My cousin, Stephen B., started doing drugs when he was 12. He wasn't a happy drunk. When he got drunk all he wanted to do was go home. One time he got drunk and stole a car just to get home and hit another car. His father was a very violent man and left when Stephen was young. His mother didn't know how to really take care of him so he basically did whatever he wanted. Three days after his sixteenth birthday his older friends in their early twenties threw him a party at college. He had been sober for almost a year now and decided to have one more night of fun. He got drunk and after a while they all went to one of his friends house to sleep. They all went to sleep and thought he was asleep, too. But he wasn't. He wanted to go home. The house across the street looked almost identical as his so he went over and tried to get inside. After he found the door was locked he started busting windows, tearing up the mailbox, throwing a birdbath, and doing whatever possible to get in. The 74 year old woman that lived there tried to ask if he needed help but he didn't listen so she called her son-in-law next door to call the police. He came over with a gun that he had no idea how to use and told Stephen to stop and shot in the ground(which you are never supposed to do) and Stephen ran towards him, but turned around and started to runaway. The guy chased after him and tackled Stephen with his hands behind his back. Stephen cooperated until he heard the sirens and tried to jerk up and run away. The guy, with the gun still in his hand, jerked down to restrain him and "accidentally" shot Stephen in the head. He died instantly. I still remember the last place and time I saw Stephen. He was doing so much better. His funeral was the saddest day of my life and I'll always remember it. But I'll especially always remember Stephen. Four months later I still cry almost everyday.