I hate it when my brother Charlie has
to go away
I hate it when my brother Charlie has to
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 a little
brother to play with, they try to make
me feel bad by pointing out that his
boredom likely far surpasses mine.
considering his confine to a dark room
in an institution.
I always beg for them to give him one
last chance. ºf course. they did at first.
Charlie has been back home several
times. each shorter in duration than the
last. Every time without fail. it all starts
again. The neighbourhood cats with
gouged out eyes showing up in his toy
chest, my dad's razors found dropped
on the baby slide in the park across the
street, mom’s vitamins replaced by bits
of dishwasher tablets. My parents are
hesitant now, using “last 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