Meanwhile Jessie crept along the cave path, clutching the Valkyrie in her pouch as she stalked through the darkness. Humid air clung to her skin, the slow drip of water echoing as it splashed onto the ground. She darted around a corner, heart pounding.
"I do hope Tengune is alright," Jessie sighed, peeking around a turn and continuing forward. "And Kamitafa is stuck with Omaar—that can't be good, but we just have to hope." Suddenly, a piece of the ceiling crumbled, and she stumbled back, brandishing the Valkyrie, but found no enemies. She breathed a sigh of relief, returned the firearm to her pouch, and kept walking. "I still don't understand," Jessie mumbled. "Why am I here? What am I doing? I should be trying to figure out how to get home without being caught up in this mess." She hung her head, retracing the steps of the life she once had. "But no, you had to try and help," she hissed. "Now you're stuck in a cave, all by yourself. What are you going to do alone, huh?" She kicked a rock, frowning. "There has to be a way out," she pondered. "Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I was never meant to be here, or maybe…" She stopped, spotting a dim light flickering at the tunnel's end, peering as her eyes adjusted. It was the village, but the goblins looked frantic and confused. "What's going on?" Jessie whispered, trying to get a better view. "They look so stressed. Maybe I can help." She glanced at the Valkyrie in her pouch and sighed. "I should have helped Tengune more," she murmured. "I only make things worse. I just didn't want to…" She quickened her pace, running toward the village. "I'll help. I'll explain what happened, and then they'll see our side of things—they have to," she panted as she exited the tunnel and reached the village plaza, where the goblins turned and noticed her.
"Everyone, is everything alright?" she yelled. "I can try to help." The goblins stared, wide-eyed, frozen, until one screamed and stabbed her in the side. Jessie looked down, panicked and confused, before another goblin smashed her head with a club, knocking her down. They dragged her through the village, hurling stones and insults, the ground scraping her skin raw. She was brought to Thorren, who stared down at her, eyes burning with rage. He knelt and grabbed her by the hair, their eyes locking.
"She really liked you," Thorren grimaced. "And look what you did to her in response." His words echoed in Jessie's mind as her brain reeled from the concussive blow, eyes spiraling. "I… please, what's happening?" Jessie stammered, grasping at Thorren's hands. "I just wanted to—"
"We'll hear nothing from you, vile elf!" Thorren roared, mercilessly beating her as other goblins joined in, stripping her clothes as they punched and stomped. They grabbed clubs, maces, and hot irons from the forge, searing her skin as they pounded her with weaponry, the air thick with the stench of burning flesh. They grabbed pots of boiling hot water from the mess hall and dumped them on her bare skin as she wailed. Jessie cried but could scarcely breathe or make a sound, covering her chest and head as Thorren slammed his fist into her face, gritting his teeth.
"I will not ask again," Thorren yelled. "Where are they?" But Jessie, delirious, could not answer, so they continued. Her face and body were swollen, teeth knocked loose, bones broken and shattered, her skin a grotesque black and blue under the village's torchlight.
"Why did you kill Kamitafa?" Thorren cried, punting her relentlessly. "She wanted nothing but the best for you, and you spat in the face of that kindness!" Jessie's eyes widened, meeting Thorren's, tears welling in disbelief.
"That can't be true…" Jessie rasped as Thorren grabbed her throat, squeezing tightly.
"Then you deny it?" Thorren hissed. "Lie to my face and defile her memory? Fine, come." He grabbed her by the hair, dragging her over to see Kamitafa's broken corpse lying on a rug, blood staining the fibers. Jessie stared, her breath quickening.
"No!" she cried, bawling and screaming before Thorren stomped her into the ground, the dirt grinding into her wounds.
"You don't get to cry, monster!" Thorren yelled. "It's all your fault."
May 10, 2011, Wimberley, Texas, 10:43 PM
Under a moonless Wimberley sky, the single-story ranch house crouched amid oak-draped hills, its beige brick swallowed by shadow. The curling asphalt roof loomed over a sagging porch, where a lone wicker chair sat beside a cracked pot of wilted agave. A faded yellow ribbon trembled on the mailbox in the Hill Country breeze, while the yucca-fringed front yard sloped into a backyard of junipers, their shadows twisting across a cracked concrete patio. A rusty swing set creaked faintly, its chains swaying in the humid air. Inside, the 1,200-square-foot home was hushed, the house's stale air pressing against the scuffed laminate living room. The frayed plaid couch and old 32-inch TV glowed dimly under rattling single-pane windows, flowing into a kitchen where nicked Formica counters gleamed faintly. The fridge hummed under Longhorn magnets, its sink window a dark void to the whispering woods beyond, thick with the scent of damp earth. A narrow hallway led to a quilt-draped bedroom and a smaller one with glowing star decals, a chipped-tile bathroom between. The garage, holding a tackle box and a folded flag from a past deployment, rattled with an aging washer-dryer. In the larger bedroom, another night's argument flared, a near-daily ritual scarring the house's quiet.
"We can't afford it!" the husband barked, his voice raw from repetition, fists clenched on the quilt. "What do you need that for?"
"I'm done dragging those kids to school every day!" the wife snapped, a lamp crashing as she shoved past, glass crunching underfoot. "I deserve something for myself!"
"They're our kids," he growled, fists tightening, his shadow looming on the wall. "You never wanted them."
"We could've managed if you didn't drink our money away," she hissed, tears welling, her breath reeking of marijuana.
"All you do is bring up the past," he sighed, shoulders sagging, sweat beading on his brow.
"It's all I've got!" she cried, her voice breaking, hands trembling. "My life was great until those kids—now I live in a house where no one loves me, not even you."
"That's all in your head," the husband barked.
"I bet you all wish the crazy woman was dead," she mocked, yanking open a drawer, metal clattering. "You wish I was dead, don't you? That's why you go and cheat on me with those hookers. Is that all in my head?"
"That's… well," the husband stumbled, his voice faltering, eyes darting to the floor.
"Maybe I'll end it—take the kids and myself out of your way," she roared, her face flushed with rage.
"You won't touch them," he shouted, lunging as glass shattered, blood speckling the floor. Their struggle echoed with slaps and sobs, the walls trembling. The shouts softened to muffled murmurs, then a rhythmic banging rose from the kitchen, a familiar cadence of passion sealing their fights. In the smaller bedroom, two children huddled on the bottom bunk, clutching a worn blanket, their small frames trembling under the glow of star decals. The younger, a girl of ten with wide blue eyes, pressed her face into her brother's shoulder, her fingers twisting the blanket's edge, her chest tightening.
"Dylan?" Jessie whispered, her voice small, barely audible over the distant crashes.
"What?" her twelve-year-old brother muttered, his arm shielding her, eyes fixed on the ceiling's faint stars, his jaw tight.
"Why do they fight every night?" she asked, a tear catching the starlight, her heart pounding.
"Dunno," he sighed, weary from the routine, his breath uneven. "Dad says it's 'cause they love each other."
"Will we fight like that?" she murmured, her voice trembling.
"Hope not," he said, flinching at a distant crash, his fingers digging into the blanket.
"Do you love me?" she pressed, her voice barely a whisper.
"Yeah," he yawned, tightening his grip, his eyes softening briefly.
"You'll always be here, right?"
"Yep," he nodded, their silhouettes small against the glowing stars, drifting into fitful sleep as the house bore another wound in their childhood.
The sun rose over Wimberley's oak-draped hills, casting long shadows across the cracked patio. At the chipped dining table, the family gathered, the mother setting a plate of eggs before the father, pecking his cheek before sinking onto the frayed couch to flip on the TV, its drone muffling the morning's tension. He glared at the two children, their heads bowed to dodge his gaze, his military watch glinting as he gripped his fork, a duffel bag by the door hinting at his looming deployment, the leather creaking faintly.
"Where's the kids' food?" he growled, his voice rough.
"What kids?" she mused, eyes on the screen, her fingers twitching. He slammed his cutlery down, exhaling sharply, the sound sharp in the stale air, and pulled a crumpled $20 from his wallet, thrusting it at Dylan.
"Take your sister to the diner for breakfast," he said, ruffling their hair with a strained smile, his hand heavy.
"Then we'll hit the range." Dylan's eyes lit up, pocketing the bill with a quick glance at the door, his fingers curling tightly.
"Can I come?" Jessie blurted, her eight-year-old voice small, shrinking under Dylan's scowl, her heart racing.
The father paused, then winked, his eyes tired. "Why not? Dylan started at your age." The kids scurried out, gravel crunching underfoot, the door slamming as shouts erupted behind them, another morning's ritual. At the diner, the scent of pancakes and coffee warmed the air as Amber, the owner, served their meal for free, waving off Dylan's money with a kind smile, her apron flour-dusted.
"Nice of Amber, to give us the food for free," Jessie said, picking at her eggs, her fingers trembling slightly.
"Yeah," Dylan muttered, his voice sharp, "heard Mom say Dad's too sweet on her." Jessie's fingers twisted her napkin, sweat beading on her brow, the diner's hum pressing around her.
They left the diner, walking along the pavement as cars passed on Wimberley's quiet streets, the asphalt warm underfoot. "We should give Dad the money back," Jessie mumbled, her voice hesitant.
"I'm keeping it," Dylan snapped, his smirk tight, fingers curling around the bill in his pocket.
"I'm telling," Jessie pouted, her voice trembling, tears pricking her eyes.
Dylan's hand cracked across her cheek, yanking her hair, the sting sharp. "Tell Dad, and I'll kill you," he hissed, his eyes darting to the street, his breath quickening as if expecting their father's shadow.
"Why?" Jessie sobbed, clutching his arm, her cheek burning.
"You just make things worse," he spat, shoving her to the gravel, the stones biting her knees. "Just shut up. No one cares what a loser like you thinks."
She dusted herself off, wiping tears, and hesitantly reached for his hand, her heart pounding. He sighed, grabbing it reluctantly, his grip tense, and they trudged to a wooded cabin, its firing range dusted with gunpowder, the air sharp with its acrid tang. Their father's truck was parked nearby, its engine still ticking. He greeted them, assembling pistols on a weathered table. A cigarette dangled as he handed Dylan a gun, smoke curling in the morning light.
"Hold it steadier," he critiqued, exhaling smoke, his voice gruff. Dylan grimaced, his shots veering wide, his jaw clenched as he reloaded, his hands shaking slightly.
"Can I try?" Jessie asked, flinching at Dylan's scowl, her voice small. Her father smiled, guiding her small hands to aim, his calloused fingers steadying hers.
"Bullseye," he said after her fifth shot hit dead center, his voice warm with pride. "You're a natural, Jessie. Dylan could learn a thing from you." Dylan bit his lip, forcing a laugh, his glare burning as their father's praise lifted Jessie, a rare spark in her shadowed world, her chest swelling briefly.
They drove home, the truck's engine rumbling through Wimberley's quiet roads, the air heavy with dust. Dylan unloaded gear with short, sharp movements, his shoulders hunched as he lugged the heavy case to the garage, its hinges squeaking. Jessie slipped inside, the familiar drone of the TV and her mother's distant gaze looming as she peeked into the fridge, the scent of pine drifting through a cracked window, cool against her skin. Her mother's head snapped back, eyes wide with dilated pupils, a faint white dust rimming her nose as she fixed on Jessie.
"I told you to stay away from the fridge," she yelled, lurching forward to grab Jessie's arm, her grip unsteady, nails digging into skin. "You never listen!"
"But I'm hungry," Jessie cried, twisting to break free, her voice breaking.
"Then get your own food, you little bitch," her mother hissed, her fist slamming into Jessie's shoulder, then again, each blow drawing screams and sobs, the counter's edge biting into Jessie's back. "You think you're hurting?" she spat, her voice cracking. "I'm stuck with a mistake that tore my husband away. Every time I see you, I see every failure that led to this."
"Why don't you love me?" Jessie sobbed, curling against the counter, her chest tightening, sobs muffled.
"I'd never love a burden like you," her mother snarled, her words sharp as the cicadas' hum outside, piercing the air. The door swung open, and the father's eyes widened, his fatigues rumpled as he saw the scene. He shoved the mother aside, barking at Dylan, "Take Jessie to your room—lock the door!" The mother scrambled for a kitchen knife, lunging at Jessie, the blade glinting as it narrowly missed, its edge grazing the counter. The father grabbed her wrist, pinning her as she cursed, her screams echoing through the house.
Dylan seized Jessie's hand, his grip tight, his glance flickering with guilt as he pulled her to their room, slamming the door against their mother's shouts. Dylan smacked Jessie across the face as she fell, crying, the sting sharp on her cheek.
"I told you to wait," Dylan hissed. "Now look what you did; they're fighting again. This is all your fault."
The fight was the longest they had ever had. They argued and argued, hitting each other, turning the entire house upside down in their spat, the walls rattling with each crash. After nightfall came a brief pause—then that same familiar banging, the sounds of raging passion echoing from the kitchen. The two children sat in their cluttered room, bored and tired after being trapped inside all day, the air thick with dust and tension.
Suddenly, Dylan picked up his phone and smiled, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "I'm gonna leave for a bit," he told Jessie.
"What?" Jessie cried, her voice trembling with fear. "Please don't leave me! I'm scared!"
"Don't worry," Dylan sighed, his tone softening slightly. "I'll be back soon."
He slipped out, returning half an hour later with a small capsule, the faint scent of earth clinging to him. He cracked it open, pinched flakes of a green plant onto thin paper, and rolled it tight before lighting it with a lighter, the flame flickering in the dark.
"What's that?" Jessie asked, her voice curious but wary.
"A cigarette," Dylan lied, his voice flat, avoiding her gaze.
"It doesn't smell like a cigarette," Jessie muttered, frowning, her nose wrinkling at the sharp, herbal scent.
They sat in silence as Dylan smoked by the window, the smoke curling out into the night. Jessie curled on the bed, her knees drawn up, the star decals glowing faintly above.
"Can I try?" Jessie asked, her voice small, hesitant.
"Can't you just leave me alone?" Dylan sighed, his tone sharp, eyes narrowing. "Why do you always have to try everything?"
"I just wanted to see what it was like," Jessie said, her voice wobbling, tears pricking her eyes.
Dylan hesitated, his eyes flickering with guilt, then handed her the joint. "Don't inhale too hard," he warned, his voice softer.
She coughed immediately, her throat burning like she'd swallowed chemicals, the taste bitter on her tongue. Dylan laughed, but after a few tries, she got the hang of it. They passed it back and forth until it was gone, then slumped together, limbs tangled, the room spinning slightly as the star decals blurred above them.
"Dylan," Jessie mumbled.
"What now?"
"I feel funny." She giggled.
"Good." Dylan smirked. "That means it's working."
Suddenly in the middle of the night, a sudden bang rang out through the house, jolting the children awake. They scrambled to pull on their pajamas, hearts pounding, as a loud crash and thud echoed from the living room. The children peeked out of their room, the air thick with the acrid tang of gunpowder. They saw their father standing in the living room, clutching his side, blood staining his clothing, soaking through his shirt in a dark, spreading pool. The smell stung Jessie's throat as she edged closer, her bare feet cold on the scuffed laminate. Their mother lay on the floor, unmoving, a gun in her limp hand, her empty eyes staring upward as blood pooled from the back of her head, the scent of whiskey and iron heavy in the air. The father stood over her, panting but still, his face pale under the dim light of a flickering bulb. He glanced back at the children, who approached slowly, Jessie's chest tightening, the room spinning slightly.
Dylan's face was calm, his breaths deep but shaky, his eyes flickering with suppressed pain. Jessie's face dropped, her trembling hand clasping Dylan's arm as she stared at their mother's body, her heart pounding. She reached out, trying to touch her, but Dylan caught her arm, pulling it down gently, his grip tense.
"Your mother slipped and fell," the father rasped, his voice hoarse, swaying slightly. "She had a really bad fall and… hit her head."
The children stood silent, Jessie's breath hitching. Dylan struggled to find words, his jaw tight.
"Is Mom going to be okay?" Jessie squeaked, her voice barely audible, tears pricking her eyes.
"Shut up, Jessie," Dylan snapped, smacking her cheek, the sting sharp. The father's eyes widened, and he marched up to Dylan, wobbling as he grabbed him by the neck, shaking him aggressively, his hands slick with blood.
"You don't touch your sister," he bellowed, strangling Dylan as he struggled, gasping. Jessie's eyes darted between them, her chest tight, before she ran to a nearby bottle on the floor, one of many scattered in the chaos. "If you every do that again I'll fucking-" She slammed it into the back of her father's head, shattering the glass, the sound sharp in the stale air. He turned slowly, eyes wide, and slumped to the ground with a heavy thud. Dylan bit his father's hand, and the father grunted, punching Dylan away. The father stood, swaying, as the two children scrambled toward him, punching and kicking with small, frantic fists, hurling weak, petty insults they barely understood. He looked at them with somber eyes, tears welling, and patted their heads gently, his hands trembling. They stopped, staring up at him, his soft smile strained.
"Your mother slipped and fell," he said again, his voice cracking, a faint smile lingering. "You believe me, right?" The children said nothing, their breaths shallow. He gestured to their room, and Dylan edged over, grabbing Jessie's arm. They glanced at their mother's body, but their father shielded their eyes, his smile faltering. Shuffling into their room, they closed and locked the door, the click, loud in the silence. The father fell to his knees outside, sobbing, muttering, "I'm sorry," over and over, his voice muffled through the wall. The children hugged each other on the bed, the star decals glowing faintly above. Dylan mumbled, his voice low, "Now Dad's angry with us, and Mom's hurt. It's your fault, Jessie." Jessie sobbed quietly, her chest tightening, the room spinning as she curled into herself.
Later that night, the children crept out after hearing shuffling footsteps and crackling police radios, blue and red lights flashing through their window, casting jagged shadows. The living room reeked of blood and whiskey as police questioned their father, cuffing him, his fatigues stained and rumpled. Officers hauled their mother's body away, a sheet covering her face. The father glanced at the children, his eyes widening in shock, before police urged them back to their room. Jessie and Dylan clawed and fought to stay together, their screams piercing the air, but the cops separated them. In a small room, Jessie sat shivering in a chair, hugging herself, the police radio's static crackling, drowning her sobs.
"Mom and Dad were fighting again," she explained, her voice trembling, tears streaming down her face. "They always do—they hit each other and break things. Then there was a loud bang, and Dylan and I ran out, and Mom was on the floor. Dad said she slipped and fell. I hope she's okay. Dylan hit me after because it's my fault." She began to sob uncontrollably, her chest heaving, as the cops exchanged distressed glances. "Then Father was choking Dylan, so I hit him over the head with a bottle. And he sent us to our room."
"You hit your father with a bottle?" a cop gasped, his jaw dropping. "Why would you do that?"
"I… I don't know," Jessie said, trying to smile, her lips quivering, "but now Dad's angry with me, and it's all my fault." She sobbed harder, the room's stale air pressing against her skin, and the cop tried to comfort her, his voice soft but strained.
Meanwhile, Dylan was taken for questioning, clawing and biting the cops like a feral animal before being cuffed to a chair, his wrists red. He ignored their questions, his eyes burning with anger, until a cop entered and whispered to another.
"Your sister says it's all her fault," the cop repeated, frowning. "Is that true?"
"Of course," Dylan growled, his response immediate, almost robotic, his eyes flickering with suppressed pain. "It's always her fault. She always makes everything worse."
"How is this her fault?" the cop asked, his brow furrowing.
Dylan paused, his eyes darting around, thinking. "She's always doing something stupid, making Mom and Dad angry. If she wasn't born, it wouldn't be like this."
"Do you hate your sister?" the cop pressed.
"No," Dylan said, confused at the leap, his voice softening. "I love my sister. I need to protect her. I need to stop her from doing stupid things so she can be safe. I need to help her." The cops paused, exchanging glances, fumbling over unspoken words.
Later, the father was taken into custody, and the children were recommended for separation to different care homes, but they protested fiercely, citing their love for each other and fear of being alone. They were sent to the same care home under strict supervision to ensure their safety. Six months later, at the court trial, the children sat in attendance, the courtroom's stale air heavy. Forensic experts and detectives laid out the evidence: the mother died from blunt force trauma to the back of her head, her blood found on the counter, supporting the father's claim of an accidental fall. The father had been shot in the stomach, likely during a struggle for the weapon, as both parents' fingerprints were on the gun, with gunpowder residue on the mother's fingertips. The mother had a documented history of drug abuse and untreated mental health issues. Clinical records state: She developed severe, untreated Postpartum Depression after Dylan's birth. The stress of her husband's deployment and the arrival of a second child compounded this into Complex PTSD. As a means of coping, she developed maladaptive behaviors that crystallized into Borderline Personality Disorder. She self-medicates with substances, which occasionally induces substance-induced psychotic episodes, extreme paranoia and detachment from reality, especially after having stopped her perscribed medication. But when the subject was shifted to the father the prosecution pointed out his blood alcohol level was 0.22, consistent with his history of alcoholism post-military service. That he was an abuser and neglectful parent. This led to several questions. "Isn't it true that the 'near-daily ritual' of arguments, as your son described it, was often started or escalated by your own, and I quote, 'loud' voice?" "You told your son the fighting happened 'because we love each other.' Do you still believe that is what love looks like to a child?" "You handed a firearm to a twelve-year-old boy while you were under the influence of alcohol, correct?" "You were so intoxicated on the night in question that your blood alcohol level was nearly three times the legal limit. Is that the state of mind of a responsible protector and provider?" "You lied to your children immediately after their mother's death. You told them she 'slipped and fell.' Why did you lie, if the struggle was as clear-cut as you now claim?" The defence then argued that he returned from a combat deployment with severe, undiagnosed Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The stress of reintegrating into a family strained by his wife's escalating mental illness and his own inability to process his trauma manifested as Alcohol Use Disorder. This self-medication exacerbated his emotional dysregulation and hypervigilance, traits which crystallized into a pattern of neglect and volatile, but non-strategic, aggression. After the defense and prosecutors argued, the jury ruled guilty of second degree murder, sentencing the father to 14 years in prison, with possible parole after 5 years.
The children cried as their father was cuffed and taken away but got a moment to speak with him. "Dylan, make sure to take care of your sister," he said, his lips cracking, a strained smile hiding gritted teeth as the cops watched. "Be kind, okay. Jessie, you are stronger than you know. Be good while I'm gone. I'll be back soon." The father was taken away as Dylan fought through the police, his fists swinging, while Jessie stood sobbing, muttering, "I'm sorry," over and over, her voice breaking. They were driven back to the care home in a cop car, the engine's hum loud in the silence. Dylan hissed, tears streaming, "Dad's gone now. I hope you're happy, Jessie. It's all your fault." Jessie leaned her head against the window, tears streaming down her blank face, the glass cold against her skin as she stared into the night.
In the coming months and years, Jessie and Dylan settled into the care home, where caretakers began noticing alarming behaviors in both children.
Jessie exhibited a constant need for affirmation, praise, and attachment. She clung to her brother relentlessly, following him everywhere—even into the boys' changing rooms and toilets. She would kick and scream when separated from him, forcing staff to physically peel her away. Jessie refused to use the toilet unless Dylan stood outside the stall, and if he wasn't present, she would wet herself. At night, she sneaked into his bed, and when locked out, she slept curled up against his door. Jessie displayed a complete lack of trust in anyone but Dylan. She ignored staff unless he approved of their instructions and became visibly panicked when he wasn't nearby. Jessie also had a tendency to blame herself for any grievance or inconvenience, whether she was responsible or not. If a toy went missing or a plate broke, she would insist it was her fault. Other children quickly learned to manipulate and bully her, knowing she would only cry and apologize, saying, "I should have been better."
During therapy, Jessie was diagnosed with complex PTSD and anxious attachment disorder. Play therapy sessions revealed disturbing drawings—graphic violent content and warped family portraits. One staff member even witnessed Jessie standing in front of a mirror, repeating Dylan's insults to herself.
Dylan, on the other hand, displayed increasingly violent and abusive behavior—not just toward Jessie, but toward other children as well. He was obsessively protective of his sister, hissing at anyone who got too close and striking Jessie if she spoke without his permission or said something he disagreed with. When confronted by staff, he would snap, he would often struggle to formulate a response or ignore us entirely.
Dylan had a disturbing fixation on sexual and violent content. He watched MMA fights obsessively, and staff discovered pornographic images and videos on his phone. Multiple girls reported inappropriate behaviour, yet he forbade Jessie from forming any relationships of her own. He frequently got into fights, once breaking a boy's nose for attempting to speak with Jessie and according to him touching her, though the boy said he only placed a hand on her shoulder. As a result, the other children began avoiding both of them entirely. During therapy, Dylan was diagnosed with conduct disorder and emerging antisocial personality disorder. Attempts at anger management therapy failed—his rage seemed uncontrollable until the root cause could be addressed. Trauma-focused CBT made little progress, as he remained closed off and resistant.
The care home staff struggled with the decision to separate the siblings. Their codependency was stunting their development, and there were growing concerns that Dylan's abusive behaviour might escalate further. For now, they waited for more evidence before making a final decision. One day, staff noticed the two siblings having what appeared to be a heated argument. This surprised the workers, as Jessie rarely stood up to Dylan, yet now they were clashing quite aggressively. At the request of a care worker named Karin, she observed that this was actually healthy for Jessie; it seemed she was finally developing some backbone, though no one was sure what had sparked the change.
Later, Jessie came to the caretaker's office and reported that Dylan had forced himself on her. When Dylan was questioned immediately, he vehemently denied the allegation. However, the nature of their relationship had become far too problematic to ignore, so the decision was made to move Dylan to another care home. Dylan was informed soon afterward. His first question was whether his sister would be going with him. When the answer was no, he simply nodded, mumbled to himself, and began packing his things slowly, his eyes distant.
Soon he was escorted outside the home and led toward a police car. Jessie watched from the front porch, unresponsive to the gentle comforting of the care workers around her. Most of the other children watched curiously from the windows.
Jessie's lips began to tremble. She started shivering uncontrollably, and her eyes filled with tears. She cast brief, frantic glances at the care workers, her breathing quickening as Dylan's figure grew smaller in the distance. Suddenly, she bolted from the steps, running across the grounds of the home. Care workers chased after her, eventually catching her a short distance away and holding her back. Dylan turned around. The officers exchanged wary glances.
"I'm sorry!" Jessie cried, pushing against the care workers with all her strength. "Please don't go, Dylan! Please, I don't want you to go! I don't want to be alone! I'm sorry, please!" Dylan frowned, his brow twitching as tears streamed down her face. He glanced back at the house.
"You never listen, do you?" He sighed, taking a step toward her until an officer's hand landed on his shoulder. He froze, jaw clenching, then shrugged the hand off violently.
"You're always doing something stupid," he continued, voice rising. "Always making a mess of everything. Always… It's always your fault!"
An officer grabbed his shoulder again. Dylan shoved the hand away, barked something at the officer, then turned, climbed into the car, and slammed the door. Jessie screamed his name through her sobs as the car started with a rumble and sped off. She kept crying "Dylan!" long after he had disappeared from sight.