Horace was eight years old when he started having his visions. When his parents found out, they paraded him around, showing him off to all the other wealthy peculiar families; they took him to parties and trips and showered him with gifts; to him, he was the best thing that had ever happened to them.

Until that one fateful night when he had "the dream"; he saw his parents having a new baby, who would end up being peculiar; Horace would have to share the spotlight with an unplanned brother; in his spoiled eight-year-old mind, that was about the worst thing that could possibly happen.

He didn't tell them at first, hoping that that particular dream was just a normal dream that didn't tell the future; he figured that if that was the case and he told them, then they might start thinking about it and decide that they wanted another child.

But then Mrs. Somnusson got pregnant; her and her husband were so excited; they thought Horace would be excited too, but he wasn't; he spent most of those nine months moping. He told them about the dream he'd had. They figured he'd feel better once they had the new baby.

But he didn't; if anything, he became more miserable.

"It's just a phase." Mr. Somnusson assured his wife when they heard Horace screaming in his bedroom about how much he hated his brother.

Months went by and Horace's parents' eyes were always on the new baby; they fussed over him and gave him the exact same treatment they'd once given their older son, who was more or less pushed off to the side, feeling forgotten and very angry at his parents.

One evening, the four of them were eating supper. It was a long table and the parents were sitting close on either side of their baby, talking baby talk and feeding him. This meant they were very far away from Horace; they didn't even glance at him. He glared at the baby, who was gurgling and giggling and slapping his hands in his food, getting it all over the place. And yet, even though he was making about the biggest mess Horace bad ever seen, his parents still thought the baby was just the cutest, sweetest little thing.

Then, in an act of jealousy, Horace screamed and slapped his hands in his food, causing it to go in all directions. His parents glared at him. He continued babbling and flinging his food all over the place, pretending to squeal and giggle.

"Horace Matthew Somnusson." His mother scolded. "What on earth has gotten into you?"

"Bababababa!" Horace threw a spoon filled with mashed potatoes to the other end of the table; it would've hit his father right in the face had he not ducked.

His father pursed his lips angrily and slammed his fist on the table, making the baby shut up, wide-eyed. "Go to your room." The man ordered.

"But-but-but-" Horace protested.

His father stood up and pointed to the door of the dining room. "Go. To. Your. Room. Now."

Horace grunted and pushed his dish forward, making it skid halfway down the table before flipping over. The baby giggled and clapped as his older brother stomped out of the dining room.

When he got to his room, he screamed profanities into his pillow, tears streaming down his face. He looked up and saw the picture on the nightstand of himself holding his baby brother in his arms, his parents standing behind them. He angrily threw the picture against the wall across the room, the glass shattering and scarring the picture inside. A sudden wave of guilt made him go and pick it up. There was now a big white scratch right across the baby's face. He ran his thumb across it. "You're the worst thing that's ever happened to me." He grumbled. "I hate you. Mum and Dad don't love me anymore because of you." He threw it on the ground again, the frame breaking in half. He stomped on it, howling.

He watched the door, waiting for his parents go come check on him; they didn't even come to scold him. "I bet I could disappear and they wouldn't even notice." He grumbled, staring at the door. "Stupid baby." He turned around and went to his closet and pulled several sets of clothes from the shelves and tucked them in his large wooden trunk, which had been really just decoration before now. He got about a quarter of the money he had in his room and fit it inside the trunk- that was all that would fit.

As quietly as he could, Horace began pushing the trunk down the hall, careful not to ruin the one-of-a-kind antique rug that was in the hall. When he got to the stairs, he got in front of the trunk and tried to pull it down. But the trunk was too heavy; it fell right on top of him, knocking him flat on the stairs, and tumbled all the way down the stairs, loud bangs echoing through the mansion, the marble cracking and chipping as the trunk struck it full force, the carpet snagging and tearing. Horace scrambled to his feet and ran after the trunk as fast as he could without falling.

He found the trunk at the bottom of the stairs, splintered, crushed into many pieces, clothes and money spilling out from it.

Rapid footsteps echoed on the marble floor as Horace's parents, followed by half a dozen servants, rushed to where he was sitting on the bottom step, sobbing into his hands.

"Hissy..." Horace's mother sat on the step beside him and picked her trembling son up into her lap, holding him protectively. "Are you alright?"

"Like you care." He sobbed into her shoulder.

Both his parents were horrified by this; Mr. Somnusson sat down next to his wife and son and wrapped his arms around them. "Why would you ever think we don't care?"

"B-because... Because..." His voice trailed off in sobs.

"Is it because of what happened at supper?" His mother asked softly.

Horace continued to cry.

His father lifted the boy's chin with his finger. "What's going on with you?"

"Y-you don't love me anymore!" Horace spat out between chokes. "You haven't loved me since he was born!"

His parents looked at each other, horrified, before holding him closer.

His mother cupped her hands on his cheeks. "Hissy, of course we love you. We will never stop."

"We don't mean to make you feel like you're not important." His father added. "You're nine years old; you'd brother is a baby; we have to pay more attention to him."

"But that doesn't mean we don't love you, sweetheart." His mother said. "You'll always be our sweet, perfect little Hissy." She poked him on the nose, an action which never failed to make Horace laugh.

"Besides," his father continued, "you're a big brother now; that means you get to have a playmate all the time, and you get to show him things."

The little boy smiled; he hadn't thought of it that way. He remembered how he'd wished he had an older brother or sister when he was little. Now this could be his chance to be the big brother he always wanted.

"Clean that up." Mr. Somnusson ordered one of the servants, pointing to the smashed trunk. "And don't even try stealing; you know what'll happen if you do." He turned back to his wife and son as a servant dove to clean up the trunk. "Well I suppose we should get back to the baby; can't exactly leave him alone, now can we?"

They stood up, Mrs. Somnusson still cradling her son in her arms. The three of them reentered the dining room and found a cook watching the baby as he continued splattering food all over the place. Horace's mother put him down and picked up her baby and burped him.

"Can I hold him?" Horace asked.

"Of course." His mother carefully handed the baby to him.

He cradled the infant in his arms and smiled. For the first time, it wasn't just some random baby his parents loved more than their actual son, this was his brother.

"Issy!" The baby babbled.

"Awww!" The boys' parents cooed.

Horace beamed at the baby. "I'm sorry." He whispered. "I'll be a better brother from now on. I promise."