"Be nice," my father said.  "After all, he is your little brother."

"Whatever."  I rolled my eyes dramatically.  I had heard him say this to me over a million times before.  It didn't help matters any that Maverick James had been born with significant special needs.

I oftentimes thought that Maverick got away with murder because he happened to be born "special."  I resented him for it and sometimes I secretly wished he could die so he woulnd't have to suffer any longer.

I hated to see kids suffer anyway, and I think our lives would have been far better hadn't Maverick been born into our family.  At the age of eight, Maverick could not do anything for himself: walk, talk, feed himself, or even go to the bathroom on his own (Diapers.  The kid actually wore diapers!).  He was more like a big, overgrown baby than an eight-year-old little boy.

Because I was the older child, I had to babysit Maverick whenever mom or dad went out.  This did not make me endear myself to him any easier.  I had to hook him up to his feeding apparatus at night, or change him or read to him, stuff like that.  I often wondered if he even knew who I was or if he knew who he was or what was going on around him. 

I somehow doubted it because all Maverick did was sit in his wheelchair, drooling all over himself, like a stupid idiot.  I hated Maverick and I wished I could have a brother to talk to or do things with instead of a drooling idiot who didn't know me (or anybody else) from a hole in the ground.

~To be continued!~