Let's cast our minds back to April 1st 2014. Where were you? Maybe the most remarkable day of your life, maybe the most unremarkable - either's fine. Either's great. Because that's where you were.

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I was at school, thoroughly bored, just fooling around with my friends. The day ends, I come home, nothing unusual. I go to bed to have a nap before dinner because I'm pretty knackered, but I'm preparing for my A Levels so it's normal to be so tired, right? I'd been feeling off the whole day, but that's fairly standard for a 17 year old in the lead up to exam season, right?

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No cause for alarm, no reason I could think of that would stop me from sleeping, so to sleep I go. An hour or so later I'm woken by the sound of my mother crying out to Jesus and my father screaming. "Battle stations." I think, a close friend of mine's mum had been murdered a couple of years beforehand by his stepfather, and I wasn't about to let that happen, so I go downstairs, ready for a fight.

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I'm met by a policeman. I thought nothing of it.

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I go to the lounge, to see if my mum's alright. She's not. She's on the sofa, with another police officer and my dad, all crying.

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"Nathan's dead." my dad tells me.

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My brother was dead.

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I don't know what to think. I wasn't close with my brother. In fact, the last thing I'd said to him while talking on the phone a couple of days beforehand was "Don't bother coming home" when he mentioned that he might come back for the weekend of my 18th birthday, which was on the 9th.

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I told him not to come home, and he never did.

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4 years and 2 months, almost to the minute perhaps, since he passed away. I haven't told a soul because I don't feel like anybody else deserves to have to handle the feeling. Yet here I am, 3/4 of a bottle of whisky in and feeling like his memory shouldn't be something I'm ashamed of.

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So here's to you.

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I remember you Nathan.

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And by fuck do I miss you.