My Brother This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

By
   My Brother

by Anon.,

Sanbornton, NH

All my dolls had pockets. Dolls with pockets were best, I knew because I could hide my allowance in their pockets.

I could hide my precious dollars from my brother, who would otherwise steal them for drug money.

Before I had learned to fold dollars into little squares and stuff them in the tiny pockets, I had suffered greatly. I had two piggy banks smashed. I had my pink wallet opened, my plastic purse ripped. But my brother never looked in the dolls' pockets, and so in there I would keep my life savings.

When I was 5, 6, 7, and 8 years old, I lived in constant fear of my only brother. I remember asking my mother how long it would be before I used drugs too.

I'd play "policeman" with my Barbies. Ken was the policeman who came to our door. He only had one line, he said, "I'm sorry folks, but your son in dead." Then the Barbies that were my mother and I would jump up and down, laugh, hug, and move to Disney World.

I think he thought he was too strong for cocaine. I think he thought he could beat it. He never admitted he was addicted, not even to himself.

In a small corner of my mind, I loved him very much. At times he was so kind to me I felt ashamed for wishing he was dead. He'd even buy me ice cream while he took me around town selling drugs.

I am now the same age my brother was when he first became an addict. I am glad those days are over, and I have now nearly forgotten them. I do not go around preaching to classmates the dangers of drugs. I do not say anything at all. Everyone knows you are hurting yourself by doing drugs. But people you may have never even considered are affected very much as well.


This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.






Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback