 I never told my parents that I saw my brother being taken. It's one of my first memories. I was four years old and my few recollections from this time are mostly hazy. This was sharp with detail. I was feeling upset because I thought no one cared about me. There was a tremendous energy in the house. It was very quiet and I was standing in a doorway looking into a small room. I could hear my parents speaking. They were in a different room. My newborn brother was in a cot. The window was open and it was dark outside. I remember how the white paint on the frame was cracked and the cold had a smell of its own. Then they came. They were a fog drifting through the open window. Something was moving inside it. Tentrils of twisting gray that for a moment resembled a hand, a face. You remember lying on your back on a summer's day and finding shapes in the clouds. It was night and suddenly freezing in the room and the fog was reaching out over the cot reaching in and my brother, a tiny swaddled baby, was lifted out. The fog wrapped around him. I stood there, my skin tingling with fear and I watched as another baby tumbled gently out of the fog and into the cot and then the fog slipped away, taking my brother with it. The room was just a room again. I walked over to the cot and looked in at the new baby. It looked just like my brother. I heard voices behind me. My parents, they came in, ruffled my hair. My mom kissed my cheek as if nothing was wrong and asked me if I wanted to hold my brother. I never told them. I came close many times but then I thought, perhaps it was my imagination or some kind of waking dream. Only when Carl was five and I was nine, we were out playing in a stream near our house. It was more like a muddy puddle that had spread down channels in the dirt we'd made for it, but in our imaginations it was a place for great adventures, pirate ships defeating the Nazis, liberating the magic treasure, only to be dive-bombed and sank by being tipped out of their side. You've lost. I said, Carl was the pirate king. He looked at me sullen-faced. His eyes were dark, darker than mine had ever been, darker than my parents. Darker than my brothers would have been. He stared at me and there was a coldness in his eyes as well that made my bladder weaken. His hand shot out and he slapped me vicious hard in the face. I was so shocked I couldn't breathe. When I was 12 and Carl was eight, our grandparents had come over because it was my birthday and we were in the back garden. The barbecue was heating up nicely. God was standing over it, weighing up when would be the perfect moment to place the burgers on the grill. The neighbors had come over to say hello and mom was chatting with him. Her hair was tied back. There was a red mark on her cheek where a mosquito had bitten her two days ago. I was drinking a ginger beer and pretending it was real beer. I was staggering around like I was drunk and bumped on purpose into Carl. Sorry. I pretend slurred. He considered me, looked around at the garden. His eyes were cold, dark pools. He walked slowly up to the barbecue. Dad turned his back just for a moment to get some more coals. I could see the heat haze from the grill and I thought the burgers will cook nicely. Carl reached out and put the palm of his hand on the grill. He looked at me and smiled and then began to scream. Have you ever smelled burning flesh? These are snapshots, memories, moments in time captured. There are many more that lead up to that day. It was dad's 50th birthday. I was 22, Carl was 18. Mom had arranged a surprise brunch party. In the evening friends were coming over for beer and food. That morning the house was full of noise and laughter. His parents were downstairs, his brother or his cousins, who had driven for two days just to be there. I was in my room, getting changed into smarter clothes than the t-shirt and joggers I'd been wearing. I wanted to get into the spirit of the occasion, Carl was in his room as well. Music drifted up from the breakfast room where the party was. Old style, heavy rock, dad's favorite. I was wondering if a tie was a step too far when I heard Carl's bedroom door click open. I listened to his steps as he descended the stairs. The laughter and buzz of chat continued. Then suddenly the music was cranked up. I felt the noise, the vibration of it. Then as suddenly as it had ramped up, the music ended. There was silence. I felt lightheaded with dread with the anticipation of what I would find as I made my way down the stairs. Carl stood in the hallway outside the breakfast room. He looked to be in a daze. What have you done now? I said. Carl looked at me and said, I don't belong here. I was substituted for the thing that did. But you know that. You always have. I am a changeling, a creature of wonder born in a land far, far away and brought here by my kind, my kin. People call us fairies. I thought of stories I'd read of movies I'd seen of gossamer wings fragile beauty lights shimmering in the air. Not this Carl staring at me with his cold, dark eyes. I told him he was a crazy son of a bitch and added more of my opinion for good measure. Fairies do good deeds. They don't screw with you. He considered this for a moment before replying. Sometimes we just want to make people smile. And with that he was gone. He just slipped away. I swallowed, steeled myself and went into the still silent breakfast room. Blood pooled on the tabletop, obscenely coated a stack of pancakes dripping onto the floor. The family were all there. They stared blindly ahead. Their throats cut the flesh around their mouths, sliced open into gaping grotesque grins. What do I remember next? I remember touching my mom's face. Her skin was warm, it was slick with blood. I rested my head on her shoulder. I remember stumbling out into the street collapsing onto my knees and beginning to weep. My mouth was open. I wanted to scream, but I had no voice. A neighbor from across the road emerged, an old man. He looked confused, concerned, then he must have seen the blood that had ended up on me because he turned and hurried back inside. I remember the sirens, an ambulance first, the paramedics crouching beside me, telling me their names, asking me mine. Then the first police car. I remember bursts of distorted voices as radios crackled, a conversation between two policemen and a paramedic. I don't know if they knew I could hear them. They were talking about whether I should be handcuffed before I was taken to the hospital. I wasn't shackled as I was led into the ambulance, but a policeman rode with me. At the hospital I was cleaned up, given a gown and a couple of pills to swallow, then left in a small room by myself. It was early evening, I think, before two detectives arrived and asked me what had happened. I had nothing to hide, so I walked them through it the best I could. When I'd finished, they asked me if I knew where Carl might have gone. I didn't. And with that, the detectives left. They didn't ask me anything else about Carl. I guess they'd looked his records up, spoken to his teachers and social workers. They already knew how throughout his life, if he was challenged or left out, he reacted, slapping me across the face if I won a childhood game, deliberately burning himself by placing his hand on a searing hot grill at a barbecue for my birthday. After flunking an exam, the next day the backpack Carl brought to school stank an intense rancid smell. A teacher unzipped it and looked inside. A dead fox stared back up at him. Its eye sockets were empty, until maggots fat on their gorging emerged, wriggling into the light. That led to Carl's first expulsion from a school, more followed. There was counseling, court orders, spells in children's psychiatric units, but nothing stopped him. I sat in the room at the hospital by myself and I started to feel sick. I managed to get to my feet and headed out into the hallway. I asked the first person I saw if they could help me and then I must have passed out. I woke in a bed on a ward. I was told it was a psychiatric unit and that they wanted me to stay in for a few days. A week later and I was still a patient when the detectives returned. They told me that after an intensive police search, they'd found my brother Carl living rough in dense forest five miles from the city and he'd been charged with multiple counts of homicide. He's not my brother. I said, Sure, kid. They replied, exchanging knowing glances. The changeling. Yes, the changeling. I got angry. He's not my brother. I yelled over and over again. A nurse came with a sedative. I don't remember the detectives leaving. A few days later I was discharged. I had nowhere else to go, so I went back home. It was taped off, guarded by a patrol car with two bored looking officers inside. They offered to take me to a nearby motel and let me the money to pay for the first night. I remember lying on the bed in the motel room the next morning when there was a knock on the door, assuming it was the cops. I went to answer. I was surprised to see a woman dressed in a smart business suit standing there. Hi, she said brightly. I'm Samantha Cooper, your brother's attorney. Please don't take what I share next in the wrong way. I was 22 years old and she was beautiful with long, arbor and hair. So instead of telling her to get lost because Carl was not my brother, I invited her in. I perched on the end of the bed. She stood. I was suddenly aware of the stale smell in the small room, painfully aware that a lot of it was coming from me. I was wearing thrift clothes from the hospital and hadn't showered for I couldn't remember how long. So she began breaking what was becoming an uncomfortable pause. I've been appointed by the state to defend your brother. What has happened is a tragedy. And to be straight with you, a lot of people have already made their minds up. But no matter how difficult the past your brother has had, everyone deserves a fair trial and I will do everything in my power to ensure that happens. She paused taking a breath. I had a feeling she'd practiced that little speech and was relieved it was out of the way. I considered telling her she was wasting her time that Carl was a grade A psycho and a maximum security cell was the best place for him to spend the rest of his damn life. Suddenly she smiled at me. Carl, she continued as I appeared to have been dumbstruck, says that he didn't kill anyone. He seems disorientated, somewhat distant, which is in some ways understandable considering the circumstances. One thing he's been clear on though was when I was trying to talk to him about the events leading up to the killing, I mentioned his brother being in the house and he looked at me and said, I want to see him. So what do you say? It could help and at this moment in time, your brother needs all the help he can get. Once I thought I will see him once to tell him face to face that I hate him and I hope he burns. I kept this to myself. I just nodded. Okay. I said, I'll see him. The next day a taxi collected me and Samantha met me at the prison entrance. We were led into what looked like a rundown office. We have an hour. Samantha told me as she took documents, a pad and pen out of her briefcase and laid them on a table. So let's not rush or pressure Carl. It would be ideal if he feels he can open up because you're here. I bit my tongue. She had no idea. The door clicked open and a man was led inside flanked by two guards. His ankles, his wrist were shackled. These were taken off while Samantha watched arms crossed the guards left. Good to see you again, Carl. Samantha said, Would you like to sit down? Carl ignored her. He was looking at me. His eyes were brown, a soft deep brown. The Carl I'd grown up with had cold, dark eyes, the eyes of a twisted, sick individual, the eyes of a killer and waiting. This man was not Carl and yet he looked like him in every other way. What is it? Samantha asked. That was not my one and only visit after all. I went as often as I could the months that followed. Sometimes with Samantha, sometimes on my own. Very little had been said during that initial visit. It took time for the man I met for the first time that day to tell me his story and for me to begin to understand. He was my real brother and he'd been put through a nightmare or a deal. After each meeting I made notes from these. I think it's best for my brother to tell his own story now. He told me his story in fragments. I've been scared my entire life. I felt alone and knew that I was different. I lived in a ramshackle hut made of scraps of wood deep in a forest. The canopy of the trees was thick and I lived even in the hottest days in shadow. I would doze and dream. I dreamt of my hut in the forest and the scurrying insects of the others. I do not know if they were part of my dream, if they came in my sleep or if they were real. They were tiny creatures, not much bigger than an insect. They wore leaves and painted their faces with mud. They chattered constantly among themselves. That's how I knew they were coming. The growing hum of their voices and the fluttering of their wings. Apart from these translucent things on their backs, they had the features of a person. They seemed to be ageless, though sometimes when I looked at them, they appeared young. Could almost have been children, their laughter cascading through the forest. Sometimes their faces were old, wrinkled and when they smiled, their toothless moths were dark cavities. They brought me things, rags to wear, toys to play with, a broken plastic spade which I dug in the soil with, a doll its covering it burst and its dusty guts spilled out when I squeezed. They brought me books as well, old and torn picture books. They would point at these and read at me from them. This was how I learned about everything that was not from my hut and the bugs I ate and the bugs I watched and the trees and the dirt from which the trees grew. They weren't cruel to me. They never struck me. They came and they went, and I felt alone and scared and different. Until one day I heard new voices in the forest. These were deep and urgent. They brought light and anger and when they discovered me in my hut, they dragged me from it. They told me what I'd done, terrible things. They told me who I was, used a name I'd never heard before, Carl. I cried out to the winged beings to come and save me, but they didn't. They abandoned me and let the people bring me here to this place. Were there no trees sheltering, no shadows to settle in beneath? There was a lot more he said in the times we spent alone together, but this was the heart of it. I didn't share any of this information with Samantha. Any person who'd not lived through what I had would regard my brothers words as delusional. Other people can think what they want. I knew what I believed and I knew what I had to do. I told my brother at the end of our last meeting that it would be a few weeks before I could visit again, that I had to go away for a short while, but I'd see him soon and I'd have good news. I fought to hold in my emotions as I headed back along the seemingly never ending corridors and gates that led out of the prison. I walked out back onto the street and took a deep breath. My mind was made up. I was going to go deep into the forest where my brother had been found by the police and I'd find proof of the changelings existence of my brother's innocence. I set off before dawn. I had a backpack with water, chocolate and dried fruit, a torch and a sleeping bag. I caught a bus to the outskirts of the city and from there I walked. When this plan was forming, I'd asked Samantha to show me on a map where the police had found my brother. I followed the directions on my phone. There were no paths apart from the ones I made, stumbling over branches and skirting trees. Although it was only mid-morning, soon the overhanging canopy of the forest cut out most of the natural light. Then disaster struck. Well, more the curse of relying on your phone for everything. I had no signal. I was confident I still knew which direction to head in and how far I had to go. I just needed to walk in a fairly straight line a few hours later and I didn't feel so sure. The forest seemed to have gotten denser and every way I turned looked identical. There was nothing to tell me I was heading in the right direction. Nothing to let me know if I was walking in circles. I didn't see the vine which trapped my ankle and I went down with a crash. Pain shot up my leg. I picked myself up, tried to stand. New waves of pain forced me to sit. I checked my phone. One bar. Heart racing. I tried to phone 911 but the signal went again before I was connected. I put the phone down, closed my eyes, rested my head on the cool hard bark. I must have slept because when I opened my eyes, the forest was in full darkness. I couldn't even see my hands. Within seconds of coming awake, the intense pain from my ankle told me I still had limbs. I fumbled around and found my backpack, switched on the torch. Within moments, its beam of light was manic with insects. No. Not insects. Winged beings that were considering me with their cold, dark eyes. I began to scream. Looking back, recording this, I know now I was having a nervous breakdown, the murder of my family, the way everything I'd known had been ripped from under me. The puzzle of my brother which kept me awake night after night had proved too much. At the time, the unstoppable torrent of emotions came at me faster and faster. The winged beings were swooping closer. I could hear their laughter, felt their spit striking my face, like freezing, biting rain. I clawed at the air, trying to drive them away. I begged and begged for them to leave me alone and then with a sudden rushing intensity, I felt as if I was falling. Into a place I'd been a long time ago. I was four years old and I knew that this was what had really happened. The barriers I'd created, the false memories were shattering around me. I was four years old. I was feeling upset because I thought no one cared about me. There was a tremendous energy in the house. It was very quiet and I was standing in a doorway looking into a small room. I could hear my parents speaking in the other room. My newborn brother was in a cot. The window was open and it was dark outside. I remember how the white paint on the frame was cracked and the cold had a smell of its own. I remember thinking how much better it all was before he came that if he went away things could go back. Mom and Dad would love me with all their hearts again. I remember walking into the small room and looking at my brother. I reached down and placed my hand over his mouth and nose and held it there till he stopped moving and then I left. I went back into my bedroom. Soon after that my mom screamed and I listened as over the next few hours people came and went. I looked at the ambulance lights through the curtains of my bedroom window and thought how pretty they were. Over the years that followed I picked up what my parents believed that my brother had stopped breathing because of natural causes. I never told them what I did. My brother stopped breathing for over a minute before my dad managed somehow to get his heart beating again and this caused brain damage that displayed itself in his warped behavior sitting there alone in the forest. I remembered. I remembered the truths I had hidden from myself. I tried to kill my brother and then I made things worse. I used to mock him when we were both still very small telling him again and again that he was different. That he didn't belong. That he'd been put in my real brother's place when he was a baby. All with the aim of provoking him into one of his rages. The first time he hurt me badly I stopped but by that stage Carl's course in life was set. I'd turned my brother into the changeling.