what about dying

i started to become concious about Drew. i noticed one day during summer that theres something different about him. thats also when i discovered he is smoking weeds. even before that, i saw something pipe-like in his box. its just as small as cigar, or even smaller. and it smells like smoke, but not like cigar-smoke. like ash smoke. 

as school days started, he went to college, i became more suspicious when his friends and classmates always text him the same message time to time every single day as if its a password. and i knew what it is for. it means weed time.

i tried to tell it to my mom. at first, she said i am just insecure of him because he has money, which, for some reason, made my conviction stronger--- from where the hell would he get a lot of money? he doesnt even have a job.
so after my mom told me that, i thought should just set that stupidity aside. but as time goes by, i realized that stupidity is not something i just made in my mind. its real.
on monday, i wander through the hard drive of my personal computer and i discovered a hidden picture, or maybe my brother already deleted it, and went into that bin accidentally. its a capture of him showing a sachet of leaves, i guess its weed, really. his eyes are so red as if he didnt blink for hours.
i hid it from anyone's knowledge at first because i dont want him to be embarassed. or it be revealed. or blockmailed by his friends who are also involved. or else, be imprisoned. he's too young for jail. for such humiliation. or at the very first place, for weeds.
so the days went smooth, yet weary because of the school stuffs i missed when i was absent. i even didnt sleep last last last night doing my assignments in history. but with my group of friends, i guess this week made a good sense.
but tonight, i do not know. tomorrow is my mom's birthday. i do not want to ruin her day. but at least, just her tonight.
so i wander through our dark hallway, down the stairs and see her at the kitchen. walking is not easy with my laptop on my hands, blocking my sight, but i made it. i sat in a chair just beside her who's doing the dishes.
"Mom, look at this," i said. trying not to sound hasty and nervous, i tried again, very defiant. "Look at this."
she seemed not giving a fuck about what im saying. or at least about all the things im saying. crouching down in front of the screen, her face changed. "ill talk to him about that," she said while staring at me as if im the one in the picture holding a sachet of weeds and pipe. i wonder why she glares at me like the fucking policemen do in the action movies she and dad loved to watch before they got divorced.
"you will?" i asked, although what i wanted to say is far different from that. i wanted to shout at her. or grasp her hair and talk her in the eye saying "what the fuck are you thinking? youre son is an addict and your husband cheated on you but why the hell have you never fucking gave a fuck about that?"
"now, leave," she just said. fuck her. fuck her, fuck her.