‘My brother committed suicide when I was fourteen. He was my oldest brother. He was living with my mom and me at the time and was heavy into drugs. He was facing the very real possibility of going to prison because he had forged prescriptions and he had been stealing from my mom. My mom had told him he had to leave and couldn’t stay with us anymore. That morning, we had all walked out of the house together knowing that he wouldn’t be coming back. I went to school and my mom went to work and it started snowing. At fourteen, I was used to having the house to myself and I was so happy that my brother was finally getting out of the house. I remember telling my friends how happy I was that he was out of my life and that I hoped I wouldn’t see him for a while.
We lived in an apartment. When I went to unlock the front door after coming home from school that day, I couldn’t unlock it. There was a deadbolt and it could only be locked from the inside. I knew, right then, that it was my brother and I was livid. He had ruined my life for the several weeks he’d been with us and now he was making it worse by breaking into our home and barricading himself in and I had no way to get in. A maintenance worker from the apartment complex got me into the apartment. I looked around to make sure that nothing had been stolen and when I tried to go into my mom’s room, I couldn’t get the door to open. I pushed as hard as I could and got it open just a couple inches. The maintenance guy couldn’t get it open either so we called the police.’
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