We all knew he was a drug addict. Everyone who ever saw him could tell he was. The way he talked, his choice of attire,the lack of motivation he displayed in his life. It started out when he was in middle school. He got in with the wrong group of kids, and started smoking cigarettes. A middle schooler smoking, crazy right? After cigarettes came the alcohol, the chewing tobacco, soon not becoming enough, he resorted to weed and pills. Regardless of how much he was screwing up his life, I loved him more then he would ever know. A brother is like your other half, you accept the flaws and see them for all their positives, over looking the not so positive.

I was younger than him watching all of this. From what I could comprehend from television and movies, it was pretty normal behavior. Of course, being 6 years younger than him, it was my job to keep him out of trouble with Mom and Dad. “Keep your mouth shut, or you won’t be allowed to play my video games anymore.”  I couldn’t risk losing my Super Smash Bros privileges, so I wasn’t going to snitch. I never told a soul anything.
I remember the first day it happened, like it was 15 minutes ago. I came home after school, went through my daily routine as a 6 year old, ate a snack, watched some cartoons. I noticed some smoke coming from the back yard. Thinking on what in the world that was, I curiously wandered over and  slowly opened the back door, revealing the shocking truth: my brother and his friends smoking cigarettes. His jaw dropped to the ground along with the cigarette that he tried to quickly step on to hide from my little eyes. It was too late. “Clarence you can't tell anyone!” he said, and being the closed minded little brother I didn't tell a soul.
As he grew older I watched in the shadows to see the drug of choice changed from cigarettes to marijuana. My parents and I could always tell when he had smoked weed. His eyes would be bloodshot, it looked like he hadn't slept in weeks… His concentration was nonexistent, not finishing sentences, as he ate everything insight. At dinner he’d sit slouching at the table, not talking and avoiding eye contact with all of us. My parents didn’t want to believe that they had a raised a son to be like this, and they constantly looked the other way when they knew he was up to no good. He would be in his room, behind closed doors for hours. My parents’ room was too far away, but mine was right across the hall and I could always smell the aroma of whatever he was doing. 
One evening, my mom called us down for dinner, contrary to his normal method of sauntering over, he rushed to the table. I watched him as his eyes raced from side to side like he was watching an Olympic ping pong match, as his foot wouldn’t stop tapping like it were an involuntary motion,  he wouldn’t stop sniffling like he had just came down a sudden cold. I knew that wasn't the case. The amount of energy he had, so involved in our family conversations and interested in whatever we had to say. “Jake how was school?” Mom asked. “Oh man it was great we starting basketball in team sports today, I feel I have the best team!” My parents were enthralled to see him discussing school and their work lives. It just left me suspicious.
He went back to his lair after dinner, accidently leaving the door open just a little. I heard a random and rhythmic tapping followed by a long exaggerated sniff. Puzzled by what his meant I opened the door further to discover him face down in a pile of white powder.
Overwhelmed with disbelief, my inside shattered like a broken mirror as I exited without him knowing. Cocaine!? So many questions came to me as I lay in bed that night trying to erase the image I had seen of my older brother earlier that evening. I heard a knock on my bedroom door, I opened it to find him standing there with a look of seriousness I had never seen before. “I know you saw me. Do not tell anyone.” Then the door shut.
Pages on the calendar changed but one thing did not: his need for any sort of mind altering substance he could get his hands on. I was sitting in the basement one weeknight as he was headed out to “do some homework.” Before he left, he came downstairs to grab something from the closet next to where I sat. Scrambling around for a few minutes, he then turned and headed back up the stairs. Glancing at the stairs, I noticed something out of place. I crept over to see what he had dropped on the floor... To my disingenuous surprise, it was a brown paper bag.
I wondered what he had gotten into this time. Pills? Weed? Coke? Booze? I opened the bag to find something I never expected. I found a drug that no one could resist, quite possibly the most addictive thing on earth. Money. A wad of cash made of about two hundred and fifty dollars, held firmly together by a rubber band. I was reminded of a movie my dad watched the other day, about drug smugglers with wads of money. It was this moment when I realized the horrific truth of my older brother’s identity. Of course I thought to myself, I have to tell someone, this is the last straw… Yet, like always, I couldn't find it within me to say anything to anyone.
Inevitably, it came the time for him to move out. After high school he moved in with some friends of his to a small apartment in Alma city. Today marked six months since he left. I came home from school to find both my parents in silence while watching television. They were unresponsive to my greeting. It was so hostile, you could feel the bad vibe soon as you entered the room. I turned to see the Breaking News report captivating them, and I too marveled in stunned silence. “The discovery of a meth lab right in Alma city” News reporter announced. I watched my brother, on national TV  being put into the handcuffs and thrown in the back of the police car. I thought back to the first time I ever saw him smoking a cigarette, and how I longed for those days to return.
I suppose I just want my older brother back. I miss him. I still see him a few times a year. During Christmas, Thanksgiving, and of course his birthday. He seems like himself again, calm with bright blue eyes. I had forgotten what his real eye color was. It’s nice to have a conversation with my real brother again, even it is through a phone looking at each other through a film of bulletproof glass. I can’t help but to blame myself for his troubles, I was a poor younger brother growing up. Knowing this was mostly my fault. I'm just as bad as the drug itself. I should have told someone.