drugs are bad, mkay?

since i don't feel like writing it again, the story as i related it to a friend via myspace message:

"sooooo...some crazy things happened today. i got home from work to find several police cars, an ambulance, and fire truck outside. ok, somewhat alarming, but there are plenty of non-devastating explanations. things are still ok. walk in, see a gurney. no. commotion upstairs but i can't tell what's going on. i try to get upstairs but a cop stops me. by now i'm freaked and starting to cry. she asks me if my mother has a history of depression or drug abuse. my mother? of course not. she goes on to imply that my mother has attempted suicide. (i'll ruin the story by telling you now that she didn't) it hits me and i'm on my knees. they bring someone on a board down the stairs. its not my mother, its ashley, my brother's girlfriend (?), and immediately it makes sense. i see her and she's not breathing on her own i hear someone say that she still doesn't have a pulse. she's off in an ambulance and now we're being corralled upstairs and they're searching our house. they find (not that they have to look hard...) an "obscene amount of narcotics" and nearly twenty used syringes. they bring in their "csi guy" to take pictures of the crime scene. my house is a crime scene. they arrest my brother, the cop tells us he's fucked but we already know that. my brother is calm and detatched the whole time. he tells my mother to pick him up immediately. my mother says again how she thought he was doing so well...she wonders aloud why this happened. i tell her because that's what happens. its not pixie stix, its fucking herion. ashley is ok, and i guess by ok i mean alive."