My cousin Alberto had been a drug addict since he was 15. He lived with my family and me for as far back as I can remember. Alberto came from Mexico when he was 14 in hopes that the United States would bring him better opportunities. As soon as he arrived, he started to experiment with drugs. Marijuana, cocaine, and even meth. Throughout my childhood I saw him transform from a young boy into a scary adult. He had been a sweet boy with a chubby face, full of life. But after years of drug abuse his face held a sinister stare. It was long and skinny, and his eyes were sunken so deep that they looked black.
Alberto started to act weird. He’d talk to himself, and he experienced extreme mood changes. He was diagnosed as schizophrenic and bipolar, both caused by his constant drug abuse. My parents were terrified of Alberto, but they never had the heart to kick him out. We were the only family members he had. My parents hoped that he’d never harm my siblings or me. But they could only do so much to protect us.
In the summer of 2011, Alberto finally snapped.
It was just days before I started high school. I was 14. I was out with friends at the local park. My friends and I were hanging out on the grass when I received a call from my brother.
“Where are you? Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said. “What’s wrong?”
“Just come home. Now.”
I ran home having no idea of what could have happened. As I approached my house, I saw three cops and an ambulance.
I saw my brother and ran to him and asked, “What happened? Please tell me everyone is okay!”
“It’s Alberto,” my brother said. “He tried to kill me.”
They were both in the kitchen. Alberto pulled a knife out of the cabinet and charged at him. My mother saw Alberto running at my brother and tried to fight him off. She screamed for help. My dad and neighbors came. It took four men to pull Alberto off of my brother and mother.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
Alberto went to jail. He told the judges he didn’t do anything and that he had no reason to be in jail. I hated hearing that. After he tried to kill my brother, he denied it had ever happened. He deserved to be locked up.
Alberto often wrote to me. He’d draw me pictures and tell me about his life inside. He’d tell me about the friends he made and the things they thought of him. One of the friends he made is an artist and was teaching Alberto to draw.
But I never wrote back. I didn’t visit him. I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t know what to say if I were to confront him.
Because of Alberto's actions I vowed to never do drugs. I could never do anything to disappoint my family. They have gone through enough already
