Medicine

Medicine

At a young age, my parents taught me many things that I thought were normal, when in fact; I would later find out that they were quite abnormal. At age 6, my dad told me to take a bag to my best friend's house, and give it to his mom. My dad always told me to do things like this. I did what he wanted, because he would always buy me cool toys that no one else had. I did not know the contents of the bag, he told me not to look in it, that it was a secret. I never found out the contents of that bag, but I knew that my dad had lied about something when the next year, tall people wearing black suits and sunglasses took my friend's mom. It scared me.

They came into his house without knocking. We were playing at the bottom of the stairs. I remember that one mean looking man stepped on my toy truck and broke it on the way in. Followed were two more tall people who took me and Jeremy, and told us that everything would turn out fine. But it wasn't and it wouldn't be.

They separated me and my best friend. Jeremy got to go to his grandma's house, and they took me back to my house. But there was something wrong. My dad was gone. He wasn't in his chair or his room, and all of his special things that he didn't want anyone touching were gone.

Throughout my childhood, I remember many people coming to my house. Some people looked important, and some looked like they needed somewhere to stay for the night, but they all left with something from my dad. That was his job. He bought things from big trucks and sold them to individuals to make a profit. He even made some of the medicine at home in his room. The last memory I have of my dad is of him sitting in his chair after taking his medicine, staring deeply into the painting I made in art class on the wall.

When I turned 13 my mom told me what had really happened and that my dad was in prison for many reasons that I don't remember. She told me that my dad made a lot of mistakes throughout his life, and that I should not make the same mistakes. This made me curious as to what exactly happened to my dad and why he didn't live with us anymore.

I talked with someone at my school, and he said that he could get something that would make me feel carefree and happy again. This sounded good at the time; little did I know what I was getting into. He brought me some marijuana a few days later. He told me what to do with it, and I went home that day and smoked it. It wasn't long before