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The Suicide of my Little Brother

Story about a life before death.

My name is Ambiorn Happy, and I dream of a good life - before death. This story is about my little brother. My little brother he is sorry to live, and yes I understand there is not much fun in living. Being a telemarketer, what-ever, exams, education, laundry, the whole climate question, for fuck's sake, not to mention all the private problems one might have. A bad childhood, a crooked leg, glasses, poverty, disappointments.

It's not always fun. It is not.

My little brother - besides, has this extra feature in life - he has had his back damaged. So he can't walk because he is falling all the time, and then he lies there on the sidewalk and has cramps, and pisses in his pants, and it's very akward and it hurts a lot.

Maybe that's why he often says to me:

"Ambiorn, I don't want to live anymore. I'm tired of being arrested by the cops, the fucking Jutelanders."

- My brother lives in Copenhagen. Police officers from Jutland do not have the best reputation in Copenhagen,

"every time I dangle on the street because my back hurts so bad I can't walk straight, then the cops come and they think I'm a drug addict and I say fuck you and then they throw me down on the pavement, strip me and throw me into their car and then I sit there and have cramps and piss in my pants and it hurts a lot. I don't want to live anymore. I'm lonely Ambiorn, the doctors can't do nothing, they say, from now on it will only get worse, I'll end my life in a nursing home, stunned by morphine, cribbled, unable to get out of bed, and I don't want such a life, I want to die, Ambiorn, it hurts me to be alive."

I'm trying to cheer him up a little. After all, there's a lot of good stuff in life. If you look at the little things. A cup of coffee, a cigarette, cheese on your bread, but he doesn't care about my positive words, he has been like this for months, it's just before we start arguing, but then we remember that we are brothers and that we love each other, so we keep the peace and talk about something else. He likes to be a photographer, so do I. "I have some studio lamps and stuff, I can't carry it anymore, it's too heavy Ambiorn, I'll send it over to you, then you can do with it whatever you want. I can't carry it anymore."

3 days before he commits suicide, with a bottle of balloon gas, take care, the brain dies in 30 seconds, 3 days before he dies, he calls me and we talk for a long time. Like four hours and it's so nice. He doesn't seem depressed at all anymore, and he says to me, "sorry I've talked so much about suicide, for months now, I know it has stressed you Ambiorn, I made up my mind, I won't talk about suicide again. I promise", he says.

I laugh with relief and that was a mistake, I thought it was over, but it wasn't. On Monday the deliveryman ring my bell. One box, two boxes, I drag them up to my apartment, three boxes, four boxes, five boxes. I can't understand, there are all too many boxes. They are stuffed with photo lamps, tripods, digital cameras, lenses - and in the last box I find his computer too, and then I cry because I know that the laptop computer he would never give up, he loves it.

So I call my brother.

"The number you called doesn't exist anymore."

His website is gone too, facebook gone, I know he's dead. So I take the train from Aarhus to Copenhagen and persuade a neighbour to let me into the corridor. My brother lives on the fourth floor, no elevator, a man who can't walk, wauw.

I press the doorbell, I squat, call his name through the letter box. He is not responding. I can see in there, it looks like his feet are on a stool. I put on my glasses, and yes, it is his feet.

I'm calling the police. 114. Should it have been 112? I do not know. I haven't tried it before, to find my brother dead.

"It's the police!"

"Yes, hey, my name is Ambiorn Happy. My brother is dead."

"Yes, and what would you like me to do about it?" So says the policeman, and that's logical, it makes sense, but I'll try again.

"No, it's just because I'm sitting on the stairs outside his apartment and I don't know how to get into his apartment. The door is locked from the inside. I thought you might have some experience, what can you do? "

"Can you see he's dead?"

"Yes," so I say, but it's a lie, I can just see his feet.

"Just a moment, I am transferring you to emergency dispatch."

"How can I help, what's your emergency?"

"Eh, hey, my name is Ambiorn Happy, my brother is dead, I'm sitting outside his apartment right now."

"Yeah, and what do you want me to do about that?"

"Sure". Suddenly, I realize that the cops don't come running just because you call them. Hmm.

"You know, my brother is dead, I can see he's lying in there, he's often been talnking about suicide and he has the apartment full of morphine, and then I thought you could send someone here to help me get into his apartment. "

"Well, yeah, you're right," the cop says. "Stay at the address, I'll send someone out to you."

And within the next 3-4 minutes, two police officers, both of them, sweet and friendly from Jutland, two paramedics, two doctors, 8 combat police officers with a batting ram in between them to smash my brother's door, three men from the investigative unit checking if my brother is murdered by anyone but himself, they are dressed in DNA suits and photo equipment, a total of 17 police officers, doctors and medical people, plus two men in the evening driving my brother away in a hearse.

On that day my little brother got all the help he could dream of, my name is Ambiorn Happy, I dream of a good life for everyone, with care and love, but well before we die. Thank you for listening to my story.

Viking i Hverdagen Dirty Søster Bonustid Aisha, min elskede Aina køber en seng Englen fra Ishøj The Suicide of my Little Brother The death of a telemarketer Min lillebrors selvmord En telefonsælgers død

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Bogland er et no-money-no-profit forlag som udgiver historier skrevet af forfatteren Ambjørn Happy. Bøgerne på Bogland er billige, hvis du vælger at høre dem som lydbøger eller læse dem som e-bøger. Eventuelle papirbøger sælges til trykprisen. Formålet med Bogland er at underholde og sprede gode historier. Forlaget er non-profit. Kernen i historierne bygger på virkelige begivenheder, pakket ind i fantasi og dramatik.

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