since you didn't elaborate in your "letters" to me and I wasn't there, Wendy tried to get you to calm down after a weird freak-out and you jammed a nail into her hand and screamed about how she was trying to feed you to them. (Them, I am to assume, would be the monsters.) And, since you know the Fallers as well as I do, Manly Dan flipped his stuff and rallied a gosh darn witch hunt (no pun intended). The riot gathered around the Shack—which, at this point, was boarded up—and shut down the water and electricity, hoping to ferret you out. Instead, much like a turtle, you retreated further into the Shack and became hostile when approached.

When Stan and I got back with the doctor and some orderlies from a nearby hospital—we weren't really sure what all we needed to help you, nor were we sure about your mental state—we found the Fallers camping outside the shack with actual torches and pitchforks. Once Stan, the doctor, and I explained what was going on, the Fallers were a little more calm. (Emphasis on a "little".) The doctor went on to treat Wendy (she only needed a few stitches) then we devised a plan to help get you out and to a hospital where we could help you.

(Though, admittedly at first I was worried about you having food and water, Stan explained that he had stockpiled non-perishables in preparation for the oncoming apocalypse and that fear was readily dismissed.)

Stan mentioned the storm cellar led back up to the safe room and he unlocked it for someone to sneak in while you were sleeping. (Or so they presumed.) He unlocked the door and the Fallers drew straws. Toby Determined lost and he went in after a few seconds of mental preparation and a slap across the face from Sandra Jimenez (he really shouldn't have asked for that kiss…though now I'm betting she wished she had complied…). We heard Toby scream (you as well) and then we waited for him to come out. When he didn't, the Fallers wanted blood again. Your blood, my blood, Stan's blood; so long as it was the blood of a Pines, they would have been satisfied. It took a while to convince them that it was just a fluke; even longer to convince them that we should try again. I would have volunteered but Stan wouldn't let me.

Lazy Susan, Nate, and Lee went in the next day. This time we heard what went on with a little more clarity. The things Nate and Lee said before they died…I think Lazy Susan was the first to go because suddenly Nate screamed "WHAT THE FUCK?!" then screamed. Lee shouted something about a "crazy bitch" and how she (you) should "back the hell off before [he went] ape-shit on your ass". I don't know about everyone else, but I know that Stan and I heard the crunching of them being pulverized. I puked. Stan just rubbed my back in a familial way until I stopped dry-heaving. He looked paler than normal.

When the storm cellar was boarded up along with any other opening you could think of—save for the attic window which you seemed to believe was safe to remain uncovered—the Fallers not only cried for blood, they cried for vengeance. They wanted you to suffer for your crimes. I couldn't get them to calm down after that. All I could do was watch as they scrabbled at the windows and doors and screamed for you to open up and that they "weren't gonna hurt you". It was as bad as watching you have a breakdown only I couldn't get you out of Sweater Town. I was useless…

Twenty-four hours later Wendy had properly recovered and was coherent enough to remind me of the rooftop escape. Stan, of course, was outraged that one of his employees DARED to shift-evade—which, upon first examination seemed like a very Stan thing to do, but upon closer inspection was a rather well-veiled use of normal reactions being used to mask his unease. Blubs and Durland directed the town to topple the totem pole and shimmied up it and entered the shack. They, of course, did not exit; however, this time I didn't hear the grisly details of their demise; I only heard their screams.

Everyone did.

God, it's all my fault!

…

I tried to get your attention though, I really did. Every time I would wander by windows and try and catch your eye you would scream at me. You would yell that I was not real and I was "just like them" and tormenting you. I suppose it was my fault since I caught your eye the day before Blubs and Durland went in. I was ashamed of what I was doing; about how little control I had over the situation. I broke eye-contact and walked away from the window. I think that may be why you wouldn't listen to me when I tried to help later..

The rooftop opening was boarded up…I suppose you didn't take too kindly to the police intruding upon your sanctuary. However, since no one bothered to remember the attic window, no one attempted to come in through there. I took the opportunity offered to me and used it to make contact with you…well…I used it to try and make contact with you. You weren't exactly receptive to my midday visits.

You, at this point in time, had already changed your sleeping habits to match the assault you were under. Apparently the Fallers had determined that a nocturnal front would be the best choice so you had resorted to sleeping when you could during the daytime. Ingenious idea…sorry it had to be that way…

Soos had enough. He volunteered when no one else would step forth. "I wanna help her," he said when the Fallers attempted to dissuade him from doing so. When asked why he responded, "She won't hurt me, I know it!" He was so sure of himself.

I regret hiding on the roof at that time. Your screams then were in fear, as was his, but through the choked squealing sound that was broken with hiccups you were making I heard him. I heard him rasp through a mouthful of blood and crushed esophagus, "We can help you, Hambone…"

HE JUST WANTED TO HELP YOU AND YOU KILLED HIM! YOU KILLED SOOS!

I…I promised myself I wouldn't hold that against you and I won't. You're sick. You didn't understand what was going on. You couldn't "see" us. You could only see the "monsters". Even now, you only see us as "monsters".

I—I just…I want you back…I want my twin back. heck, I'll even settle for my "older sister" back. I…please…

…

The worst thing though, worse than the nail in Wendy's palm, worse than Soos' death, worse than your screams even, was what happened later. …what you did to Stan…

He…he couldn't handle it. Your screams, that is. It kept him up at night and he was beginning to look as bad as you sounded. His hair was frazzled and his skin was pale. He was almost always in a cold sweat. (I think part f it was because he didn't have any of his pills.) He broke that night and found a way in. I don't know how; I don't know; I don't care. All I know is I got up that night to visit you and saw him inside the Shack showroom. That's when you saw him too.

You screamed as he held out his hands to try and hug you, to try and reason with you. You picked up a baseball bat and swatted his legs from beneath him BY SMASHING IN HIS KNEECAPS. He screamed and you screamed and both of you were crying as he tried to speak through the bile and pain, as he tried to plead with you. You smashed his arms to bloody messes, small bits of bone poking out from his paper-thin flesh. Blood splattered all over your face and your sweater and you looked like a demented reaper or demon-possessed human. You screamed at him, "DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE!" over and over and over again until you were choking on your own slobber.

When he stopped moving, you went to cut of his legs by repeatedly stabbing and sawing away at them with a pair of old "haunted" scissors. That's when he began to cry and plead with you again, blubbering through a mouthful of puke and blood and slobber, your face darkened and clenched.

I'd never been more afraid of you than I was in that one moment.

You let out a bloodthirsty howl and started stomping his face in, sadistic glee oozing from your very pores. "SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!" was your mantra. His fragile elderly jaw fractured and a mixture of teeth and blood and spittle came spewing out of his mouth. I lost my lunch there, emptying my stomach onto the grass at my feet.

You've never been a cruel person and, under different circumstances you wouldn't be so, but I can only imagine what we looked like if seeing Stan triggered that reaction.

You dragged him away after popping a few of what I now know to be Stan's pills. Behind you was a chunky trail of blood and teeth and bone pattered with footprints and you never returned after disposing of him.

I lay in the bushes for hours. It seemed like forever, really. My stomach heaved long after it was empty and soon after that I curled into the fetal position and cried. I cried for Stan; I cried for you; I cried for Soos; but I mostly cried for me. I was pathetic. I was weak. I was alone. You were all I had and you weren't even sane enough to even know I was trying to help.

Like the selfish child I was, I gave up. Everyone else did too.

You were alone.

I decided then that, for my atonement for not saving you, I would suffer alongside you. If you were going to not eat or drink or sleep, I wouldn't either. I would stop being your cowardly "little brother" and start being your "twin" again. It was Hell but it payed off. Someone up there must've heard my pleas because you left the Shack and they caught you.

Your skin was caked in dried blood, as was your light-up 'MABEL' sweater, your shoes were untied, your hair was unkempt, your face was absolutely filthy, your arms were suspiciously clean and rubbed raw as if you had scrubbed them until you bled, and as I got close I noticed your pupils were shot. You must've been blissed out on something because when the burly orderlies picked you up you just kicked and screamed until you coughed up blood and could no longer speak instead of something worse. Burn marks adorned your arms and hands (self-inflicted the doctor says) and were revealed when they pried your sweater off of you to shoot you with a tranq and strap you to the gurney. Manly Dan was kind enough to give me a ride to the hospital in lieu of riding in the back of the ambulance with the unconscious you. We got to the hospital and…well…you woke up…

Thus we return to the present.

…

I just…I want you to get better…short of Mom and Dad—who are never home on a GOOD day—you're all I have left of happiness…

I can't lose you…and if I do…

We'll be twins again…I promise…I'll make sure of it.

—Dipper