[FULL STORY] What’s the worst part about being the “responsible” sibling?

I faced a choice: pursue legal action against the facility for negligence or focus on getting Mikey the long-term treatment he desperately needed. The lawsuit could take years; Mikey needed help now.

I chose treatment. That evening I called my parents for the fifth time that week.

The phone rang and rang before going to voicemail. Their last email had been brief; they would only communicate monthly via email and no phone calls about Mikey.

They couldn’t handle hearing about his condition.

Rewriting the Past

Security footage arrived by courier two days later. The grainy video showed Mikey walking calmly through the facility exit at 2:15 a.m. wearing an orderly’s uniform.

Dr. Brennan’s investigation revealed he’d been stealing pieces of the uniform for weeks: a shirt from the laundry, pants from a supply closet, a badge from a distracted worker’s locker.

I got home late that night to find my apartment door properly locked. Nothing was seemingly out of place, but something felt wrong.

My work badge wasn’t on the kitchen counter where I always left it. I searched everywhere before checking my building’s key fob records on the resident portal.

Someone had used my spare fob to enter at 2:47 a.m. three nights ago while I was asleep. The next morning, my boss called me into his office.

He’d received an email from my address at 4:00 a.m. claiming I was having another breakdown and needed extended leave. I hadn’t sent it.

My boss showed me the email on his screen. It detailed supposed symptoms I was experiencing, signed with my name.

Mikey had used my work badge to access my office computer.

Emma called during lunch, her voice tense. She asked if I knew why Mikey would be calling her about Alice’s favorite flowers.

My stomach dropped. She explained he’d called two weeks ago, before his escape, asking detailed questions about what Alice would want for her birthday.

Emma had thought it was part of his therapy and answered honestly.

“Pink roses and baby’s breath.” she said.

I rushed to the bank to check our old joint account, the one I’d forgotten to close. The teller’s expression told me everything.

Three thousand dollars had been withdrawn over the past month in small increments. I’d been so focused on his treatment that I hadn’t monitored the account.

She printed the withdrawal records—each one from different ATMs around town.

The Evidence Vault

Back at Mikey’s apartment, I found receipts hidden in his closet. There were hardware store purchases for rope, tarps, and a shovel.

There were party supply store receipts for princess decorations, pink streamers, and a child-sized tiara. The flower shop receipt showed a standing order for pink roses to be delivered to the cemetery every Tuesday.

My hands trembled as I photographed each receipt. Dr. Brennan called an emergency meeting.

Two other patients had come forward with disturbing stories. Mikey had been recruiting them for weeks, telling them about his sister who was being held against her will.

He’d promised them they’d be heroes if they helped rescue her. One patient, dealing with his own delusions, had almost believed him.

Emma met me for coffee that evening. She suggested gently that maybe I was becoming too obsessed with Mikey’s illness and that I needed to let the professionals handle it.

This is one of those moments where you just have to laugh at the neighbor asking if everything’s all right while Mikey’s literally trying to force his brother into a princess costume. Like, lady, does this sound all right to you?

I showed Emma the journal entries, the receipts, and the security footage. Her expression shifted from concern to horror as she realized the depth of his planning.

While organizing papers, I found an old text message Mikey had sent Alice two days before her accident.

“Don’t worry about Mark. Big brothers always think they know best.” it read.

Such an innocent message then; now it felt like a dark preview of his current delusions. I stared at it until my eyes burned.

Mounting Pressure

My phone rang constantly over the next few days. Extended family members called with concern—not for me, but about Mikey.

He’d been calling them from the hospital claiming I wouldn’t let him visit Alice’s grave properly. My aunt said he’d sobbed on the phone about how I was keeping him from saying goodbye to his sister.

She’d almost driven down to confront me before remembering Alice had been dead for over a year.

My supervisor called me into another meeting. More emails had been sent from various IP addresses, all claiming I was exhibiting erratic behavior at work.

The IT department traced them to public library computers and the hospital’s visitor Wi-Fi. My supervisor had no choice but to place me on mandatory administrative leave pending a psychological evaluation.

I met with Dr. Woods, the hospital psychiatrist assigned to Mikey’s case. She dismissed my concerns with a wave of her hand, insisting Mikey was stabilized and showing genuine remorse.

When I pressed about his manipulation tactics, she grew defensive. Only later did a nurse quietly mention that Dr. Woods had lost her own daughter years ago; she saw grief, not danger.

Evening visiting hours became my new routine. I would sit outside the secured unit watching through the reinforced window as Mikey moved around the common area.

One night I watched him practice dance movements alone in the corner, his arms positioned as if holding an invisible partner. The other patients gave him a wide berth.

Maria, the night cleaning woman, found me in the hallway one evening. She pulled me aside, glancing nervously around.

In broken English, she explained that Mikey had been paying her twenty dollars each time to deliver packages to the cemetery. She thought she was helping a grieving brother.

The packages had included a child-sized sleeping bag, battery-powered lanterns, and bottles of water. She’d left them by Alice’s headstone as instructed.

Calculated Vulnerability

My aunt called the next morning, confused about Facebook posts. Mikey had somehow accessed social media and was posting in grief support groups about seeking justice for Alice.

The posts claimed I had isolated her, controlled her, and prevented her from living her dreams. Members of her church group were sharing the posts, offering prayers and support for Mikey’s loss.

The comment sections filled with outrage toward me. A pattern emerged as I reviewed everything.

Mikey specifically targeted people who had lost daughters or sisters. Sarah Peen, Dr. Woods, and Maria all had experienced similar losses.

He studied their social media, learned their stories, and used their grief as an entry point for manipulation. He appeared vulnerable and broken to them, triggering their protective instincts.

Sarah Peen texted me late one night. She couldn’t sleep, haunted by how easily she’d been fooled.

She shared more details about their conversations. Mikey had told her I wouldn’t let him say goodbye properly and that I’d banned him from the cemetery.

He’d cried in her arms, calling her by her dead sister’s name when she comforted him. The manipulation was so calculated it made me nauseous.

I managed to get permission to record one conversation with Mikey. Sitting across from him in the visitor’s room, I watched him cycle between lucidity and delusion.

For a moment his eyes cleared and he looked directly at me. His voice was calm and measured as he said he knew exactly what I thought he was.

Then, just as quickly, he slipped back into calling me Alice. The shift was seamless and terrifying.

Fixing Memories

Emma started receiving strange messages on social media. Photos of her old Instagram posts had been edited to include Alice’s face.

The messages came from new accounts with variations of Alice’s name. Each one claimed to be reaching out from the other side.

Emma blocked each account, but new ones kept appearing. She finally deactivated her social media entirely.