I looked at my elder brother' life from under the ridiculous bang that mom was cutting me each 2nd day of the month throughout my sad life. He was not particularly physically strong, and his spirit often failed, but I always thought that he was the most extraordinary person, so I was lucky with him. My pride has no limit. When the girls from the class were talking about their brothers and sisters, I stood in a corner and smiled broadly, because I knew that my brother was the best. Considering how difficult it was for me to converge with my peers, I had to take the position of an observer. My parents didn't understand my brother, or frankly sometimes they pretended as understand. And only I felt his pain during his strange life. My brother was very sensitive to the world, so very often, through the sieve of children's thoughts, I could not help noticing how his gray-green eyes filled the ocean. He did not talk to anyone since the age of 16, people began to believe him, as if he had lost his speech, and it was good for him. Hikes for speech therapists left much to be desired. Day and night he was reading, noted some individually-made phrases, paragraphs and sometimes smoked cheap cigarettes from a kiosk located next to the house and wrote poetry. Oh God, what poems he wrote! It seems to me that the whole world could have long ago turned a blind eye to all its oddities, just to be able to read or hear his works. He recited his poems only to me and it was the happiest time in my life, usually filled with chocolate sweets, eating teeth; classmates, catching up on boredom and ridiculous fours in a diary, grieving parents. With him my soul ascended higher and higher. In those moments I felt myself involved in something supernaturally beautiful. With sweeping movements of his hands, he told me about his touch; what touched him, but was at the same time indifferent and finally, that his, to his great regret, could not touch. This was our secret: I was invited strictly to the apartment in a shed, I, and he, of course. I loved observing the facial expressions of my hero, who was climbing enchantingly on the curb, and a constant sense of fierce pain pierced me, so that after nights of another secret literary evening I would close in the toilet and bellow for a long time. Of course, no one knew about this: neither his brother, nor even more so our parents. They would simply have not forgiven his brother - neither that, as it turned out, he still knows how to speak, nor that he allegedly influences me badly. When I turned 12, my brother was no longer able to put up with life, he left. I can not blame him, though sometimes I confess and try, sitting on a lid closed with a toilet and blowing every 40 seconds. After drinking a lion's dose of sleeping pills for the night, my hero went to a meeting with dreams. His parents found him in the morning cold and blue, with a note at the head of the bed, the content of which provided parents with no persecution by state bodies. My brother asked me not to blame anyone for his death. I tried to understand why he did not write a single word to me, I was very upset and at the same time for a second I did not doubt his great and sincere love for me, perhaps to the only creature on the planet that did not upset him. Thinking over what happened, I did not understand how my legs led me into the barn, into our secret shelter from the outside world. I decided to look over the curb, where he hid his works and not in vain. He wrote to me the lines that are permanently carved on my soul, and which I will never share with anyone, as adults say too "too personal." I always knew that my brother was special, because only he could hear, understand and accept me, deaf-mute a closed girl without embellishment, he did not feel pity for me, for him I was just like him - absolutely normal.