What Is This?

Trust issues

Okay so here's a really short story.

I went to Michaels and Spirit (it's a Halloween store) with my mother and father. And we just went to get the rest of my Halloween costume and stuff for a project. And then I come home not thinking too much about my room door being open. Like "hey maybe I left it open when I left." I didn't. I always close my door, because last time I left it open one of our cats pissed all over my Castiel Trench coat. So I just go and sit on my bed for like a minute when I realize that most of the stuff in my room has been fucked with. My drawing hand has been moved to the floor I know I didn't put him there. My drawing person has been put into a stance I don't remember him in last. (I forget what these are actually called so I'm sorry if you're confused.)
There is red ink on John Laurens and it's ironic and cruel because it was in the place where he got shot. And then I find my sketchbook at the end of my bed (I know damn well I put it under my pillow.) there's only one explanation...

My little brother.

I can't leave one afternoon without him tampering with my shit. No matter how many times I tell him to stay out of my room he still manages to be a pain in my ass. He's just glad the red ink came off of Laurens without any smudges.