posted on Apr, 11 2015 @ 02:16 AM
Hello there, ATS members. I go by the pseudonym of Hyron. I don't often talk about my life, or any personal matters for a wide variety of reasons.
But I'm going to share with you a very personal story. Something that still disturbs me to this day. Whether or not you choose to believe me is up to
you. You form your own opinion. I wont judge you for it or argue with you. AS it's been said by many who've witnessed or experienced strange
phenomena in their lifetime, I believe it's fair for me to say I know what I saw. I'll try to keep this narrative as clear an as crisp as I can for
an easier reading experience. Feel free to ask me any questions related to this topic here or through a private message. All I ask is that you be
civil about your response to what you're about to read. Now that that's out of the way, here goes nothing.
It's currently April 10th. It's cold outside, and I've wrapped myself in several blankets to keep warm within my home. As I write this, a constant
reminder rings out through my mind. Twenty days from now, an anniversary will happen. One I don't look forward to. One I'll never look forward to in
my life. On April 30th, something very shocking happened to myself and my family. Something that left me damaged and scarred. Something I'll never
forget. I won't beat around the bush: April 30th is the day my brother died.
I was fifteen when it happened. I was on a school trip in Reno, Nevada for a jazz festival. I played bass in my school's jazz band, and I had a
wonderful time out there. It was a thrilling experience to play among other great musicians and see some of the greats perform. One's that are still
living, at least. Yet, throughout this entire trip, I felt like something was off. Like something was wrong. You know the feeling. It almost acts like
a premonition. This feeling of dread grew so great that I had actually felt incredibly sick on a few occasions. Those days were full of nosebleeds and
At any rate, once the festival was over, I was returning home with my class via bus. We headed through Nevada and back into California. As we drove,
my mother continued to assail me with texts. "Are you on your way back?" "How soon will you be here?" "Where are you right now?" "Call me when
you get close". Messages like that spammed my inbox. With a darkened sense of paranoia already weighing down on my mind, I already knew something
strange was going on. Something was amiss. I didn't know what kind of hell awaited me upon my return, but I was well aware I wasn't going to enjoy
it. Not in the slightest sense.
When the bus stopped at my school, I was greeted by my mother. She hugged me tightly and told me to wait in the car with my uncle. That also set off a
red flag for me. I hardly got to see her brother. The man had a doctorate in neurology, something I would never have the patience to study. But for
some reason, he was here. As I sat in the car, my mother conversed with my jazz teacher. His expression went from jovial to sullen in mere seconds. I
felt sick. The fear and paranoia was starting to get the better of me.
My mother came back to the car, and we started driving. I thought I'd be heading home. I was wrong. She had jumped onto the freeway. I started seeing
signs for a hospital as we drove. When we got off the freeway, we had arrived at Long Beach Memorial Hospital. We parked in the large, gray parking
structure adjacent to the building. My mother was silent as she turned off the car. My uncle had taken a deep breath, turning around and looking at
me. His expression was one of fatigue and great stress. Like pressure had built up over time.
"I didn't want to be the person to tell you this", he started. He looked down for a moment, collecting himself. He cleared his throat before he
spoke again. "Your brother", he said, addressing me by my first name," is braindead. I'm sorry." I smiled. He had to be kidding me. This
couldn't be happening. There was no way. There was no #ing way that my twenty-three year old brother was in that hospital with zero brain activity.
That couldn't be true. I wanted to hut my uncle. Punch him in the mouth. Kick him in the teeth.
My mother led me to the floor where my brother was being kept. She had taken me by the hand and walked me to his room. There he was. Motionless.
Silent. Slow, reluctant respiration. I blinked. I looked out the window, blinking several times. Then I walked out of the room an headed for the
restroom. It was there that I proceeded to vomit until my body screamed out in pain. I had begun sobbing, my back pressed against the bathroom wall as
I got hit by the sledgehammer of reality. This was happening. This was real. My brother was essentially dead.
I'm going to backtrack a little. In the two months leading up to this event, my brother was in and out of the hospital. His symptoms were bleeding
from the nose, severe migraines (to the point of incapacitation), and incoherence/aggression/loss of coordination. The first time he was admitted, the
doctors wanted to tell us that he had been hit with a blunt object. X-rays revealed that his skull had been cracked. Their prognosis had turned out to
be false. The second time when he was admitted, I wasn't told of anything.
It wasn't until after the wake, the funeral, and several alcohol-fueled parties at my grandmother's house that I was informed of what ailed my
brother and led to his death. Gliosarcoma. Gliosarcoma or GS is a very rare form of glioma, a type of brain cancer which occurs from the glial brain
cells instead of the neural brain cells. According to what I had researched about the cancer, it's allegedly hereditary. As far as I know (along with
everyone else), nobody in either side of his family had it. The other cause is radiation (electromagnetic, or otherwise). What really freaks me out is
that the tumors on his brain were so large that they managed to crack his skull.
Now you're probably wondering, "What the # does any of this have to do with Aliens and UFOs? Why the hell is this thread in that #ing
topic?" Well, I'm about to tell you.
Fast forward to his wake, or his viewing. Whatever you'd like to call them. The pre-funeral. Everyone is in a sullen mood. Not a single smile spreads
across the face of anyone in the room. My father is a broken man now. As am I. We all talk. We share our memories. Eat, drink, go up to the podium and
speak of our fallen family member. While everyone is socializing in a depressed fashion, my grandmother (my father's mother) pulls me aside. She
takes me out of the room and outside of the building where the wake was taking place. Her face is worried. Concerned. Obviously disturbed by more than
the current situation. "I have to tell you something", she said. I listened. I was always good at that.
I didn't believe what she told me. For a long period of time, my brother had lived with her. I would be at my grandmother's constantly to hang out
with my older brother. I was always around him. But she shared a story with me. One that disturbed me. It was a story that till haunts me to this day.
Something that has increasingly frightened me away from something I was very enthusiastic about.
(I've almost reached the character limit here. I'll finish the story in the next post.)