My degenerate alcoholic brother hated me on an elemental level, to the point where he spent his adult life slandering me with lies, making people hate me, telling people I did things to him that I never did — I was always nice to him, always trying to be his friend, but all my efforts were met with contempt. He even provided a place at his home for my ex wife to hook up with some guy, before our divorce. He also stole from me and told my son, a child at the time, that I was a drug addict who was going to die, another lie.
One day I decided I had enough. I decided he was an enemy and I was going to treat him as such. I knew he never worked a day in his life and survived by hitting up our parents for money every month, so I went to his home and sprinkled a ton of rat food from the pet store under his house. In a few weeks, he was awash in feral rats. Then he was so freaked out, as anyone would be, he packed up and moved to Brazil, where he got an infected liver and started to bleed out from every orifice in his body.
I cried when I heard he was dead, but I felt relieved too. But I’ve always felt guilt, imagining that it was I who killed him, even though I’m still seething with rage at how he treated me all those years.
