By: Richard Zhao

I live with a war criminal. According to Article 17 of Part III of the Geneva Convention, my brother has violated the law forbidding physical and mental torture of prisoners of war. Given that my room has been called a “warzone” by my mother, along with the fact that I am confined to the limits of my residence, it’s safe to say that I am a prisoner of war.

Ever since my brother learned how to throw hands, the quality of my life has dropped dramatically. There was a time when he was a cute little baby in a crib, but now I have Satan himself running around the house screaming for cookies. Since our parents do not want to deal with him, I’m the person that he chooses to terrorize.

Normally, considering that my memory is about as stable as the current state of Twitter, I would have forgotten about all the things he’s done to me. However, it is physically impossible to forget what he has done to me. This small child has left scars on me from digging his nails into my flesh after he learned that clawing people hurts them more than slapping them with noodle arms.

Starting at the age of three, my brother has grown progressively more dangerous. Although, admittedly, that might just be me slowly breaking down from the psychological torture inflicted by his presence. An initial refusal to sleep without a stuffed animal has escalated to him throwing half a brick at me. Recently, he even learned how to body-slam people.

I really can’t hate him that much for his actions, considering he only commits one serious infraction a year and is only a general nuisance the rest of the time. In addition, I’m slowly but steadily mastering the art of ignoring a person screaming my name from one meter away.

I’m probably partially at fault too. On the rare occasion when I have actually finished all my work, I have the time to read with him. And not only did I not feel annoyed, I didn’t get a new scar for my wound collection. Most of the times that I have gotten fed up with my brother was because I was busy and didn’t have time to deal with him. Perhaps my brother feels like I’m ignoring him and is simplifying venting his rage in the form of his outbursts. Whatever the reason, I still love (and hate) him.