I remember like it was yesterday, when the doctors gave my parents the news. The room was silent, only one other family was in there waiting to hear of their loved one. The place looked like good news never came to visit, and was something that was never spoke of. And the look on my parents faces, all hope was lost, all sense of normality and feeling secure were now gone. Just seeing in my mothers eyes the pain and disappointment of a child she once called her own, and it was all my fault. I was the one to blame, I was the reason all this had happened to begin with, though nobody knew. They say he was desperate for attention, and had deep emotional inflictions. But I knew better, I knew the real reason why we were here, and I wasn’t saying a word. How could I? They wouldn’t understand, it was a stupid childhood bet, how would I know it was this serious, after all I was only 10. After what seemed to be an eternity, the doctors finally came back with the news, they had successfully pumped his stomach with no complications, and my brother was going to be fine. But it seemed this good news was over shadowed by a great mystery, which still to this day no one knows. You see, when they pumped his stomach, they didn’t find what they were expecting. Instead of a slue of pills or drugs, they successfully pumped out exactly one dollar and fifty two cents in change, and a sharpie. I guess he won the bet after all, Bastard.