Death has always been a taboo subject
in our house. I’m the only one who wants to talk about it, but if I try, mom
shushes me as if I’ve swore in front of company or something. Mom cares a lot
about what people think.
The reason my parents are so sensitive
about death is because of Shaynne and Martina.
Shaynne is my brother. He was two
years older than me and killed himself when he was fourteen, the same age as I
am now. He was being bullied. He said so in his suicide note. He didn’t mention
any names, Shaynne was always fair like that. I wish he had mentioned names. I
would track down and find those people and beat them black and blue for killing
my brother. I know it wasn’t them who ran the razor-blade down his wrist, but
they might as well have handed it to him and told him to do it. Murder, that’s
what it was. Not manslaughter, not bullying, murder. The authorities couldn’t charge anyone,
because no names were mentioned and nobody at school was going to rat bullies out.
Nobody was going to see past the beating they’d receive.