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Trigger Warning: This chapter might be triggering or disturbing for some readers. If you don't think you can handle it, I encourage you to click away. Please check the story description for an updated list of warnings. ^Sorry if I sound like a magpie at this point. ^

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November 15, 2012 at 4 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob

A wave of relief and satisfaction courses through my veins as the thickened skin gives way and the ice cold sliver of metal gets the taste of blood it's been waiting for all of these months. Finally, there can be some light in the darkness and a breeze in my mind. Something has to blow this endless grey haze away so that I can see the ground in front of me again. At last, I can fix another one of my many imperfections. Mitch might have thought he was sneaky when he invaded my room, but he tends to underestimate his allies, especially me. Why would I give him access to the only cure for my illness when I had old, dull, ineffective tools I could sacrifice? He didn't have the chance to find the false back on the third drawer down in my chest of drawers, and he thinks he defeated me.

No one can control me.

'He should be grateful he has Jerome to take care of him; he would have been forgotten history by now without him.' The single, short cut slowly fills with bright red blood, and I set my arm down on the pitch black hand towel to control the blood flow and to keep it from staining the white caulking in between the tiles on the countertop. I run the glinting scalpel under the faucet to clean off the tiny smear of blood along the bottom edge before setting it aside. I expertly unscrew the cap on the new bottle of rubbing alcohol, placing two doubled-over gauze pads over the top of the bottle before I tilt it upside down. Pressing the freezing alcohol against the fresh wound, I let out a small sigh at the familiar sharp sting. This is the only part that still hurts – I can't feel the blade over the scarred areas, where the nerves and veins have been damaged beyond repair.

'Preston and his offhand comments about how cold my hands always are... What would he say if he knew the truth?' The last time I was hospitalized, the surgeon warned me that more cutting might cause me to lose the use of my hands. I reflexively test my fingers and ball my right hand up into a fist, and everything looks and feels normal, or as normal as it can, given my past. 'Imagine being a gaming YouTuber who can't use their hands. Imagine Preston trying to teach you how to parkour with your feet.' A small, half-hearted smile takes command of my face and I look up for a second before glancing away. The hollow, haunted face staring back at me looks like absolute shit: my eyes are bloodshot and ringed with black circles, my hair is too long and out of control, my beard is overgrown and unkempt, my skin is slick and grimy with oil.

'This is why I haven't been using facecam; I look like I just escaped from the eighth circuit of hell.' I let the wad of red-stained gauze sit in place while I grab two more little sheets and repeat the process, dropping the mess in the plastic bag on the counter when the bleeding stops. The trip to the store late last night had been more than worth it. I grab the red cardboard box next to the mirror and tear it open with my teeth, and the new roll of tan cloth bandages rolls out, bumping lightly against the rim of the sink. I open the last package from the store and grab four little strips of paper stitches, carefully unwrapping each one and prodding the straight edges of the loose flesh into place, locking them together the way they should have been placed years ago. To finish my handiwork, I gently but firmly wrap my forearm in the light brown bandages until the skin can't shift underneath, and I use the scissors from my office to sever the strip of fabric from the rest of the roll before tucking the end in place. I take the tiny trash bag of bloody gauze and incriminating evidence and force it down to the bottom of the kitchen trash can where no one will ever see it again. In the bathroom, I thoroughly clean everything before stashing the bottle of rubbing alcohol at the back of the cupboard under the sink and the rest of my supplies in the nook behind the modified drawer in my bedroom. As soon as the wooden plank clicks in place and the drawer slides closed, I know I got away with it.

'I feel like a serial killer.'

Knowing that Mitch is due to stop by any day now for another covert inspection, I gather up a set of clean clothes and a towel and go back to the bathroom to take a shower and shave. While I wait for the water to heat up, I examine the cut from my last failed attempt at shaving, the skin still red and painful even after almost three days of meticulous care. As steam starts to condense on the mirror, I reach under the sink and grab a pair of plastic grocery bags, using the scissors to cut them into sheets before I wrap them around the gauze bandage and tape them in place with thick medical tape from the medicine cabinet. I cringe at the feeling of it pulling at the hair on my arm as I take my clothes off, annoyed at my own thoughtlessness. I can't even think clearly in this fog.

'Brilliant. You should have done this before you tried to fix your arm. This is why you can't have a job.' I hold my right arm out of the stream of water as best as I can, spending an unreasonable amount of time standing in its warm spray with my eyes closed. When the pipes start to sing, signalling the end of the hot water, I drag myself out of the shower, wrapping myself greedily in two bath towels to ward off the cold before I wipe off the surface of the mirror and try to trim my beard back down to a reasonable length. When I finally leave the bathroom, the cool air quickly pulls the rest of the warmth away from my skin and the tips of the rays of sunlight are just beginning to color the edge of the city through the window. I hurry to the bedroom and wrap myself up in the thick blue comforter, pulling my phone over to the spot next to my head on the pillow so I can wait for my parents' daily check-ins. Evasion is a form of art to me.

I watch the dark grey walls slowly fade to white as the sun lights up the world outside. I only have to exist in the same dimension with my thoughts for another half hour before I can hang up the phone, take the double-dosage of happy little pills on the bedside table to make the fog dissipate, and fall into a dreamless darkness until the sun goes down again. After that, the only voice I'll have to hear is the indignant shriek of my alarm at five in the evening. All I have to do is wait a little longer, blank out a little more, until the phone rings. After that, I'm free.

As always, my thoughts wrestle me back down to reality and force me to stare my demons in the eyes. My mind falls back to Preston and his precious girlfriend, the one who forgot their one-month anniversary and took offense when he was upset with her about it. The amazing girl who spilled two of his deepest secrets online for the world to see and laugh about. The darling who constantly points out that he should be eating salads instead of hamburgers, and that he has gained a few pounds since August. The sweetheart who won't let him call her, but always has to be the one who calls him, regardless of his plans for the day or the inconvenience it causes him. The love of his life who only realized that Preston was eighteen and their relationship was problematic after several of his fans spammed it all over her Twitter feed. She knows nothing about him and they have nothing in common, yet he still clings to her. He holds onto her for dear life and bitches to me whenever something doesn't go how he wanted it to. The frozen roses she somehow didn't find on her front porch, the furious parents who took her phone away for two weeks so she couldn't text him, the constant arguments about his sense of humor, her discomfort with all of his friends, her complete disinterest in his career. I feel more envious of her than ever, and more upset at him than I'm entitled to be.

'Feelings are overrated. Humanity is overrated. I wish I was a computer.'

Humans serve no purpose in this world. We are all empty bags of protein and chemicals – meaty bundles of bone, flesh, and blood trying to find patterns and meaning in a temporary stream of neurotransmitters and hormones. We think we know all of the answers, until the day the sodium-potassium pumps stop feeding the gradient and the unsteady heartbeats stop fighting the inevitable. How can anyone find any meaning in such an imperfect mess? Pain is nothing more than a fleeting electrical signal, short-lived and pointless. Love is, too. Everything I feel is a distraction, an illusion, a lie. Could there be any more evidence that love doesn't exist? By definition love is a construction, something we build to make ourselves feel special and connected. It exists only in our minds and on dead pages. It means nothing. Humans are fools.

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November 23, 2012 at 5 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob

"Five minutes, Robert. I mean it. We are going to be in and out in five minutes or less, or your mother is going to roast me for dinner."

"Maybe you should take your own advice. You're the one who takes forever oogling at all of the cakes." Dad brings his car to a crawl and slides into a parking space, barely missing the silver van to the right of his spot. After spending my childhood in the back of his car, it's no wonder I hate driving – every time he gets behind the wheel, I see my life flash before my eyes. His car is a screaming, shrieking, moaning metal death trap. He throws his door open and I follow more carefully, watching him crunch his way through the slush like a dog with boots on its feet. Even after living in Quebec for his entire life, he still always manages to get snow in his shoes. He waits for me up by the front of the store, beckoning for me to walk faster.

"I will get the dessert if you get the wine."

"Are you sure that's a good idea? You said we only had five minutes."

"Five minutes. Time me." He puts on his innocent face and starts walking backward away from me, his feet pulling him to the back of the tiny grocery store to drool over the cakes and caress the pies.

'How does he not have diabetes? I can't even begin to imagine what he eats now that he lives on his own and doesn't have Mom to scold him when he indulges his bottomless sweet tooth. He acts like Preston with Five Guys.' I head over to the alcohol aisle and grab two bottles of inexpensive wine before I walk back to the front, scanning the store for a sign of life. There isn't even a cashier up here, let alone my father. I sigh and start walking in the direction he went, feeling a weak smile grow on my face when I see him looking back and forth between the two equally over-frosted chocolate cakes in his hands. He's hopeless.

"You said five minutes, Dad."

"Five minutes."

"We've already been here for ten minutes." He squints over at me like he isn't sure if I'm teasing him or not, and he starts walking toward me with his two sugary monsters. One has a kilogram of coconut sprinkled on top with little plastic snowflakes stuck in it, and the other looks like an overgrown Timbit that had been mashed in a lumpy circle. "The plain one looks better."

"We have to go."

"Dad, she specifically said we only needed one cake."

"Five minutes, Robbie." When you grow up, why do your parents always seem like overgrown children instead of actual adults? He flashes me his troll grin and speed-walks up to the front of the store, standing up on the tips of his toes to peer over the side of the only open register, looking for a cashier. I stand next to him and he glances up at me reproachfully as I look directly over the top of the metal divider and wave the manager over. He's been bitter about that seven centimeter height difference ever since I was in high school. He pays and grabs his cakes, all but running back out to his car while I get his receipt and the bottles of wine. I quickly climb into the car and I feel like I'm in a low-budget action movie. "Go, go, go, go, go!" The tires spin on a little patch of ice as he backs out of his parking spot and I brace for impact, but it thankfully never comes. Dad somehow maneuvers his way out of the parking lot and out onto the main street that leads to Mom's new house, and I hold onto the glass bottles for dear life.

'How does he still have a driver's license? He's a menace to society.' Luckily, there aren't many cars out tonight and it seems like everyone on Mom's street parks in their driveways. He comes to an abrupt halt about a meter away from the front path in her yard and the car gracelessly slides on a small puddle of frozen water before finally skidding to a halt halfway in front of her driveway, blocking her car in place.

"Now no one can escape," he chuckles as he pulls up the hand brake and flings his door open, hurrying to the backseat to grab a dessert. He starts walking up to the front door with the giant Timbit, the coconut disaster nowhere to be found. I decide not to question it; who knows what he plans to do with the other one later. He taps the snow off of his shoes on the front mat as he rings the doorbell, his cartoon-like smile reflecting in the glass on the door.

'I can see why she fell in love with him, but I still question her sanity. Hello, my name is Rob and my father the a sugar-crazed lunatic who just killed your kid with his car.' I see Mom's silhouette through the wavy glass panes, the shadow cast by the living room lamps filling the small window before she opens the door. She looks annoyed, her eyebrows raised at both of us when she steps out of the way for us to enter.

"We're sorry, Dale. We got lost," he explains as he holds the glazed dessert up, as if it would appease her.

"Yeah, we got lost in the bakery."

"Shhh." He comically holds one finger up to his lips and starts walking toward the kitchen, still cradling the lumpy cake in its glossy, clear crib. I follow him into the kitchen and gently unbag the bottles of wine, laughing as Dad finally stops to examine what he paid for. "You should have bought one white, one red."

"You should have let me pick out the cake." He wrinkles his face up in mock offense and puts the bottle of cheap Chardonnay back on the countertop. I drop the plastic bags in the little recycling container by the back door and turn to follow Mom back into the living room. Instead, I find Dad leaning forward on the counter, staring at me with a guarded expression on his face.

'What could he have done this time? He's up to something.'

"You are going to be mad at me."

"Why would I be mad at you? I don't care if you have a cake fetish." He raises his finger and opens his mouth to say something before what I say sinks in and he starts laughing under his breath.

"Very funny. When you get old and grey, you are going to want cake, too." He leans against the black and tan granite island bar and sighs before he looks up at me again, his eyes tired and sad. "I know you aren't a kid anymore. You haven't been a kid for a long time. No one can tell you what you can or can't do, but I want you to make me a promise tonight. Can you do that?" His face doesn't give anything away, but it's clear that this was Mom's idea, whatever it was. Dad was always the calm and peaceful one, willing to let everyone step on his toes to keep peace in the family, and he goes out of his way to make everyone happy. Like every other time he's had to be the bringer of bad news, he acts like he's trying to tell a tearful six-year-old that the tooth fairy doesn't exist. "Please promise me that you won't leave tonight. Promise me you will stay."

"How would I leave? You drove me here." He snorts with a small smile and walks over to the other door leading into the living room, turning to look at me when I don't follow him. "Why would I try to leave?"

"You will see." I nod in confusion and brace myself for some badly planned disaster as I follow him into the next room. Mom is sitting on the right side of the couch facing the fireplace, talking to someone sitting in the recliner next to the kitchen door. Only the back of their head is visible from the doorway we came through, but I'm relieved to see that it isn't Debra or Andrea. The evening might go horribly wrong, but I doubt it is going to end in wedding plans.

"What's taking Dad so long?" It takes me a few seconds to place the voice, but when it hits me, I freeze in place. Dad looks back at me to see if I'm still coming, then he grabs me by the wrist and starts dragging me toward the room, his fingers only centimeters away from the gauze wrapped around my right forearm and hidden by my thick, navy blue sweater. I try not to flinch away or make a face, and he must not have noticed anything because he keeps pulling me forward.

"He was just... There he is," Mom answers as Dad drags me to the edge of the room so I can't escape. He walks over the left side of the couch and takes his seat, leaving all eyes trained on me. I move over to the empty chair on the far end of the room and sit down before I dare look behind me. In the other chair is the man I haven't seen or heard from in eight years.

"Hi, Dar." He just looks at me, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pressed together in a small frown as our parents' trick sinks in. I would have come to dinner even if they had told me their plan, but I have no doubt in my mind that Darryl would have found some excuse not to show up. The idea of us being trapped here together must never have crossed his mind. I wonder how many times they've had dinner together like this - everyone but me. Mom looks anxiously back and forth between us, waiting for some kind of fairytale magic to happen, while Dad stares directly ahead at the fire, his face blank in defeat.

"What is he doing here?" my brother asks them softly, finally tearing his eyes away from me to search their faces for an answer.

'That's right, talk about me in third person like you always do. Pretend that I was never here and that I can't hear you.'

"They invited me to dinner, same as you." He turns to look back at me, his sharp, dark eyes briefly scanning me up and down like he expected me to be wearing a pure white straightjacket instead of regular dress clothes. His short, dark brown hair is combed forward and gelled down and his beard is neatly trimmed and rounded, his professionalism making my overgrown, unruly hair and light stubble seem inappropriate, even pitiful. As usual, Darryl is the perfect son while I can't begin to measure up. He doesn't even feel the need to act halfway decent toward me. "Are you still going to school in Maryland? That must have been quite a drive." The silence deepens as he continues to study me, his hands resting on the arms of the leather chair and his eyes locked on my face. Mom eventually settles back in her seat and crosses her arms, sighing as she realizes that we aren't going to stand up and throw our arms around each other in a loving, brotherly embrace.

"Darryl is finishing up his medical degree at the University of London. He has about two years left before he starts his residency," she explains with an irritated tone, as if she had expected him to talk directly to me instead of him pretending that I was a ghost that only she could convene with.

"Congratulations. We always knew you could do it." His eyes fall down to my lips, watching me as I speak before he locks onto my eyes again, analyzing me as if he was preparing to diagnose me with a terminal disease. "Do you still want to work in the ER?" Silence falls heavily over us again, leaving us all to listen to the fire's restless crackling.

"Neurology," he answers quietly, his voice so low that I can barely hear him. This is the first word he has spoken to me since I was nineteen years old. I never thought I would see him again, and now he is starting to talk to me. He might not like me but at least this is progress.

"What made you switch?" He continues staring at me and I see Dad shift in his seat, finally tuning back in to the conversation.

'Is this something he never discussed with them? Do they know why he changed his career path?'

"This is more interesting, less stressful. I will have a longer career." His voice is barely higher than a whisper, like it's taking every last drop of strength in his body for him to speak to me.

'Dar isn't the kind of person to change his mind so easily. All he wanted for the first twenty-four years of his life was to be an ER physician, and now he suddenly redesigns his life plans? Something isn't right here.'

'Maybe he got this degree so he could study you for his final paper. He would have plenty to write about.' I brush the thought aside as best I can, but his eyes are still locked on my face and I can't help but feel like a failed science project. Mom uncrosses her arms and scoots forward on the couch, tugging on Dad's arm to join her.

"I need to get dinner started. Can you pour the wine?" she asks, and Dad cautiously looks between me and Darryl before he gives in and goes with her, glancing anxiously back at us before he walks through the doorway.

'Why does he act like he doesn't trust us to be by ourselves? Does he think I'm completely insane, too? Does he think they'll come back and find me eating my brother's liver?' We both watch them leave before I look back and see that Darryl's eyes are trained on me again, as if he's trying to find something that he knows must be there, somewhere. When the kitchen door shuts behind them, a deathly stillness settles in the air. Just like when we were kids, I hate being alone with him. Nothing pleasant ever comes out of his mouth and he always makes me feel smaller and more pathetic than I already do.

'Why would I ever wish that I was like this man? Why would I want another heartless creature like him to exist, thriving on others' misery and self-doubt? I hope he isn't a tenth as nasty to his patients as he is to me.'

"Why did you do it?" he asks as quietly as ever, his fingers curling slightly over the ends of the arms of his chair as he initiates our old circular fight.

"Why did I do what?"

"The cutting." I look down at my hands in my lap, unable to meet his dark, pitiless eyes. We can't even have ten minutes together as a family before he starts interrogating and accusing me like the Spanish Inquisition. I've already given up on trying to convince him; my arguments have become completely hollow and overused.

"I wasn't in my right mind. I don't really have a reason." He doesn't respond, and I can't tell if he wants me to continue or not. I can't stand this painful silence anymore. "Dar, it was never about trying to hurt you or anyone else. I just... I wanted to feel something and everything inside of me felt dead. It was the only thing that made me feel like I was still alive, and I took it too far."

"You took it to its logical conclusion, as always. Now look where we are." I glance up to meet his eyes and I can see a spark of white hot anger burning there. Honestly, who can blame him for hating me? I hate myself. "You were the one who tried to hurt himself, and now you're the only one who is doing fine. Everyone else has to pay for what you did."

"I'm sorry."

" 'Sorry' doesn't change anything. You are the only thing Mom talks about, every day and every night, and Dad still doesn't sleep fifteen years later. Just like when we were kids – if you couldn't have it, you had to break it and call it an accident."

"What are you trying to say?"

"You know what I'm saying. I shouldn't have to spell it out for you." If I knew what was good for me, I would walk out of here and call a taxi, promise or no promise. Nothing has ever pissed me off this much before.

"How dare you. How... how could you say that?" He blinks slowly at me a few times, like he's trying not to roll his eyes at my dramatic nonsense. As usual, everything is my fault, and my fault alone.

"Are you trying to play innocent again, Robbie? Are you going to try to pin this on me, too?"

"I would never accuse you of causing our parents to separate. We might not get along, but I could never say something so twisted and hateful to you."

"So you deny it?" Like me, he smiles in anger and disbelief and pinches the bridge of his nose to keep himself from losing his temper completely. Whenever I look at him, I see myself, I hear myself, I hate myself. I know him so well that he has become the voice inside my head. We are so alike that we can't stand each other, and of course the more sane one despises the less sane one because he reflects all of his insecurities and fears. He blames me for everything that ever goes wrong, from a misplaced football shoe to Dad missing an award ceremony to our parents' divorce. He never sees the role he plays in all of this.

"Do you deny your part?"

"How did I ruin their marriage?"

"Not coming home for the holidays for years on end couldn't have helped. Treating all three of us like shit wasn't the best course of action, Dar."

"That is complete crap and you know it. When I lived in Quebec City, I went home to see them every weekend. I still Skype them every Sunday, even when I have a twelve-hour practical the next day. You are the one who is always too absorbed in his own little fantasy world to remember that he has a family." That hits me right where it hurts the most. I blow a fuse and I feel my mouth moving faster than my brain can keep up. I know I will regret this conversation for years.

"Yes, because the inside of my mind is the greatest place in the world to be. Oh, how I love dragging myself through life, day after day, afraid to say anything or ask for help in case Big Brother might be inconvenienced, or that he might have a hissy fit so he can get everyone's attention again." He actually laughs at this, the fury slowly growing in his eyes as our voices begin to rise. I wonder if Mom is still clinging to the hope that we can have a civilized family dinner.

"It was always about the attention, wasn't it?"

"Oh, of course. I'm so talented. I can hallucinate on command so that I can steal your spotlight for five minutes every year. The microwave told me to interrupt your football game so the illuminati wouldn't have to send probes down."

"Right. Did the clicker tell you to use Dad's razor blades to try to kill yourself?" he laughs scornfully, still convinced that my episodes of paranoia and psychosis had been just for show. In reality, I hadn't known it was happening until someone had told me about it afterward. Dr. Theresa said it had been a side effect of the medication I was taking at the time and that I wouldn't have to worry about it again, but the idea of slowly losing my mind has haunted me ever since. The nightmares don't help.

"No, you did," I answer quietly, the truth of the statement throwing us into another deep silence. The staff at the mental hospital had recorded me pleading with Darryl to let me go and to stop hurting me during the evaluation period, when I had been in an empty room all by myself. I had tried to use my teeth to rip the stitches back out of my arms, and they had had to strap my wrists down to the bed and sedate me for four days before the episode had passed. The memory is still fresh in all of our minds, and it had prompted an extended investigation by child welfare services. It had not only interrupted Darryl's schedule, but it had ruined his social life; he had been branded as the guy whose kid brother was in the nut house.

"Poor little Robbie, always looking for a better plotline and a bigger audience. You must hate having me as your older brother when all you can do is sit on your ass and play video games. I'm surprised you don't still live with Mom." His voice is dripping with venom, barely concealing the hurt behind his mask

"I moved out in 2008 after my therapist took me off of suicide watch. I've lived on my own since then."

"Bravo. Should I tell Mom to get the camera?" His face is twisted in a snarl, nearly three decades of pent-up frustration billowing out of him and into the dim living room.

'I have always walked away from the fight by now and nothing has ever changed. What would happen if I kept pushing?'

"No, but you might want to find someone to talk to about this. Here, let me give you my therapist's number." I say it without any sarcasm, only meaning well, and he just huffs at me and crosses his arms defensively, glaring at me like I had just called him a vulgar name.

'For a physician in training, he is very closed-minded and immature. He really does need professional help.'

"I am the last person in this family who needs therapy. Let's see: we have you with your phantom voices and cutting, Mom with her favoritism and overcompensation, and Dad with his binge eating and guilt. I am the only sane one in this family." At this point, Darryl is yelling loud enough for them to hear him from the kitchen and I hear the door swing open on the side by the front door. They must have realized that they can't hide from this forever. I refuse to rise to the bait and I fight to keep my voice as normal as possible.

"What are you talking about? Mom has never played favorites and Dad has no reason to feel guilty."

"Oh! So I see he still hasn't told you!" He turns and sees our father standing in the doorway, his eyes wide and his usual mischievous grin nowhere to be seen. Dad looks so small and vulnerable as he leans on the immense tan wall leading up to the vaulted ceiling. He braces himself against the doorframe and covers his eyes with his hand, preparing for the worst, whatever it may be.

"Darryl, please," he says, almost inaudible over the snapping fire behind him. "Please don't do this."

"How can you pretend-!"

"Leave him alone, Dar. If you need to take your disappointment and wounded pride out on someone, take it out on me. Dad doesn't deserve to be treated like shit." If anything, Dad curls in on himself more and leans heavily on the wall, like he's trying to fight the pull of gravity and he's slowly losing ground.

"This has nothing to do with me. This is all about you and him."

"Then why are you butting in? If he has something to say to me, let him do it when he's ready. You have no right-"

"I have no right?! Don't try to tell me what my rights are. I have had to deal with this since I was five years old, Rob. I have the right to enjoy the rest of my life without having to put up with any more of your bullshit. At least if they told you the truth, you could get the help you needed and have a normal life. Choosing not to tell you is selfish – no, abusive. He refuses to do the right thing because he is a coward." I rise up in my seat and I feel my fingernails biting into the palms of my hands. The small incision on my right wrist is throbbing and I can feel the paper stitches fighting to keep the partially-healed wound closed. He can point his finger at me as much as he wants, but blaming Dad is taking it too far.

"Don't talk about Dad that way. If you want to talk about cowardice, look in a mirror. Even if he hid the truth, at least he didn't run away from home and try to hide from his problems in England." His eyes narrow and his voice drops dangerously low.

"Do you know why? He couldn't hide from his problem. You were his problem."

"Darryl, please."

"He couldn't make himself run away from his mistake, so he hid it and let it ruin everybody's lives. He didn't even tell Mom what really happened."

"Please, stop."

"Did you ever wonder why they have no pictures of you when you were a baby? Did that ever set off an alarm?"

'Where is he going with this? Is Darryl going off the deep end, too?'

"Did you ever wonder why they made you skip the first half of kindergarten, or why they didn't let you play any sports until secondary school?" Dad is leaning his back against the wall now, his face buried in his hands as if he is preparing for someone to kick him in the stomach.

"Son..."

"You won't tell him and he deserves to know the truth. He needs to get the right kind of help, instead of relying on this pill-pusher Mom set him up with."

"I will tell him," Dad pleads, still frozen in place against the wall like a desperate artist's last feeble attempt at glory and fame. As usual, I have become completely invisible and voiceless.

"Tell him now. If you won't do it, I will. This has gone on way too long already." We sit in silence for a few seconds, neither of them noticing when Mom pushes open the door behind Darryl's chair to join the brawl. "Tell him, Dad."

"I... I-I can't. I can't do it."

"I can." Dad shakes his head furiously, refusing to look up. Mom looks concerned but not surprised; everyone knew about this except me. They intentionally left me in the dark. "The story was that you knocked a bookshelf over with your walker and it fell on you. That wasn't what happened. Dad slipped and dropped you on the corner of a table when you were a baby." Mom is covering her mouth with her hand and Darryl shows the first sign of normal human emotion since I entered the room. My life is quickly turning into a badly written soap opera. "You had a diastatic skull fracture and extensive cerebral contusions to the upper left region of your frontal lobe. They kept you at the hospital for almost a month, but the accident was conveniently left out of the medical records Mom sent your want-to-be therapist. Most drugs aren't very effective at treating disorders caused by brain trauma and, for whatever reason, neither of them felt it was necessary to tell you any version of the truth." The room falls silent for several seconds. I glance up at Mom for confirmation and she refuses to meet my gaze, trapped in her own wave of shock. I look back over at Dad, and he is still leaning back against the wall for support.

"Dad... Is that true?" He lets out a deep breath and, instead of answering me, he turns around the corner and walks toward the front door. I hear the lock click and he fumbles with the door handle, trying to escape from his waking nightmare. I immediately get to my feet and try to follow him, only to be blocked by a broad arm covered in a grey dress shirt.

"What are you trying to do? Let him go," Darryl says from the right of the doorway, but I firmly push him aside and continue going after Dad. He positions himself in front of me and tries to guide me back to my chair like they had taught him to do in medical school. He acts like he's afraid that I'm going to try to retaliate against Dad for something that he couldn't help and I can't remember. "Rob, let him go. He-"

"Get the fuck out of my way." I shove him backward with a soft thunk and edge around his stunned body, darting into the hallway to the front door while Mom whispers something behind me. None of that matters right now.

I throw the front door open and run down the steps, slipping twice on the icy sidewalk as I try to make it to the car to stop him. He is reckless enough without adding ice and adrenaline to the mix; I could never forgive myself if something happened to him tonight because of me. I slam into the car door and yank it open just as he starts to pull away, his forehead coming to rest miserably on the steering wheel as the car slides slowly over the small patch of black ice he had parked on. I reach over and shift the car into park and turn the key, a sigh of relief escaping me now that I know he's safe. I pull myself the rest of the way into the car and gently close the door behind me, settling into my seat to wait for him to speak. I'm not as persistent and aggressive as Mom and Dar are. His breathing is uneven and his shoulders shake slightly as he sobs, and I have to resist the urge to put my arms around him. We sit there well after the cold has begun to set in and the windshield has clouded over from our breath. It feels like an eternity has passed before he speaks.

"He hates me, doesn't he? He knows it was my fault, all of it. I did that to him. I failed..."

"I don't hate you, Dad." His head shoots up and his wide, red-rimmed eyes search my face uncertainly. "Nothing could ever make me hate you."

"I... I am the reason you-"

'He blames himself for my depression and hallucinations. He thinks he was the one who caused me to try to kill myself. How could he live with this secret for almost thirty years, letting it eat him up inside?'

"You're the reason I'm sitting here right now. You saved my life. It was an accident and you did everything you could to make things right." I lean over and lean my head on his shoulder, feeling him stiffen up at the unexpected movement. "You and Mom were trying to protect me. If I had been in your place, I know I would have done the same thing. You have to stop beating yourself up over this."

"How can you not be angry at us?"

"How are you not angry at me? The things I did are easily a thousand times worse."

"That wasn't your fault."

"It wasn't yours, either." He sighs and tenses up again. Something is still bothering him. "What's wrong?"

"He didn't tell you the whole story." I pull away and look at him, but he's staring out the driver's side window, avoiding my gaze. "He left out one of the most important details. Given the circumstances, I don't blame him."

"What really happened? I need to know the truth."

"I don't know if he can even remember the real truth anymore. He made his own version of it a long time ago. It was his backpack from school that I tripped over. I had told him over and over to put it away, but he was just a little kid. He was so scared and he felt so guilty... He was only five years old when it happened. He thought you were going to die and he felt responsible. You were a constant reminder of those feelings. Before that day, he... He was more excited about you being born than even your mother and me, if that is even possible. All he ever asked for was a little brother.

"Dar loved you so much... and the thought of being the one who hurt you destroyed him. It messed him up inside. Dale could never know what happened, and nothing I did could make him stop tearing himself apart – even counselling didn't work. I failed both of my sons." He puts his face in his hands again and takes a deep breath, and I wait from him to continue, all of the pieces of the puzzle finally falling into place. "He didn't know how to cope with the guilt and he started taking it out on you. He blamed me for what happened, and he blamed you for reminding him of it every day. He didn't want to hurt you but he couldn't help it. When you tried to commit suicide, something inside of him snapped. He pulled away from all of us and he spent more and more time outside of the house, then he moved to the States to go to college. He did everything he could to escape from himself but it never worked. Somewhere deep down inside of him, under all of the hurt and denial, he still loves you, Robbie."

'Everything he's done in his life has been an attempt to distance himself from what happened. He was the sports star, the award-winner, the top student, the tireless doctor, just to make himself as visible and important as his broken younger brother, and to give himself something else to think about. I was the one they were worried about when he was hurting just as much. He has obsessed over that day since he was a kid, and it has become such a huge part of his life that he wants to study it for a living. I have never actually met my brother, and I am the reason why.'

"I don't blame either one of you for what happened, but I think we should tell Mom the truth. The first step to fixing everything is to stop lying and hiding things."

'You're really one to talk, aren't you?'

He doesn't acknowledge my comment, but I assume that he agrees. Everything will get much harder before it gets better. We sit there on the quiet, still road for a few minutes longer before it dawns on me that Mom is probably worried about what happened to us and Darryl is most likely ranting her ear off about how I assaulted him. Even if he isn't the person he pretends to be, he will stubbornly continue his act and cling to his denial for as long as he can; he will still be running from the truth. I reach in the backseat and grab the foggy, flaky coconut cake, setting it on Dad's lap while he stares out the window.

"So, are you going to eat that now, or are you going to confess to Mom?" He looks down at it and his face breaks into a sober version of his usual cheesy grin before he drums his fingers on the lid and grabs his car keys.

"I might have to share it with you. We have been gone for so long that your mother probably won't feed us dinner now."

"We might have to use it to pacify Dar. I think I bruised his pride and his ass on the way out here." Dad chuckles and throws his car door open, setting his sickeningly sweet dessert on the roof of the car while he straightens his crumpled clothes and tries to fix his hopeless hair.

"What did you do to your brother this time?"

"Don't worry. You'll hear all about it in slow-mo when we walk in the front door." I slam the car door shut and start crunching my way back up the walkway, and he takes his time following behind me. I tap the snow off of my shoes and walk in, watching Mom's face light up when she sees me and her lips purse in irritation when she sees that Dad has brought her another damned cake.

"I didn't realize we were having a cake walk tonight, Darren. How many more of those are you going to pull out of your sleeve?" she asks stiffly as he slips past me to go into the kitchen, the heady scent of the beef roast wafting in when he opens the door. I walk toward her and back to my chair in the corner of the living room and she pulls me in for a sideways hug before I manage to get away, huffing at me when I turn and smile at her from my recliner. "You boys are going to be the end of me, I swear."

"You should see the other cakes he has in the car. Those two are puny," I joke, causing her jaw to drop in horror as she turns to stare accusingly at Dad when he reenters the room. Even Darryl gives a small smile from his new spot on the left side of the couch. He has a bright green ice pack pressed against his temple where his head must have grazed the wall when I pushed him out of the way.

'He always said I was the baby. Look at this ham over here, basking in Mom's attention. He is so needy.'

"Darren, tell me you didn't buy more cakes." He just looks at her and flashes his troll grin as he sinks down into the other recliner and rests his right ankle on his left knee.

"What can I say, dear? I like cake."

"You know, you are just like this one over here with his cigarettes," she says as she points over at me, and I hold my hands up in surrender. "You promise you won't do it again, but every time you come around here, you have another stash going in your car. What are you hiding from me? Are you popping pills from the pharmacy?"

"Never," Darryl replies as he picks his wine glass up from the coffee table and starts downing the clear liquid. He places the empty glass back down before he speaks. "I'm more of a drinker."

"Here I thought you were the only good one. For one night, we are going to have no nicotine, minimal sugar, and minimal alcohol. And no more fighting." She looks between Darryl and me as she says this, getting to her feet to refill her own wine glass.

"Whatever you say, dear," Dad responds, giving her his famous puppy dog eyes when she turns to glare at him.

"You should have bought three bottles, Robbie," she mutters as she opens the door to the kitchen and disappears from view. Once she is out of earshot, Dad leans forward conspiratorially, his voice low and his face serious.

"Everyone knows everything, and everything is forgiven. We don't fight about any of this anymore, yeah?" Darryl's face goes completely blank and his body stiffens so much that even his breathing stops.

"What are you going to tell Mom?" I ask quietly, looked pointedly at Dad to remind him of our discussion in the car. He shakes his head furiously and pretends to be leaning forward to grab his untouched glass of wine in case she suddenly reappears in the doorway.

"Some tunes don't need to be whistled to the magpies; the song would never end."