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Often I have heard about people who are sad, depressed or in a mental trauma. I grew up in a family where nothing pyscological was taken into account. What we saw was what we accepted. Due to this influence, I was forced to accept mental trauma as merely a myth. Just as there's a 'but' to an answer, there's a but too to my life. I used to watch sad people everyday yet felt none. 'Fake depressed', that's what me and my friends called them. But it didn't went on so long, and I'm grateful it didn't.
On a typical summer day, I lost my brother. He was twenty seven, barely old to die so early. It happened in a tenth of a flash. One moment you see him bringing vegetables, the other moment he's getting crushed to a lifeless mass in front of your eyes. I had never felt death. Never until those seconds. My knees gave away. The world paused. I felt warm; and cold. I was more than alive, less than paralyzed. My eyes turned to rocks, still and dead, just like him. It was quiet. He was too.
The next thing I remember was waking up, but not where I fell, in the living room, and upon the couch. No one was there. Evidently, every one of my family's members were with my brother, waiting for him to wake up, or else, waiting for him to die.
He died.
I then knew how it feels to be eaten away, pieces by pieces, skin to bone. I was ripped apart. I kicked, I cried, I wanted to escape out of the madness: I wanted someone to tell me everything was a joke, like every other one with which he used to tease me and make me laugh.
No one came.
The quiet was familiar.
I was familiar; with all those people who felt barely alive, with all those who felt pain so much that they felt nothing else, I was too, like them, sad.