Murdered

I have heard that writing can help to heal wounds of the heart. I’d have to write War and Peace one hundred times over to heal this wound. Yesterday my little brother Mark was shot and killed by his next-door neighbor. Yesterday my little brother was murdered.

It was a pleasant Sunday afternoon and my brother was doing yard work, weeding and trimming shrubs at his house on Kent Island, Maryland. There are no credible witnesses to describe what happened next. Yesterday my little brother was murdered. Only my brother Mark and the murderer and my brother’s dog were there and my brother can’t tell his side of the story because he is now dead. The dog may have wandered into the neighbor’s yard. The neighbor had issues in the past with the dog and my brother has tried to keep the dog within the bounds of his own property. No one is sure what happened. My brother had hedge clippers. The neighbor had a gun. My brother was shot in the back with a double-barrel handgun loaded with those wretched bullets that enter a body and explode.

Yesterday my brother was murdered. Apparently he staggered a few yards from where he was standing when he was shot. He collapsed and died in his front yard, near the little cherry tree.

Can someone explain to me what kind of person would carry a double-barrel handgun in his yard on a Sunday afternoon? Can someone explain to me why someone would kill another person because of a dog wandering into his yard?

Mark was a peaceful, friendly guy. He worked hard and loved his family. He doesn’t even own a gun—he has hedge clippers and a riding mower. He was a sweet, loveable man who would give you the shirt off his back. And now he is dead. Yesterday my brother was murdered. I don't know if a big sister's heart can ever heal from a hurt like this.