Author's note: I've been wanting to write in this perspective for a while but I really didn't have much of a plan when I wrote this. So it's pretty random and sort of jumps all over the place, but please bare with me.
Basically I've always been kind if interested Drew/Amber's whole relationship.
And this story takes place in the episode before the Season 2 finale. Before the accident.
Also: uses references/lyrics from Amber's gorgeous "Graveyard Song" I can't take credit for the amazing poetic lyrical beauty that make that song. I know. Sorry.

Enjoy, please?

It's three o'clock on Monday morning. You can't sleep. You're waiting to hear that sound. Almost five hours after telling Mom you're hitting the sack, your wish is finally granted when you hear the unmistakable creak of footsteps on stairs. You know it's your older sister. Her steps have that soft and slow, loping quality to them at hours like these. You have heard them more times these last few days, than in the entire span you've been at Grandma and Grandpa's combined. Because you are well aware that she was out late for the fourth time this past week. You would know.

It doesn't even matter that you tried to tell yourself that her old teenage rebellion days had essentially and thankfully vanished with that rainy day last spring when she returned home tearfully with Mom, Uncle Adam and cousin Haddie in tow.

At the current moment though, you think you can hear her stumble drunkenly outside your bedroom door. No. You realize that's a lie. You know she's out there drunk, and quite possibly high, giggling too loudly at this late—early?—hour.

You open your door to let her in. She doesn't notice. She's too busy laughing about something to herself. You remember lately how you wanted to hear that care-free laugh again—even if it's directed at you.

You've been worrying about how distant she's been these last few weeks. You wish desperately that you knew what to say to her anymore. Mom doesn't seem to know either. "I'm sorry you didn't get into college" just seems insensitive.

So instead of saying those all too futile words that just won't come anyway, you whisper a hesitant yet urgent "Amber!" as you take a small step into the hallway, joining her.

But she doesn't hear you. By now, your smart, hip, cool older sister is bopping around to some song in her head and you wonder what it is that's in her heart.

Still you remember hearing her sing at open mike night with the rest of the family there supporting her. And now, instead of feeling that pride of being her younger brother, you question the sincerity of her words then: "I've been thinking about getting clean…and rising up at a decent hour." You think it's funny and ironic, but not in the right, laughable sort of way.

As you take note of her red eyes, you wonder when you'll be able to trust her again. To depend on her like a little brother should. You don't mind helping her through whatever she's going through right now but you just wish that she went about it differently.

You feel dirty. Like an accomplice of some crime. And judging by the smell of booze on her breath and the odor of pot radiating from her thin jacket, you know it's true. And you wish you knew what to do.

But at the moment, you only pull her away, down the hall to her bedroom. You hold her hand like she once so reassuringly grasped yours on your first day of kindergarten when Dad overslept and forgot he had to walk you two to school.

You be sure to shut the door slowly and with care to avoid waking Grandma or Grandpa. You don't know what you would do if they heard the noise and told Mom.

When you turn around, your sister is laughing again. It seems you're hilarious now. She's laughing at you. But you don't feel hilarious. You don't say a thing. Your sister giggles some more as she pokes the crease that's arisen out of worry between your eyebrows.

"Amber, not now. Please," you whisper-plead, the street lamps and moonlight filtering through her open window, her apparent earlier escape route, the light somewhat fading in the darkness.

But that doesn't keep the giggles down. Your sister only laughs harder. "What's got your panties in a twist, Grandma?"

You feel a reluctant smile tug at your lips ever so slightly. The sarcastic edge in her tone makes this seem almost normal. Familiar. Okay. Comfortable, even.

But then you remember. You remember how late it is—or early (you still haven't decided which.) And you remember that she's high. Off of what, you don't know. You're not sure you want to. You're not even sure where it was she's been all night. You do, however, realize that the consequences could very well land her in jail, or—you swallow the thought with no small amount of difficulty—her deathbed.

You don't want this to be the end of her. So for now, you help her remove her shoes and you try to persuade her to lay down and get some rest.

She laughs and says, "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

You want to say, "That's what I'm afraid of."

But instead you say nothing.

You almost want to wake Mom up but you stay where you are, in your sister's bedroom, praying to something up there for things to get any better than this. You are sure that almost anything is better than this.

You wonder if this is how Mom felt when Dad was still around and the four of you were still your own family. It almost hurts your brain to go that far back in time. You almost don't remember. The memories are fuzzy.

It makes you wonder if and how Mom ever comforted Dad after a rough night of partying. You know at some point he must have thrown up the contents of his evening into the toilet the same way you watched Amber go through the very same thing last night. You held her hair as she hurled in the bathroom sink, barely even making it there in time.

You wonder if Mom smelled the same dank odor of rotten dreams that you did as she cleaned up everything and you scrubbed the sink before everyone else in the world woke up.

But tonight you're not cleaning up Amber's literal, physically visible mess. This mess tonight is not something that can be fixed with soap and hot water and other various cleaning product you can find at the supermarket.

And that scares you. You can handle the sick part. You can handle cleaning up after your sister. There's nothing new there. Although as kids, it was toys, last night it was vomit.

Tonight you know this is something less obvious. Less simple. You don't know how to fix it. You don't know if you could.

As you watch your big sister drift off to sleep, still in her reeking street clothes, a small, lazy smile on her placid, sleeping face, you wonder how life could spiral this out of control. It happened to Dad. Why does it have to happen again to her?

You make yourself crazy with the weight of all your unanswered questions.

Why did she put herself in a position to be like Dad in that way? You know now more than ever that you can't pull another stunt like the drinking-beer-with-Grandpa thing again. No matter how innocent your intentions, how much self-control you think you have, you realize without a doubt that your Mom was right when she told you that you had it differently than other kids. You had it harder. Your big sister is living proof. You never want to touch alcohol again. You never want to feel that vulnerable, that unstable, that high and completely out of control.

You take a seat on the floor next to her bed and watch her for a while, wondering if she's dreaming. What she sees behind the back of her eyes?

You know she won't remember in the morning. She probably won't even thank you. She probably doesn't even know all the things you've done for her. The white lies you tell Mom when she leaves the room to make her stop worrying. Holding her hair while she pukes her guts out in the bathroom. Helping her to her room when she comes in falling down drunk. Then pretending all is well.

You contemplate what it means to do the right thing. You used to think it was avoiding confrontation at all costs. You used to think it was not dwelling on the past and living in the present. Loving your sister and being a good brother by lending her a hand when she has trouble. Not butting in when your input and what you have to say is so clearly unwanted.

But what if something happened? You feel like a walking public service announcement for "Above the Influence" just waiting to happen and you haven't even smoked a single cigarette a day in your life, let alone a joint. But you feel just as guilty on the sidelines, seeing the effects of God knows what on your big sister. Surely this isn't the right thing. Waiting passively for things to change.

You have a sudden flash of Grandpa pulling you aside before dinner when you first came to live here almost a year and a half ago. "Now grandson, you are a Braverman. Braverman blood courses through those veins of yours."

He paused dramatically and his eyes shining with some sort of strange intensity. You wonder if he tells this to all his grandkids.

"And do you know what makes a Braverman?" Courteously, you waited patiently for the quasi-punch line/lesson that was inevitable.

"Bravery, obviously." You give the obligatory chuckle and cut the laughter when Grandpa turns solemn.

"And a certain kind of courage. And strength. You're a quiet leader, grandson. I can tell. Don't know where ya got that from. You're mother wasn't exactly the shy type."

Still you waited patiently. Upturning your lips slightly to appease him. You're used to Grandpa's ramblings. You smile even though you recognized the fact that you had no idea when you would see your dad again. You looked back up at Grandpa. He continued on sternly, shaking a finger in your general direction.

"Just remember that. What it means to be a Braverman. We never give up. You're fearless, son. It might not seem that way right now, but you are. The Bravermans are braver than any man."

You wanted so badly to roll your eyes but you refrained from doing so. You think that was an act of courage in and of itself.

But now you feel like you could cry. You don't feel very brave. You stand up and gently pull the covers up over your sister's shoulders. She doesn't stir.

You make a decision right then and there. You proceed with caution over to the other side of the room and pick up Amber's bag. You know without a second glance that it contains all her secrets. You hold it tightly to you as if afraid she will wake up and catch you in the act. But you know the thought is silly—she'll be dead to the world until at least solar noon tomorrow—later today? Whichever. It didn't matter.

You were telling. You make the decision then and there to show the bag, and whatever it held inside it, to Mom. And suffer the consequences.

You just know that anything is better than the waiting. Waiting to hear the drunken footsteps of your big sister as she arrives—for all intents and purposes of the word—'safely' home. Waiting to see if she'll come home at all. Waiting to see if she'll make it out alive. Be miraculously fixed. Stop being the girl you see your mother's eyes fill up with unshed tears for. Be back to her old self.

But you know now that life doesn't work that way. As you lay a hand on the doorknob, you realize life is too fragile to wait around just hoping for things to change. Life is just too fragile to let these lies consume you all.

You're tired of being alone with the knowledge of your big sister's self-destruction. You can't handle it any longer.

You open the door and find your way to your own room, your own bed. You crawl in thankfully, hiding Amber's bag under your mattress, preparing yourself for the coming battle when you'll force your sister to really, truly make herself think about getting clean. You don't want her words to be empty any longer.

You're tired. And you want to break free from this misery, this downward spiral, these lies.

You know it will be hard and you certainly won't be receiving any 'thank yous' for it any time soon. But you can't let your sister live like this anymore. You won't.

You're thinking about getting clean.