Lazarus Finch

My mother had six of us; five boys, one girl. Unfortunately, due to tragic events, there's only three of us left; myself, my older brother, and my older sister. My father was murdered when I was six. In 1999 my older brother (a set of twin brothers) was shot and killed. His twin survived when the shooter's gun got jammed as he pulled the trigger by the side of his head. My brother told me they proceeded to stab him with a screwdriver and bludgeoned him with the butt of the gun along the side of his skull, leaving his right ear hanging by the lobe (doctors reattached it). 



It's a long story (perhaps a book someday?) but we buried my brother a few days later and needless to say his twin, Rob, was never the same again (he actually died from systematic organ failure in April of 2012. A horrible combination of alcohol and drug abuse. Rob couldn't get over Jose's murder and our mother's murder, so he went searching for an escape; He found it in the form of a bottle or plastic baggies). Rob witnessed our brother shot and killed in front of his eyes and he told me the story only once.

Ten months later our mother was shot and killed by her ex-boyfriend in his apt, this happening after she had filed a restraining order against him for stabbing her in the back of her neck with scissors at a barber shop during daylight hours in Coney Island. 



I hadn't been able to completely grieve for my brother and not too soon later my mother was being buried right in his plot, right above him, actually. In that span of ten months it felt as if death was my shadow. It was intensely tough, it took a lot out of me; mentally, emotionally and physically. But in a sense I can only be grateful for the experiences, despite the proverbial heartache and anguish, because it served as invaluable lessons. That's life in my opinion: a series of lessons, and behind every one of those doors is a personal test that's paramount to our development. I carry these wounds knowing I'll never heal.