A family in crisis

Father always says that you can choose your friends, but not your family. Whenever I think about my brother Mitchell, I try to remember that. Mitchell was a heavy drug addict. At the age of fifteen, he tore our family apart. Before he left, Mother would have a snack ready for me when I come home from school. Now the only acknowledgment of my existence is a 'Mitchell called'. or 'Mitchell did not call'. If he is not high, Mitchell will call. That is not possible, because Mitchell is dead.
School is even worse then home. Mitchell was always the star student. He was good at athletics, popular, and smart. Whenever I get an A, the teachers always say 'You are just like your brother, how is he by the way?' I never know what to say, so I usually lie. I say things like 'fine' or 'he is doing well'. However, when I do badly, which happens more often then not, they shake their heads and think, 'why is he not be more like his brother?' Whenever they do that, I never know weather to scream or cry. It feels like a tug of war inside for me. One side is shame that our family is not normal. The other side is anger towards my brother, for abandoning our family. Anger towards my parents for not stopping him. And anger at my self, for not keeping my family together. On days like that, I usually hide in the music room. Among the drums, xylophones and trumpets I sit all alone with my memories.
The memory that keeps pushing its self to the front of my mind is of Mother, Mitchell, and me. It was a particularly rainy day and we were all in an antsy mood. We decided to dress up and dance to the stereo. I remember what Mother wore. It was a flowing pink dress. I wore a green vest and a hat. I can not remember what Mitchell wore. We danced and laughed. After a while, we flopped onto the floor panting. Mom smiled at Mitchell and me. Mitchell then said something that was quite unexpected,' I love you guys'. The clock struck twelve, and we all laughed, I do not know why. Then the memory swirls into blackness and I am back in the music room.
I have never been particularly popular or athletic. I would rather read a book, listen to music, or write then play sports. My Father never minded. He was just happy that my brother was such a star. Now Father just goes to work comes home, eats dinner, and goes to sleep. Lately, he has been staying at work later than normal. Mother and Father argue even more then usual. I write my best poems when they argue. I do not know why. It just feels like the words just flow out of my head onto the paper, as if they must get out before it is just my memories and me again.
That morning, two months, three weeks, five days, two hours, seven minutes, and twenty-two seconds since Mitchell died, I walked into the kitchen. Mother was crying and Father had gone to work. I did not think much of Fathers absence or Mothers tears. As I walked out of the door, I thought of turning back, running and hugging Mother, telling her it would all be okay. But something stopped me. I do not know what. I just kept on walking.
After school, I walked into the house. I looked around for mother, but I could not find her. Finally, I looked in the kitchen. There she was, suspended from a rope tied to the skylight. I guess she could not handle the weight of the memories. So she gave them to me.

Note from the narrator: I found out later that Father had announced he wanted a divorce that morning.