All The Times That I Cried
All The Times That I Cried
I wasn't quite 15 when my brother, Freddie, had his first "bad trip" on P.C.P. By that time Freddie was always in trouble. No matter what he did, it turned out wrong. Freddie was losing himself to drugs and it seemed that no one could stop him.
Late one night I was awakened by violent screaming. I opened my bedroom door to find Freddie screaming down the hall, my parents chasing him, trying to hold him down. "I love you, KC," Freddie screamed as my parents held him down on the couch. "If you love me, you'll have Dad shoot me. Please Dad, just kill me. I'm in hell. Don't let me live this way!"
In the next breath he was calm.
As I looked into my brother's wild eyes, I felt as though the devil lurked deep within him. His eyes were the size of half-dollars, bulging out of their sockets.
Mom and Dad called the hospital, but there was nothing that could be done except to place a cold cloth on his forehead in attempt to calm him down.
We called Fred's best friend, Seth Baker, in hopes of learning what kind of drugs and how much Fred had taken. Fred's' screams echoed in the background as Seth claimed he knew nothing. Perhaps it was to protect himself. Twelve hours later, Fred recovered, without memory of what had happened. He could not believe that in the course of his drug-induced frenzy, he had tried to kill himself by jumping out of his bedroom window. He couldn't remember dangling half-way out of that window and being pulled to safety by our father.
"KC, I didn't do those things, did I? Mom and Dad just want me to think I did so I won't take any more drugs, isn't that true?"
"No Freddie. You did do those things." I cried. "You're killing yourself with those damn drugs and you don't even know it. How can you do this to yourself - to us? We love you."
Freddie walked away with a laugh.
Freddie and I had a half-mile walk to catch the school bus. Every morning he would smoke a marijuana cigarette while we waited for the bus. He began to get into fights over drugs; either he owed someone money for pot, or he'd sold some non-existent drugs to someone else.
I once found Freddie in the hall at school with the angry hands of a drug pusher locked around his throat. I dropped my books and ran to the scene, screaming while I sprang to the back of the dealer. "Get your hands off of my brother!" Both of my arms crossed in front of his throat and my legs wrapped around his waist.
"Get your stupid sister off of my back Brown." With a hard twist of a turn, he brushed me off his back using the wall. "You'd better thank your sister for stopping me this time, and you'd better come up with my money!" The pusher threatened as he stormed off.
I felt an inner joy take hold of me, as I stood amongst my scattered books. I just held my ground against a drug dealer.
"Mind your own business. Leave me alone!" Freddie yelled at me. "Don't you know how bad you just made me look to him? My baby sister is fighting for me! Now get lost! I mean it KC, stay out of my business!" Fred snarled.
I picked up my books in a dumfounded thought, 'I guess the next time Fred is getting beaten up, I am to mind my own business.' Of course, I did not do as Fred ordered.
Several weeks later, Fred was jumped from behind as we got off of the school bus. He lay face down on the ground, his attacker on top of him. I did it again. "Get off of my brother!" I screamed. I leaped on to the attacker's back and repeatedly pounded on him. The assailant did get off Freddie, but he grabbed me. With one hard push from a coward, I went sliding across the ground. The assailant headed straight towards me with his fist ready to swing. But before his fists could reach me, Fred grabbed him and pulled him off.
With just one punch from Fred, the coward went sailing that day. Even though he did not mutter another word to Fred, I never heard the end of