My Brother's Asylum

The aroma of the Christmas Eve feast, laced with cold, crept into my nostrils as I sat in the corner of the dining table. Three years had passed. I'd just come out of that so-called Wellness Center, still carrying the smell of disinfectant on me. When the door opened, I heard Mom gasp sharply; she probably hadn't expected Miles Fisher to bring Celine with him. Miles walked in, followed by his fiancée, Celine Scott; he stood taller than he had three years ago. But his gaze still held that same scrutiny, as if judging whether I had "learned to behave." The dining table had been rearranged; he personally brought a bowl of braised pork and placed it at the corner of the table in front of me. "Laura, this used to be your favorite. I made it specially the way you like it—added two spoonfuls of sugar." His voice carried a deliberate gentleness. I looked at the bowl of greasy, gleaming meat, my stomach churning as a memory of being forced to eat spoiled food three years ago suddenly resurfaced. "No need, I don't like it anymore." I pushed the bowl aside, my voice soft but firm. Miles's face darkened, and he pushed the bowl closer to me again. "Just try it—one bite. I'm begging you." I said nothing, reached out, took the bowl, and walked straight to the trash to dump it all, without a hint of hesitation. Miles hurried after me, grabbing my arm. "Pick it up." His tone was utterly cold, exactly like the way the caregiver at the Wellness Center, the asylum, ordered me around. I stood still, but I knew what would happen if I resisted. "I told you to pick it up and eat it. Don't you understand?" He stepped forward, a shadow falling over me, and the weight of his height reminded me of the days I was locked in the basement dungeon. Mom stood nearby, tears welling up as she anxiously tugged on Miles's sleeve and pleaded, "Miles, don't be like this. It's a happy day, let's talk this through calmly." Miles shrugged off Mom's hand, his gaze sharp and cold: "Mom, don't get involved. This is between her and me." Celine leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth as if watching a show: "Miles, don't stoop to the level of a patient. She just got out of the hospital; her mind isn't clear yet." Her words felt like needles, piercing my skin until it throbbed. I turned to her: "My mind has never been clearer. I see the real mad person here far better than you ever could." Miles suddenly seized my wrist with a force that felt like it could shatter my bones: "Pick it up, or I'll send you back to the Wellness Center." His gaze reminded me of the electroshock devices in the asylum; the unbearable surge of electricity flooding through my body overwhelmed me in an instant. My knees buckled, and I fell onto the cold floor. The meat in the trash can was covered in dust, bits of paper, and a few stray hairs—utterly revolting. I reached out, trembling, and picked up a piece, dust and humiliation clinging beneath my fingernails. The instant I shoved it into my mouth, bitterness and shame flooded my throat—I barely held back the urge to vomit. "I'm sorry, Miles. I won't do it again. I shouldn't have been so stubborn." I heard myself say this—it was what the asylum taught me. The nurses said that if I obeyed, I might avoid another round of electroshock. Miles's body stiffened noticeably; he probably hadn't expected that I, once so wild and defiant—resisting even the slightest touch—would become so compliant. Celine promptly pulled out a document and approached, handing it to Miles. "By the way, Miles, this is Laura's psychiatric evaluation report, just received yesterday." She deliberately read aloud, as if wanting everyone to hear: "All indicators are normal, meeting the discharge criteria. It seems our worries were unnecessary." I chewed the foul meat in my mouth, tears sliding silently down my face, swallowed along with the iron taste of flesh. A scene from three years ago suddenly came into focus—it was also a Christmas Eve night just like this. Miles himself sent me to the asylum; he grabbed my hair and said, "You're mentally unstable. You need treatment." "Then why didn't you say I was sane back then?" I lifted my head, met Miles's eyes, my voice trembling but clear. Miles's grip loosened; he said nothing, only crumpled the report into a ball and tossed it into the trash.