I've watched him my entire life, studied his every move, and seethed with envy. I hate the way the townspeople fawn over him, hang on his every word, and gaze at him with adoration. I've wished for his downfall, his demise, or perhaps just a taste of his fame. But deep down, I wonder if I'm simply longing to be him.

We were once inseparable, born on the same day, our mothers' friendship cementing our bond. We grew up together, exploring the neighborhood, sharing secrets, and laughing until our sides ached. But as we grew older, I began to feel overshadowed by his effortless charm, his striking looks, and his natural talent. I felt like a mere shadow, a muse to his masterpiece.

Years went by, and the distance between us grew. I became increasingly withdrawn, my envy festering like an open wound. I'd lie awake at night, consumed by dark thoughts, my mind racing with twisted desires.

That fateful night, I found myself standing in his living room, my heart heavy with a sinister intent. He sat on the couch, oblivious to my presence, his eyes fixed on the TV. I approached him quietly, the knife trembling in my hand. As I pressed the blade against his neck, he froze, his eyes wide with terror.

"Why, Atticus?" he asked, his voice shaking.

I slurred my words, my tone laced with venom. "I don't want what you have; I want to be you. I want the adoration, the fame, the perfection."

Tears streamed down his face as he pleaded with me. "I can give you anything you desire, just spare my life."

My expression turned cold, my heart hardened by years of envy. "I don't want your charity; I want your existence."

In that moment, our friendship, our bond, our brotherhood shattered. The knife glinted in the dim light, poised to strike, as I prepared to commit the ultimate betrayal.