A Memory of September 11.

I remember that night clearly in my mind.

Often people will claim after the fact that they had a feeling - a moment of prescience that hints at things to come. I make no claim to such powers, but even now years later I recall a distinctly eerie tone to the shadows that were cast upon the road as I made my way home.

I was late returning that night - much later than was usual for me then. By the time I pulled into our street the last rays of sunlight were bleaching the colour from the day. The sense of unease that had pursued me home intensified when I first caught sight of our house. Instead of being greeted with windows filled with golden light, only a cold darkness greeted me. The house seemed empty of life, which was unusual as I did not live alone.

I got out of the car and made my way to the front door, naturally only finding my keys in the last pocket checked. The unease became dread as I realised that the door was unlocked, and as I opened the door quietly became tinged with fear at the deadly silence that enveloped me as I stepped inside: the radio that I habitually left on whenever we left the house as a security measure was silent. Fearing that we had been, or were being, burgled (this had happened to us before) I quietly put down my bag and made my way into living room.

Nothing had been touched - there was no mess that had defined the previous invasion of our home. The TV, video and other prime targets of theft were all as they should be. A mixture of relief and confusion flowed through me at the realisation that the house hadn't been broken into. I went back and retrieved my bag from the front door, then made my way to my bedroom. I dumped my stuff on my bed and then went to check the the rest of the house for signs of ...anything. The first thing I did was check the room next to mine.

In that instant, my life changed forever.

What I remember most about that moment was the scream of shock I emitted (and upon reflection years later I am almost embarrassed at the unmanly nature of the sound). Lying sprawled upon the floor of his bedroom was the body of my brother. A series of images hit me very quickly that took me what felt like ages to assimilate: the rifle that he and my father often went shooting with cast aside besides him, a bottle of rum on his desk, the cover of Metallica's "...And Justice for All" half soaked in blood scattered on the floor, the blood and what I found later to be brain and bone matter soaking into the rich blue carpet of his room. Most of all, I remember his face - peaceful, but with lips and skin that was tinged with a slight blue discolouration.

I knew that my brother was dead, and that he had taken his own life. In that knowledge, I found some clarity of purpose and managed to get myself going. The panic was replaced with the beginnings of grief. I knelt beside him, and felt inexperiencedly for a pulse which I could not detect. I remember touching his cheek and kissing his forehead, thinking that this might be the last time I get to be near him.

I remember rushing from the room to the phone and dialling '000' (the equivelant for 911 in Australia). I remember explaining what had happened to the voice at the end of the line and being told that someone was on their way. I remember explaining that our house was hard to find and that the ambulance should watch out for our driveway as it was very steep (we lived at the base of a mountain - a dirt road with neighbours far away). I remember the voice asking me if there was anyone there with me (there wasn't - my mum was on holiday with her husband out of state, my dad was on a work conference in Sydney (we lived in Melbourne - so an hour away by plane) and his girlfriend at the time was with a friend of hers whose daughter had been in terrible car accident the day before - the daughter was the same age as my brother and I later learned she died the same day as he. Though not close, they had been friends.). I remember the voice asking me for the number of a friend that could come over and keep me company. I remember giving the voice the phone number of two friends I went to high school and uni with who happened to be closely aged brother and sister.

Despite our house being hard to find (or so I thought) the ambulance made excellent time and was there within 10 minutes, or at least that is what it seemed. I have two specific memories of that ambulance crew: firstly that they approached me in a manner that indicated very clearly that they thought I might have been a danger to them (I don't blame them at all for that precaution, mind you) and that later, when they were checking the vitals of my brother, that one of them made the comment that they thought they felt a pulse. There was no pulse after all, it turned out.

Later memories of the same night - explaining to my dad over the phone that his son was dead, the arrivals of both the police and my friends who had obviously been called (and I can't imagine how that conversation must of went). I remember the girl (I won't mention her name here, but both friends are still very close to me now) asking me how my jeans had gotten so dirty. It was obvious to me even then that she was in a certain state of shock as well - as the dirt in question was dried blood that I must have knelt in when with my brother. The ambulence team took my brother's body away.

Much later, my dad's girlfriend picked me up and took me to her house. I do not remember that happening. I do not remember drinking a whole bottle of Jack Daniel's that night to the point that I passed out (but I've told many times that I made quick work of it and threw much of it up).

My brother left a note, someone told me. I remember looking around for one at the time but not finding anything then. I've read that note, though I believe the police eventually took it as evidence.

I know why my brother took his life and my part in it.

Living with the knowledge of the why changed my outlook on life completely.

My brother died eleven years ago today. September 11, 1996.