I hate it when my little brother Charlie has to go away.

When he isn't here, I get so bored, with nobody to play with, nothing to do. But my parents tell me that Charlie cannot come home, that I am extremely lucky to have a brain where all the right nerves flow through the right channels, where everything is proper. They say his boredom must surely surpass mine, him being shut up in an asylum all the time.

Each time, though, I beg for them to let him come home, to give him one last chance. And they do.

But each time he comes home, it all starts again. The cats with gouged out eyes found in his toy chest, daddy's razor blades on the play park equipment, mummy's vitamins replaced with dishwasher tablets, etc.

Each time he comes home, his visits become shorter. Because of his disorder, mummy says, it is easy for him to fake innocence, bewilderment at why he is being taken away by the men in white coats.

But the biggest reason why I hate it when little brother Charlie is gone is not boredom, it's the fact I have to pretend to be normal until he comes home again.


Hope you enjoyed! (I did not make this, I adapted it from a horror story reddit page.)