I can't help but hate my grandfather, the man who drinks so much that he collapsed during thanksgiving and hit his head hard enough to fall into unconsciousness. He survived, but not before I had to take my young sister away from the scene and cover her ears while our mother cried and screamed downstairs, while our brother called an ambulance and our father had to perform cpr. When he woke up again, he tried to avoid the hospital, he wanted to go back to drinking. The paramedics almost left, stating they couldn't take him anywhere if he didn't want to go. I keep getting shakes in my hands at the thought of walking back up to the kitchen now that it's all over, his fall keeps playing in my head and I don't even know why it freaks me out so bad. I'm scared, but not for him, I barely know him. He's just the man who raised my mother, an unhealthily overweight alcoholic who's life choices had led him to living in our house despite how much my mother complains about his issues. I hate him.