I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I swear. It started as a joke, a way to get back at him for all those times he humiliated me in front of everyone. God, how he’d laugh, like my pain was just another punchline in his never-ending comedy routine. I thought if I could just embarrass him once, make him feel a fraction of what I felt, maybe he’d understand. Maybe he’d stop.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. The plan was simple—replace his beloved alcohol with something to mess with him, make him sick for a day. Just a day. I didn’t know he had a heart condition. How could I have known? He never talked about it, not once. He acted invincible, like nothing could touch him.

I keep replaying the moment in my head, over and over. The look on his face when he took that first sip, the way he stumbled, clutched his chest. I froze. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. It all happened so fast, and before I knew it, he was on the ground, gasping for air. I should have called for help. I should have done something. But I didn’t.

I know what you’re thinking. How could I be so stupid? So careless? But you don’t understand what it’s like to live in his shadow, to be the butt of every joke. He made my life a living hell, and I just wanted a little bit of that power back. Just once.

I tell myself he deserved it. That he brought this on himself. But it’s a lie, isn’t it? A flimsy excuse to ease the crushing guilt. I can’t sleep, can’t eat. Every time I close my eyes, I see him there, on the floor, dying because of me. His laughter, that cruel, mocking laughter, haunts me. I hear it in the silence, in my dreams, and it never stops.

Maybe I am a monster. Maybe I deserve whatever’s coming. But I need you to understand—I didn’t set out to kill him. I never wanted anyone to die. I just wanted to be free, to have a moment where I wasn’t the joke.

Now, the joke’s on me. And it’s not funny anymore.