To whom it may concern,

I wrote this short story over two years ago while my brother was still an active drug addict. I originally decided to write this story because the stories that I have read about addiction focus on solely the addict. Addiction is a family disease, so I have decided to share my own personal account of the heartbreak that comes with being associated with an addict.

Just like writing, the rain calms me down.

I have been fascinated with the rain since I was a little girl. It tickles and taps on the window in a soothing and calming rhythm. My heart often beats in rhythm with the rain, relieving me from my paralyzed state. The clouds create a gloomy shade in the sky that creates drops which fall gently on my skin. Some people probably think that the rain is harsh and brings destruction, but it always manages to make me feel free and alive. The rain shows me that the world still cares about me, even when my family fails to do so.

I never understood my fascination with the rain until I started to get older, and that is when I realized that some things in my life were not normal.

Life with an addict is far from normal.

At 23 years old, I am the youngest of three children, but that certainly does not make me the baby of the family. My older brother, Chris, is thirty years old and is the first born child to my parents. Chris is a drug addict and has been doing drugs for as long as I can remember. He does not have a job and he is not looking for one either. He’s been leeching off my parents. Chris is like a parasite, he drains the life out of someone until it is time to move onto his next victim. I have been forced to helplessly watch from the sidelines for the past ten years as Chris has single-handedly sucked the life out of my parents. I never thought that someone could be capable of such cruelty, but I also did not expect that person to be my brother.

Chris always had a level of arrogance whenever he walked around the house. His eyes often rolled in a circular motion when he laid his green eyes upon my gaze. He was always so indifferent to me that he mumbled something under his breath before he turned around and glared at me like a lion hunting its prey. His footsteps fiercely echoed throughout the room as he walked down the wooden steps, leaving me dumbfounded as I replayed every possible thing that I could have said in my head. I think the hardest thing about Chris’s drug addiction was accepting that it was not my fault that he seemed to hate me so much. Even though to a little sister, it was impossible to not resent myself to a certain degree. My deepest fear, “why does he not love me?” plagued my thoughts and made me think that there was something wrong with me.

Last year, he started stealing from everyone to support his habit. At first, it was little things like loose change in someone’s room, but that wasn’t enough for him. He eventually picked the golden lock in my room and stole my Gameboy, which just happened to have my most prized possession from my childhood: My level one hundred fire breathing dragon Pokémon. It was gone. Why would he do that to his own sister? He knew how important that was to me. It clicked in my mind that day: my brother loves drugs more than he loves me.

There's only so much a family can take.

I remember the day that my parents finally worked up the nerve to kick Chris out because he stole over $10,000 from everyone. The heat from the wooden fireplace radiated throughout the room as he walked upstairs. Rain drops were covering the edge of the windows as rain was falling from the dark sky. The constant beating of the rain had a very calming and relaxing effect that stole me away from my thoughts, acting as a temporary escape from what was about to happen. My whole world was about to be turned upside down forever.

“I’m sorry, mom. It’ll be different this time, I promise,” Chris said as my father threw his clothes through our wooden chipped door.

My mother sat down on the brown leather couch and put her hands on her face. “How am I even supposed to believe you anymore? Chris, you’re killing me, can’t you see that? You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“Mom, please don’t kick me out. I’m telling you that I’m going to get clean, please don’t do this.”

Boiling rage flared my father’s nostrils as he threw more of Chris’s clothes outside. He ran through the door, slamming it closed as he entered again. “When have we heard this sob story before? I want you out; now go before we call the cops.”

“Where am I supposed to go? I have no place to live, no money and no job. I’ll freeze to death outside, is that what you want?”

“That’s not our problem, you’re not our problem anymore,” My father said as he opened the front door, “We’ve given you too many chances. Now go before I call the cops, don’t think I won’t either.”

“Whatever man, you guys are seriously messed up. Shows how much you care about me, I guess. Don’t even bothering calling me or anything, I’m done with all of you,” Chris said as he looked at my mother once last time, but she did not return his gaze. A small tear started to emerge from her delicate deep brown eyes. This must have been the hardest thing she'd ever had to do. Chris shook his head as he walked down the cement stairs and out of our lives forever.

Goodbyes are always hard.

The next morning, his brown Timberland boots were imprinted in the muddy ground. Those footprints were the last trace that I ever saw of him.

I wonder if he realizes that was one of the most difficult days of my life. He may not be the best brother in the world, but he is the only one I have and I do love him. I just want my brother back so we can start over and be a family again. Despite my hopes, I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.

One year is a year too long.

Each day this year has slowly passed with agony. It is always more dreadful than the last because I have not heard from him in over a year. I did not even get a phone call on Christmas or my birthday. I always thought that I would be better off without my brother, but I did not expect it to be like this. Waiting to hear from Chris is like waiting to hear from a ghost. One is naturally curious to see when it will happen, but the results can be disastrous. The tall wooden clock in my dining room is my greatest enemy. It comes alive as the metal gears grind together. It has a ticking heartbeat and the first chimes echoes like a screeching voice that pierces through my heart, counting every hour that I haven’t heard from him.

Chris doesn’t know this, but I would do almost anything to hear his voice again, I would even settle for a text message or a message on Facebook if I had to. Communicating with someone on Facebook is a funny thing. We can catch up with old friends that we haven’t seen in a while, talk to new people or even talk to best friends about the cute guy in class, but did you know it can also be used to break someone’s heart?

Words can hurt too.

I accidentally opened my mother’s Facebook messenger one day and I was devastated by what I saw.

Chris said, “I don't like the way I'm being treated by the family. It's not fair just because I'm a drug addict, doesn't make me a bad person. Like what kind of family has their own son arrested because I came to the house? What kind of family puts out an order of protection against their only son, do you know how that fucking makes me feel?”

Chris’s harsh and heinous words blazed my nostrils and made my heart drop. Anxiety clawed into my stomach as hands pierced up my throat, choking me as his words replayed in my head over and over again.

“You don't act like you want to be accepted by the family. You need to get a job to pay back your sister and start to rebuild a relationship. You have to stop begging for money and expecting things that you don’t deserve,” she replied.

“I don’t fucking deserve this, I hate being treated like a nobody. I'm your fucking goddam only son, but you don't give a fuck about me. You’d probably be happier if I were dead. Maybe I'll do you a favor. I have nothing to fucking live for, some family I got. Bunch of fucking scumbags,” Chris replied before he signed off Facebook and never answered my mother again.

An addict is perhaps one of the most abusive bullies out there.

Why would Chris even be considering suicide? Suicide releases someone from the outer restrictions of the harsh mortal world and allows one to move onto the peaceful next life. He did not plan to use this as a release. He wanted to use it as ammo to bully my mother into giving him money.

Chris is a form of cancer: he likes to destroy things and will do whatever he wants, even if that means hurting the people who love him in the process. Why do I even miss him? He probably would not even care if I got hit by a bus.

There are only three outcomes of drug abuse: jail, rehabilitation or death. The court system has long failed my family, so that is not an option. Rehabilitation is for the people who want to get help, the people who have finally hit rock bottom and are ready to put drugs past them. Why hasn’t Chris hit rock bottom after 10 years of abusing drugs? Why hasn’t he hit rock bottom after nearly dying of a drug-induced seizure? Why hasn’t he hit rock bottom after nearly being beaten to death by a drug dealer?

This is a vicious cycle that needs to end.

Death seems like the only logical outcome if Chris continues down this road of self-destruction. Does it make me a bad person if I kind of want that to happen so my family and I can finally be at peace?

I have already imagined that it is going to rain on the day of his funeral, but I am okay with that. The little droplets of rain will gently fall upon my weeping face and erase my pain for a while.