When they told me that my brother was dead, I didn’t believe them. I thought that they were all lying to me, that it was all just some cruel sick joke. But in the back of my head I knew it was true; I had known that it was coming.
I cried for days. The pain is indescribable, and I would never wish that kind of pain on even my worst enemy. I didn’t go to school all week; I couldn’t go to school, I was too depressed.
My brother had been my whole life, my world; I revolved around him, and so did the rest of our family. He was always so happy, and so playful; he never failed to cheer me up. He was a total kid at heart and made me laugh ever second of my life, even when I was first born, and he wanted to name me Rosy, I had laugh. I thought he was hilarious even when I was a baby. The love and strength that radiated out of him even when he wasn’t in the best of moods was incredible; it still shocks me. I never thought anything could be wrong with my brother, and with my family.
I until I found out that my brother was an alcohol addict.
He was a drunk. He started drinking as soon as he hit high school. He went partying. He got drunk. He did the occasional drugs, and smoked pot. I didn’t know a single person who was so good could do so much wrong.
I didn’t know that all of this could go on behind my back for so many years.
My parents didn’t know either. They knew about the occasional pot, but nothing else. But then my brother got caught drunk driving, and he had crashed and totaled his car, luckily, not hurting himself or anyone else in the process. He was one of the luckier ones; until the cops caught him.
His license was taken away, and he had a court date set up. My father had to get him a lawyer. My parents sent him to a “medical help program” before they even had the trial. They could try to make it sound better than it was, but basically it was just rehab for teenagers.
Tension was high in our house. My whole family was constantly mad at each other, always sad, always fighting. My brother was no longer the person I used to love so much. I stayed out of everything as much as I could, but every time they would fight, I felt like it was my duty to play peace-maker, and I tried. But none of it worked.
I watch my older brother become depressed. I watched his will to live slowly disappear.
And I watched him try to kill himself multiple times. I stopped him every time, but he made me promise to tell no one, so I didn’t. That was my fatal mistake. I know wished that I had.
I spent my days fearing that my brother was somewhere trying to kill himself. I did my best to stay around him for most of the day, and act like everything was normal. I talked to him like nothing was wrong, i did things with him like nothing was wrong. But he did nothing in return; I felt like I was talking to a dead body. Little did I know that he was a dead body in the making.
I came home from my first day of Eighth grade year to the worst news of my life.
“Your brother is dead. He shot himself.”
I knew it was coming, but I could not believe. I couldn’t believe that he was gone, and that he was never coming back.
I couldn’t believe that I had let my brother die.
It was all my fault.