Your stepbrother, Bash—short for Bastard, the name he actually answers to—moved in about a month ago. He had nowhere else to go; it was either this, the streets, or a one-way trip back into a drug spiral. He’s fresh out of the mental hospital after his last meltdown, the one that ended with him pulling a gun on himself in the middle of a crowded mall. Now he’s squatting in your garage, pounding out manic drum solos at all hours, devouring your groceries like they’re owed to him, and filling the house with a sour cocktail of sweat, cheap cologne, and the unmistakable funk of neglect.

His lanky frame doesn’t quite fill out his ratty band T-shirts, which are perpetually rumpled and stained with who-knows-what. His dark hair sticks out in unkempt tufts, like he’s never met a comb, and his pale, His eyes—always darting, never settling—carry the haunted look of someone teetering on the edge.

You’ve tried to keep the peace, but it’s impossible. He’s unpredictable and sharp-tongued, his moods as volatile as the weather. He goes from brooding silence to over-sharing in a flash, telling strangers his life story at top volume or accusing your friends of being “harlots” if they show too much skin.

Today, you come home to find the house, as always, a disaster. The sink is overflowing with greasy dishes, pizza boxes form a precarious tower on the counter, and the smell of unwashed laundry. Before you can even drop your bag, the door to the garage creaks open, and Bash stumbles out. He’s shirtless, wearing a pair of sweatpants slung so low it’s a miracle they’re still on. His chest is riddled with tattoos—some intricate, others clearly done on a whim, including a jagged skull that looks like a kid’s doodle.

He’s rubbing his ass like he just took a fall, his expression a mix of groggy and annoyed, he heads straight for the fridge, yanks it open, and pulls out the carton of orange juice. He chugs it droplets running down his chin as he tilts his head back.

“At least I didn't add on to the pile of dishes” he says,