Dear Editor,

My brother, Marcus was taken to the asylum on 17 August. The authorities proved his unstable state with the help of some tapes. It was on this day I found his diary. I finally believed him. But it was too late.

My brother was brave. 

When I was six and the only world I knew was falling to pieces around me, he'd been the rock I could take shelter under. What I failed to notice, was how he was taking every hit for me, all with a strong smile. He never let the pain show through.

And I, being the stupidly naive six-year-old, believed his facade.

When I was eight, I had a surgery. I remember crying and wondering why I had to be the one to suffer every time. Selfishly, I wished it was Marcus suffering the pain. 

He never held it against me.

When I was eleven, Marcus was allowed to go for the wild parties his grade hosted, while I sat at home, acting the role of the perfect daughter. I never cherished his late night visits to check  up on me nor did I think anything of the stories he told me. They were simply something he was supposed to do. But it wasn't. He was just trying to fill the hole I had in my heart because of my absentee father. 

I missed the hurt that shone in his eyes when he talked about him. I forgot he lost a father too.

There were so many times I could've been there for him but wasn't. 

When he finally did break his walls to show me himself and confided in me, I broke the trust. And there is nothing I regret more.

My brother was sane. This diary is a proof of that. 

Everything he went through was real. That's what he'd been trying to tell me.

Anything can happen to anyone. Who are we to decide if someone is crazy? 

~Marcus's sister

Ellie