Today I realized that I haven’t seen my brother since July. Nine months. I could have had a baby and he wouldn’t have known.
My brother has hit rock bottom. Again. He is homeless. He is a junkie. Since his arrest over Christmas holiday, he has been arrested twice, gotten in one car accident, and overdosed. He didn’t tell us about any of it. His best friend who was once a user, filled me in on his life since I’ve last seen him. It wasn’t easy listening to the sordid tales of his awful life but I had to. I had to know what his life is like.
This time it’s the worst.
My dad picked my brother up this morning to take him to detox. My brother was high and looked homeless. His shirt and pants were torn, his skin grey and dirty, and his nails black as night. He couldn’t talk, walk, or open his eyes. I am absolutely sure my father’s heart shattered a million times over. As they drove to the detox center my brother would become randomly coherent to point out street corners that he could score on. Devastation.
It’s getting to the point where I no longer fear his death. Now I fear him becoming a nameless face, begging for change, that I pass on the street one day. I worry that his disease will take his life but leave him alive.
I think about his mind and how smart he once was. Smarter than me that’s for sure. I think about how good-looking he used to be, tall & handsome. I think about how much I would laugh when he was around. My belly would ache. That boy I once loved will all my heart is gone and I am beyond scared that I will never see him again. He is a shell and heroin is his body.