I’ve had a lot of time to think the last few days as I’ve been sitting here in my hospital bed. I’ve reflected on my life and the choices I’ve made, and I’ve tried to figure out exactly where things really took a turn for the worse for me.
And after much reflection, I think I’ve finally pinpointed the moment. Given all that’s happened over the last week—a shootout with police that left my brother dead, my botched suicide attempt, and my subsequent capture by federal authorities as I lay bleeding to death in a total stranger’s yard—I’m starting to think that maybe when Tamerlan first said “Let’s bomb the Boston Marathon,” I should have said no.
Like, maybe if I had said “No, I don’t want to do that” when my brother asked me if I wanted to set off a series of deadly explosions that would kill or seriously injure dozens of innocent people, then that might have actually worked out better for me. That’s sort of the feeling I’m getting lately, at least.
It’s funny, you know. As time goes by, the more I’m starting to see how, if you think about it, it’s almost like there were two different ways to go at that particular moment and, unfortunately, I might have chosen the wrong way to go. For instance, if I had decided at that moment to, say, immediately warn the police that my brother was plotting to bomb a highly populated public area in the middle of Boston on April 15th, and then if I’d called my parents to let them know their eldest son had become completely mentally unhinged, then perhaps I’d be in a better situation right now. In terms of my life and my future and so forth.
Does that make sense?
