Just a typical evening at the Murphy household: Mom making whatever dinner fits her current fad, Dad getting home at precisely 6:47pm, me doing homework at the kitchen table, and Connor in his room, either moping or smoking a joint. Frankly, I never cared what he was doing in there, as long as he wasn't out here screaming at me about who knows what. Troubled, Mom called him. Complicated. Anything to try and maintain the perfect family image in her mind. Anyways, Dad had just gotten home and the lasagna was just beginning to brown on top. Mom sent me to go get Connor, as he hadn't come when she'd called down the hall. Typical. I knock on the closed door and prepare for the returning screams. They never come. "Connor? Mom says it's time for dinner." Still no answer. I cautiously open the door a fraction. Nothing. I open it all the way and see…him. I suppose I should feel more than I do, seeing my brother sprawled across his bedroom floor, an empty pill bottle and my razor dismantled beside him. I'd been looking for that. Emotionlessly, I cross the room and kneel beside him, placing my hand on his chest. It's…cold. Dammit, Connor. You finally did it. I check for a pulse, first the non mutilated wrist and then the side of the neck. Nothing. He's gone. I sit there beside him, feeling no sense of loss. The brother I loved was gone a long time ago, replaced by this…monster. To say I'm relieved is an overstated. But then again, to say I'm sad would be an overstatement as well. I simply feel…nothing. Slowly, I stand up and take a deep breath. Mom and Dad are going to be…well, even with everything else that's happened, he's still the favorite child. The prized son. I'm nothing but an afterthought. Shutting the door behind me, I return to the kitchen. Mom and Dad both turn to look at me. Mom asks if Connor's coming. I try to transform my face into anything but the deadpan it is. "Connor's dead."