When I was in the 5th grade, I was walking past the bathroom in my house when I heard my dad talking through the partially open door. Dad was an alcoholic, and the smell of beer had radiated through the house since he had returned home from work, so I KNEW he was fucking drunk as shit and I thought that maybe I could catch some amusement from his drunken antics. So I peer through the gap, and I see him staring intently in the mirror, muttering quietly to his reflection...and holding his pistol, a big .45 1911 clone. The gun didn't scare me, as I had been taken shooting a lot and had fired that very pistol a few times, but I was super confused as to why he would bring it into the bathroom with him. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but he was saying it with pure hatred. He started rubbing the side of the gun on his forehead and he got really quiet. I was RIVETED. At that moment my step-brother (who is about 20 year older than me) comes up behind me and asks, "What are you doing?" I just pointed at the door. My brother peered through the gap, then looked down at me with concern. He gently pushed me away and said "Go to the kitchen." very sternly while pointing down the hall. I felt like I had been caught doing something naughty, so I practically ran there and pretended to rummage through the fridge for a snack. After about a minute, my brother and dad emerged from the bathroom and walked outside. I took the opportunity to retreat to my room and I read a book until I fell asleep. It wasn't mentioned the next day, or ever again, so I chalked it up to Drunk Dad being an idiot and forgot about it. It wasn't until much later that I realized that my brother probably saved my dad from killing himself. My life would likely have been very...different, had he not been there that night.