I hate it when my brother Charlie goes away.
My parents constantly try to explain to me how sick he is. That I am lucky for having a brain where all the chemicals flow properly to their destinations like undammed rivers. When I complain about how bored I am without my little brother to play with, they try to make me feel bad by pointing out that his boredom likely far surpassed mine, considering his confine to a dark room in an institution.
I always beg for them to give him one last chance. Of course, at first they did. Charlie has been back home several times, each a shorter duration then the last. Every time without fail, it all starts up again. The neighbourhood cats with gouged out eyes appearing in his toy chest, my mums vitamins replaced by bits of dishwasher tablets. My parents are hesitant now, using "Second Chances" sparingly. They say his disorder makes him charming, makes it easy for him to fake normalcy, and to trick the doctors who care for him into thinking he is ready for rehabilitation.
That I will just have to put up with my boredom if it means staying safe from him.
I hate it when Charlie goes away. It makes me have to pretend to be good until he gets back.