His Endless Hate

When I died with a smile on my face, right before my brother's eyes, he looked as if the anguish might tear him apart.

Yet, for twenty-one years, he hadn't stopped wishing I would meet this exact end.

It all traced back to my fifth birthday—the day I had innocently hoped our parents would come home from their business trip to celebrate with me.

They rushed back that night but never made it. A car accident took both their lives.

From that moment on, my brother resented me, despised me.

He didn't just stand idly by as our cousin snatched up my work as her own; he encouraged it.