a box

(contains substance abuse, suicide, physical violence)

A box. That's all it was. A box. I’ve tried to forget about it, tried to move on, but the memory of it still stains my mind. All I could ever think about was my brother; I miss him.

Part one- Possession

For as long as I could remember, he was always the first, and really the only person I could count on. It seems strange to most people until they realise our parents are addicts. It’s been him and me for as long as I can remember. It was another boring day in our trailer, like every day. But something about today was special. It was the second week of the month, which meant Mum and Dad were gone for 3 days for some "us time". The perfect time to play some Mario Kart on our Super Nintendo with my brother, which was always my favourite thing to do with him. I ran into my brother’s room to wake him up, but as I entered, I found him sitting there on the edge of his bed. His posture was rigidly upright, and his face had a strange look of contentment. I called his name, but there was no response. I walked over to him and put my hand gently on his shoulder; as I did this, he spun towards me and stood up quickly. His eyes were wide in an almost inhuman manner, an ear-to-ear grin stretched across his face. I took a step back and his face twisted in confusion. I moved to leave his room, but he stopped me. “Wait,” he began, moving away from me and towards his bed. I waited. Of course I waited. You would too if you knew my brother. I'd do anything for him. I stood there growing impatient, my mind racing with thoughts of confusion, fear, and excitement. I watched him rummaging under his bed, hunched over on his knees. He dug around for a few minutes, and my interest quickly faded. Just as I moved to leave, Mario Kart calling my name, he pulled out a dusty box from under his bed, shuffled over to me, and placed it in my hands with an unsettling grin. Puzzled but intrigued, I opened the box. How truly stupid I was.

Part 2- The box

A needle, brown dust, a spoon and a lighter. Four items that, on their own, seemed rather strange to have together. I knew what each of these things was, but I had no idea of the horror they could produce when combined. My brother gestured for me to sit down, but I refused, shaking my head. I told him I wanted to go play Mario Kart. Then he said something to me that I’ll never forget. “What’s in this box is better than a hundred Mario Karts.” I begrudgingly gave in at the promise of something better than Mario Kart, so I sat down on the floor. He took off his belt and took my arm, yanking it towards him. He told me to look away, and after a brief second of hesitation, I did. As I stared at the wall across from me, I heard the flick of a lighter. Confused, I moved to turn my head. Before I could look, something sharp pressed into my arm. I flinched, and his grip on my wrist tightened. “Don’t fucking move.” I wish I had flinched again, over and over again, but I didn’t. It burned, but only for a second before an overwhelming wave of euphoria washed over me. The air in my lungs felt cold and crisp. My eyes focused for a brief second before my vision blurred. My body felt heavy. I let myself slump back into the floor, staring up at the ceiling in awe. It felt amazing; I felt amazing. It really was better than a hundred Mario Karts. It was better than life.

Part 3- Dope

I still don't know whether my brother wanted to hurt me or save me, and I guess I never will. We did anything for a fix; nothing would stop us from getting our dose. Of course he would be the one to take it just a little too far. He just had to pick a fight with the old man. Our father was an angry and violent drunk. My brother had every right to defend himself. I just wished things had happened differently. My brother just had to let it slip. He just had to mention the box, my dad's box. My dad got really angry, started yelling at my brother for taking his dope, and said it wasn't his fault he was a "good-for-nothing smackhead". Those words really hurt my brother.

Part 4 - Family

My dad hated that he was responsible for the first bit of dope my brother stole. The first dope we ever did. It's funny how something that happened so long ago can make someone so mad, but in a way I think my dad was just mad with how we turned out. A reflection of himself, all scabbed up and burnt out, degrading ourselves just to get a little taste. It runs in the family. He really did hate us. And it really seemed like my brother hated him too, enough to put him down like an injured animal, one hole straight in the middle of his skull, but strangley as soon as he put my father out of his misery he dropped to the floor and turned to me with an expression only Goya could put an image to, I ran over and grabbed him tight and told him everything was going to be alright, he looked back at me and told me this was all too much and he didnt want things to be this way, but all of this was too much; it was enough for him to put a bullet through his own head, in my arms, right in front of me.

Part 5- Mario Kart

He held the gun he used to kill our father up to the roof of his mouth, the metal cutting his gums, making blood run down his arm. He looked at me with great sorrow and pain in his eyes, and then he shut them, and before I could process what was happening, he did it.

It was loud and scary, and it made me feel sick. I just sat there and hugged his lifeless body for what seemed like hours, and as my nose filled up with the smell of metal and smoke, my clothes getting drenched with what remained of my brother, I watched him go from a human to a distant memory. I couldn't stomach it anymore. I grabbed the same gun and drew it to my forehead, the cold metal stinging my temple as my eyes began to well with tears. I hugged my brother tightly and thought about Mario Kart. I wonder if they have it in heaven.