My brother murdered my father a week before Thanksgiving. It’s been months now. I believe he has Schizophrenia. We haven’t been allowed to contact him. I don’t think he wants contact. I loved my father. I loved my mother. She died when I was fourteen and my sister was twelve, brother ten. I feel so two dimensional now. I have no words for how I feel. Grief is gross, it’s like Diarrhea, or the flu. You see terrible things and get horrible ideas.
My brother is sick. I’m happy I found that forum, because otherwise, it wouldn’t be good. I don’t know what would have happened, but I wouldn’t be good. My sister isn’t doing well. I have to keep repeating that my brother was ill when he did this. I have these awful ideas that I call, ‘The Eight Muses.’ Really, they’re not about writing. They’re about the Eight Stages of Grief and moving on.
Guns were in the basement. I’m so f****** pissed they, or he? Never bought a safe. I want to make it a law. I don’t care what you do with your handguns. Buy a f****** safe for your rifles, your shotguns. Keep your ammo in there. Be responsible. Be an adult.