“What are you doing here?” Rose said, smiling.

  She had been having a tea party with Mr. Bunny and Ms. Sprinkles when she noticed Al sitting on the polished wooden floor beneath the window. His face was unreadable, legs crossed, hands set neatly in his lap. She hadn’t heard him come in.

  The morning sky, casting long, dark shadows throughout the room, told her all she needed to know about the weather for the day. It was gloomy despite the early morning hour; gray clouds rolling across the sky threatening rain.

  Al didn’t usually come around when she was playing with her dolls. He would, on occasion, agree to paint pictures with her after school or help brush her hair before bed. He always sat in the empty desk next to her at school and ate lunch with her alone outside. All things considered, Al was the best big brother Rose could have asked for.

  “Would you like to play?” Rose asked.

  Silence.

  “Rose, didn’t I tell you start getting ready for school an hour ago?” It was her father. She could tell from his voice that he was upset.

  “Sorry, dad,” Rose said in her sweetest voice, “Al and I got distracted playing with our dolls.”

  Her father looked around the room and sighed. “Just be ready for school in 10 minutes. And don’t make me have to come up here again.” He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  “You heard ‘em, Al, let’s get ready for school.”

  * * *

  Rose, wearing her bright yellow raincoat and matching rubber boots, had been correct about the weather. It had started to rain shortly after leaving the house, wind blowing in all directions at once, making a mess of her brown curls. Her and Al hurried inside, heading straight for their table at the back of the cafeteria. Rose ate half a muffin—banana nut, thank you very much—and washed it down with some apple juice before heading to Mrs. Peters’s office.

  “How have you been, Rose?”

  Rose said she was well as she sat down on the black leather sofa. The lights in the room were dimmed, as always, which made Rose sleepy. Mrs. Peters must have noticed, offering her a piece of candy that was supposed to wake her up. Rose spent the next twenty minutes answering questions about how her classes were going, whether she had made any new friends, and how she was getting along with her father.

  “How have things been going between you and your brother?”

  “Great, we played dolls together this morning!”

  “And did he come to school with you today?”

  Rose was confused by the question. “Yes,” she replied, “Al loves it here at Pioneer elementary.” Mrs. Peters jotted something down in her diary, glanced at her watch, and told Rose that it was time to head to class.

  “You don’t want to be late,” Mrs. Peters said with a wink, “Or Miss G. will have us both in the principal’s office.”

  Skipping down the hallway, Rose stopped outside of her first period classroom. “Well, that was weird,” she said, turning to Al, “It’s like she didn’t even see you!”

  * * *

  Rose’s elementary school years passed without consequence. She had mastered her ABCs, could tell you exactly how to add and subtract fractions, and knew a handful of facts about American history. In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue, thank you very much. She had also discovered a passion for reading. Throughout middle school, she spent her free time reading tall tales of princesses, fairies, and faes that would work together to defeat an evil force, cultivating in the princess being reunited with her one true love.

  Unfortunately, no matter how much Rose learned, it never seemed to lessen her interpersonal struggles. In fact, by the time Rose had entered high school, she was partially convinced that she was invisible. No one talked to her in between classes, and even some of her teachers pretended like she didn’t exist. She spent most her time in class with her head down—drawing pictures of dragons and other mythical creatures in her spiral bound notebook to pass the time. She worked hard in the evenings to learn what she should have been studying in school. She received passing grades more times than not, which was generally enough to avoid her father’s harsh criticisms. “Why can’t you just be like the other kids in your class, Rose?” her father would plead.

  As Rose became more isolated, Al became more cynical. He would point out when students were making jokes at her expense and note that black and white dress her Algebra teacher wore made her look like a slut. He would encourage her to do things she didn’t want to do, like skip school, start an argument with her father, or sneak out after dark. She tried distancing herself from Al on several occasions—knowing that he was a bad influence. But every time she tried to stand up to him, he would turn it around on her, making her feel bad for trying to get rid of her older brother.

  “Get out of my room,” she demanded one afternoon after school.

  “And go where?” he asked, pacing across the room, “If I leave, who is going to take care of you? The kids at school will take advantage of you, Rose. They think you’re a freak.”

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  As much as it pained her, Rose knew Al was right. While he lectured her, she visualized the students darting into nearby classrooms upon seeing her in the halls. She heard the voices that mocked her behind her back, calling her a “lunatic” or “nutjob,” mistakenly thinking she couldn’t hear. Most of all, she felt the gut-wrenching despair in the pit of her stomach, ripping her apart from the inside out, leaving behind an icy numbness that grew as her hope for a normal life shrank.

  Why can’t I be like the other kids at school?

  The wheels began to fall off the wagon not long thereafter. Rose began to steal alcohol from her father’s liquor cabinet, forcing down the acidic spirits while fighting back tears. She would sneak out her bedroom window at night, meet with people she hardly knew, and smoke weed or take colorful pills that looked like skittles. She was suspended from school four times her senior year; twice for skipping school, once for calling her English teacher a “bitch,” and another for attacking another student.

  “What has gotten into you?”

  “I—”

  “Save it,” the principal interrupted, “I’ve had enough of your stories.” He threw up his hands, “Al said this. Al made me do that,” he said in a high-pitched voice, “When are you going to grow up, Rose?”

  Rose said nothing. She took her punishment in stride and spent her time away from school locked in her room trying to understand what was happening to her.

  * * *

  Rose was kicked out of the house three months after her high school graduation. She spent the next twelve months living in a homeless shelter, selling her body on the streets for food stamps and crack cocaine. She eventually landed a job at a gas station, which she used the money from to rent a single bedroom apartment.

  “Well, here it is,” the overweight property manager said.

  The windows were cracked, Rose could see black bugs crawling in between the floorboards, and the paint that had once been white was stained yellow from water damage. She told the man this would work and handed him $200 dollars cash.

  “Lovely place,” Al said as the property manager closed the door behind him.

  “Shut up,” she snapped, “It’s the best I can do at the moment, in case you haven’t noticed.” Rose crossed the living room and set her bags down in the kitchen.

  “Oh, I noticed,” Al said, following her into the kitchen. “You know,” he continued, “I’m starting to think everyone was right about you. You can barely take care of yourself. Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

  She tried—unsuccessfully—to ignore her brother’s cutting voice.

  Rose had looked in the mirror lately and had been disgusted by what she saw. Her curly brown hair looked like a rat’s nest on top of her head, and she had become so thin she looked like a corpse risen from the dead. Open sores, either crusty with dead skin or oozing with greenish-yellow puss, covered her arms and legs. She had barely recognized the monstrosity, made all the worse by the empty brown eyes that looked back at her with pity, staring at her in the mirror.

  She had to use drugs that night to make her brother go away. She had made, and subsequently broken, the same promise to herself a thousand times over. “This will be the last time,” she would say, knowing that it was a hopeless excuse, making her feel all the more worthless. Or the classic, “Starting tomorrow, I am going to get my life back on track,” to which she would find herself saying again the following night while lying in bed with a stranger.

  She hated her brother. He was the reason she didn’t have any friends. He was the reason she had been kicked out of her father’s house. He was the reason she couldn’t live a normal life. The more she resisted his presence, however, the more hostile he became. She no longer used drugs because it made her feel good; she used drugs because it was her only escape from the mocking voice in her head constantly reminding her of every mistake she had ever made.

  “Get out of my head,” she screamed, thrashing around in bed, fighting someone that wasn’t there, waking up to bedsheets soaked with sweat.

  Al was standing in the corner of the room, in his usual spot, next to the window. Light from pale half-moon beyond the window cast shadows across his face. Rose could see that he was smiling.

  “Trouble sleeping, little sister?”

  * * *

  Rose blinked.

  She didn’t know where she was. She was sitting at a wooden table. People in nightgowns were standing in line waiting for food. A young man wearing a sheriff’s uniform was patting people down as they entered the room. The styrofoam cup sitting in front of her was filled with coke that tasted flat.

  “How are you, Rose?”

  She looked around, searching for the voice. There was a pretty blonde-haired woman in a white coat standing next to her. The women’s words didn’t register.

  “Rose?”

  The pretty women’s melodious voice sung in the background as Rose examined her surroundings. The lighting in the room hurt her eyes. The pungent smell of cleaning product stung her nose. The people standing in line looked sick.

  And then she understood. She was in the cafeteria. The blonde women’s name was Dr. Hernandez. The people in nightgowns were other patients. She was in a hospital.

  As if struck by lightning, she shot up out of her chair. She frantically looked around the room, checking the windows first.

  She let out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t here. She was safe.

  “Rose? Are you okay?”

  She turned towards the voice.

  “No,” she whispered, backing away.

  There he was. Standing behind Dr. Hernadez.

  She tried to scream. She wanted to stop him, but there was nothing she could do. Rose watched in horror as her older brother, smiling ear to ear, raised a knife and slit Dr. Hernandez’s throat. Blood went everywhere, shooting from her carotid artery onto her white coat and pooling around her feet as she stumbled to the ground.

  Rose fell backwards over her chair. She turned and crawled away from her brother as fast as she could. When she spared a glance over her shoulder, she could see her brother approaching, leaving a trail of red footprints on the white tiled flooring.

  Looming over her, her brother raised the knife above his head. Rose screamed as loud as she could, raising her hands in front of her face.

  When Rose opened her eyes a second later, her brother was done. Dr. Hernadez was fine, still standing next to her table, and everyone in the room was staring at her. She was sweating, still trembling in fear from what had happened. She began to hyperventilate and fainted. The last thing she remembered was seeing a figure next to the window, looking at her with concern. The last thing she remembered hearing was a voice. A cool, distant voice that seemed to whisper in her ear.

  “Are you okay, little sister?”