Part 1Born Bad: The Twin's Revenge

My twin brother was bullied to death in high school. The rich kids who did it hid behind their "minor" status, got a slap on the wrist, and went right back to their luxury cars and parties.

They thought the problem was buried six feet under.

What they didn't know was that I exist. I was born with Antisocial Personality Disorder, locked away in a psych ward for being too dangerous.

But now, I know the truth. I’ve escaped. And I’m walking through the school gates wearing my dead brother’s face.

Time to teach them what a real monster looks like.

* * *

After our parents died, it was just me and my twin brother, Jacob.

Neither of us won the genetic lottery. Jacob was born with an intellectual disability—he was innocent, slow, a permanent child. Me? I was born wrong in a different way. The doctors called it Antisocial Personality Disorder. I had violent tendencies and zero empathy.

When I was little, I hurt people. My parents, terrified I’d kill someone, pulled me out of school and locked me in a dark room.

In that darkness, Jacob was my only light. Everyone feared me—even Mom and Dad—but not Jacob. He’d sneak in, giggle, call my name, and feed me butterscotch candies through the crack in the door. At night, he’d hug me, singing nursery rhymes to calm my rage.

When our parents died in an accident, the relatives didn't want a psychopath. They shipped me off to a state mental hospital. Jacob was left behind to fend for himself in the public school system.

I missed him. So, I learned to act. I wore a mask of sanity. I suppressed the violence. I played the model patient for years, just so I could get out and protect him.

I finally escaped. I ran all the way home, clutching a piece of candy a nurse gave me, imagining Jacob's smile.

But when I got to our old neighborhood, the neighbors told me Jacob had been missing for two days. Some classmates had "taken him to play."

Mrs. Higgins next door, the only one who ever pitied us, touched my head. "Go find him, Caleb. Those kids didn't look right. Your brother is slow... don't let them hurt him."

Panic, a rare emotion for me, seized my chest.

I followed her directions to an abandoned textile factory on the edge of town.

That’s where I found him.

Jacob was curled up in a corner like a broken doll. His legs were snapped. His fingers were bent at impossible angles. He was covered in blood, cold and stiff.

One of his eyes was gone—shattered by a rusty nail driven straight into the socket.

I didn't feel sadness the way normal people do. I felt a cold, black void opening up.

My brother was gone. The only person who treated me like a human.

I fell to my knees beside his body. I pulled him into my arms and screamed until my throat bled.

"Jacob! Wake up!"

I shoved the sticky, half-melted candy into his slack mouth.

"Eat it, Jacob. It’s sweet. I saved it for you. Look at me! Caleb is back! I’m here!"

He didn't move.

I pried his fist open. Inside was a crumpled, blood-soaked piece of paper. A "confession letter" they forced him to write.

It listed his "crimes": being stupid, breathing too loud, existing.

They killed him for fun.