RISE UP
I stroked the fabric of the wristband pinned to my notice board and sighed.
It was 2003, two years after my younger brother Michael had taken his own life, aged just 21, and I was still blind with grief.
Casting my eyes over the hundreds of music concert wristbands, I could hear the songs of our favourite bands playing in my head – we’d both loved Marilyn Manson, Blink 182 and Nirvana.
Michael had been my best friend, and I still hadn’t come to terms with his death.
After coming out as gay earlier that year, he’d suffered a torrent of abuse.
People would shout homophobic comments at him in the streets, and he was beaten up a lot by strangers.
Utterly broken down, Michael had overdosed on alcohol and painkillers.
I’d been away that weekend, staying at a family cabin, when I got the call to
