It had all started when Billy was born.
I remember being excited when I first saw my little step-brother. It was a matter of time, however, that this feeling of joy transitioned to that of sheer bitterness. Billy was becoming the centre of everyone’s attention; mother was always cleaning Billy, feeding Billy or putting Billy to sleep. If Billy grew a tooth, it was celebrated at dinner and mother would phone everybody to make sure they knew about the sodding new tooth. As Bill grew, so did my jealousy towards him. He was the apple of everybody’s eye, the family’s favourite. And I, a mere scum.
Years passed.
I sat at the dinner table, fidgeting with the spoon, as everyone prattled on. I glared at Bill’s round thirty-five year old face as it occurred to me how shrill his voice was- like nails on a chalkboard. I swore under my breath, suppressing the urge to smother him.
I pushed Mother down the stairs one day. It was such a hilarious sight. The eight fractures will hopefully remind her now on that I am vegetarian. What was she even thinking, serving me chicken curry?
Father died today. As my dear brother Billy cries a fresh batch of crocodile tears, I dig out the dead man’s will and start reading. Boiling white-hot fury washes through me as I continue. Not even a trace of my name there, it’s all been named after Bill. The vein in my forehead threatens to burst.
I examine the beautiful blade, running my finger over it again and again and taking in its coolness. I bring the knife closer and see a pair of bloodshot eyes staring back at me. Clutching on its handle tightly, as I approach my lovely brother, flashes of my miserable childhood appear in my mind. I drive the knife in his flesh. He screams. A strange sense of satisfaction engulfs me.
