So, here is a new story. I know, I know... I should be working on my other stories. Bah, oh well. This chapter might be a little slow, but it is more than necessary.

My whole life, someone has been in my way. I realized this fact when I was just a young girl. Of course, when I was a baby, I hadn't seen it, but it was still true even then. It was because of my twin brother. Roderick was always the family favorite; he was the one who had both my mother and my father's utmost attention. He was the one they saw as their future, the one who got the most toys and games and, overall, the most love. At first, I hadn't noticed it, but soon, my eyes had opened. Why did my brother get all of he attention, what made him so special? I did much more chores than he did, and at times, even more than my parents.

"Mother?" I said one day, pulling gently on my mother's limpid turquoise dress. "Do you love me?"

My mother actually seemed surprised at this question. Her shock at my inquiry made me feel a little better; at least I knew that she didn't only love my brother. A faint smile tugged at my lips, but I knew I was not done asking yet. I could not get my hopes up.

"Of course, Marigold," she said, giving me a worried look. Her light brown eyes scanned my face. "Why would you ask something like that?"

"Do you love Roderick more?" I pressed. My heart was pounding at that moment, I was anticipating her answer.

"Of course not," she told me, the worried look in her light brown eyes not fading in the slightest. She ran a hand through my brunette hair.

That time, I allowed a smile to show on my face. Maybe my suspicions were wrong, maybe she did truly love me and my brother the same. Oh, how foolish I had been at that age. I could have never been more wrong. The rest of that day, my mother treated us as equals. If she made me do something, she would have my brother assist me or do something else on his own. It made me happy. I was not any less than my brother, I'd thought. I thought we truly were equals. But we were not, and no matter how much my mother pretended we were, things would never change. Her special treatment hardly lasted the day.

After I had asked my mother the question, I walked into the living room to my father, who was resting on the sofa, feet kicked up on the table and hand toying with his messy black hair. I approached the sofa, the smile on my face fading away. With my father, it was much clearer that he liked my brother more. He was strong, he was fast, and he was masculine. He was very athletic for his age and he was a very determined boy. For them, there was nothing not to love, and it was easy to see that in my fathers muddy brown eyes.

"Father?"

He looked at me, tearing his eyes away from the boring show on the TV. "What?"

"Do you love me?" I asked.

He blinked. "What are you asking a stupid question like that for?" He asked, curling up his lip in what seemed like disgust.

"Well, you just seem to-"

"Are you done cleaning the kitchen?" He interrupted, turning his attention back to the television. "Because if it's dirty when I get in there, you won't be happy."

I bit my lip and turned away to go back to clean. My father never did much cleaning around the house, he did other work. Not much of that either, though. I was not worried about cleaning the dishes at that time, though. I was thinking about the fact that my father did not even answer my question. Of course, his reaction implied that he did love me, but how much? He would never have reacted to Roderick that way. No, he would never snap at his beloved son, the one that would fulfill is dream for him.

My father always wanted to be a war hero. The problem was, he was not athletic and he was not brave enough. He could not go into war like my brother could. He made sure that my brother would think that being in war and becoming a hero there was the greatest honor he could ever have. It was the thing that would make my father happiest. He said I could never do that, he said I would never be the man my brother would be. That hurt. A lot.

My brother would only prove to be the family favorite more and more, my parents would show me more than enough times themselves. Eventually, I became jealous. So very, very jealous. What made my brother so special, anyway? Why couldn't I do what he did? It became a goal of mine to show them I was just as good as my brother was, if not better. So I began to watch. I watched him everywhere I could, making sure to see what was so great about him. He never really noticed much, but when he did, he would snap at me. I ignored him. I just continued to watch. When I had seen what my father liked in him, I would copy him. Then I would progress into something greater. That was the plan I had come up with at a young age. Eventually, he began training for war. He trained in close combat, he trained with weapons, and he would run miles upon miles and work out for hours. It was his dream to fulfill my father's dream.

It was my dream to show that I was worth something. That dream took over my life. I would watch my brother train, I would listen to every word and then I would practice in private. I would slip away the weapons and practice with them. Soon, I grew used to the feeling of a loaded weapon in my hands, my fingers against the trigger, eyes showing the determination I had inside. My father never saw this determination. I would not dare show him what I'd learned. Not yet.

One day, my brother and I got into an argument. It was unneeded and stupid, a petty argument that evolved into a petty fight. Roderick put his hands on me and I fought back. My pride swelled inside of me when I beat him. I had broken his nose and I gave him a black eye. I was not proud of myself because I had beaten up the person who had stolen my parents from me; I was proud because I had beaten my oh-so-amazing brother in a fistfight. My training was worth it. Of course, I was punished severely for that, but I did not let it get in the way of my watching.

As I watched, my hatred was born. It was the time when my eyes were always on my brother when my hatred first formed. He took my parents; he was the thief who had stolen them from me. He was the one they loved more. And I hated it. I was obsessed, I admit that. It was never a secret. I knew what I had become. I had become obsessive. I did nothing but watch and mimic to the point where I could beat him up and even mimic his voice. I decided that I would be just like him, and then I would add on greater qualities. I would become better. Then my parents would see.

Or so I had thought. A few years later, my mother became sick. We never figured out what it was, but it just got worse everyday. Soon, my mother passed away. I was overcome with grief. My mother had passed away, how could I not have been? Everyone was taking it hard, but nobody took it worse than my father. He began to drink, intoxicating himself much too often. He blamed me for my mother's death, he said I never fully cleaned anything and my mother got sick because of that. He would yell at me, never my brother. He would hit me sometimes, but I grew used to it very fast. It didn't hurt by the end of the month. When he struck me, it would never hurt nearly as much as his words did. He would tell me I killed her. Sometimes he even said I did it on purpose. Most of the time he would just yell at me about why I couldn't be as good as my twin sibling. Even though my father did this, I forgave him. I wanted to prove to him I was a good person, that I was better than my brother.

My brother trained harder after my mother's passing. I didn't stop watching and mimicking, soon I was just as great as he was at his early war training, if not better. My father still did not know of it. Not yet. But as I watched Roderick, I began to notice something. He was getting sick, just like my mother had. But I knew that he did not want to tell my father, he feared that my father would just get worse. He never said it aloud to anyone, but I could tell by his symptoms and reactions. I had watched him to the point where I could tell how he felt and thought most of the time. I had let my obsession take over my life long ago. My brother was right to have feared my father's reaction; both of us were positive that he would kill himself with his drinking if my brother told him he was sick. So instead of telling my father, my brother took out his fear and frustration on training.

Just like my mother, my brother passed away. He was much younger, though, he passed when we were fifteen. The fact that he overworked himself just brought about his death faster. Even though I detested my brother, I was not sick enough to watch him die. The day I knew it would end, I did not watch him. I came outside to find his body. I knew he had died not long before I found him, but his body was already cold. I was sad he was gone, but at the same time, I was excited. I was also fearful. Now that my brother was gone, I had to come up with a new plan, and fast. I knew my father would never come outside, so I buried him in the backyard. I devised a new plan while digging his grave, and a pretty good one at that. I swapped our clothes. I slipped on his shirt and pants and put him into mine, and then I buried him.

I had to sneak inside past my father, but it wasn't hard. I went up into my room and I took scissors to cut down my hair. I did my best to mimic his haircut and then I did my best to mimic any cuts or bruises he had. I admired my work in the mirror, glad that we had very similar eye colors. I was never very feminine in the first place— I was not very curvy and I was nearly flat as a board. I was about five-six at that age, and I would only grow another inch before I was done growing. Luckily for me, I was only an inch or two shorter than my brother. Our faces were very similar with the exception of our eyes. I had thick, long eyelashes and they were very dark. Very feminine. My brother's were quite the opposite. I just hoped my father would not notice. My brother's clothes were baggy enough to hide my shape, so I figured I was ready. I went to my father and announced "Marigold" dead.

My father took it harder than I expected. He drank a lot more, but he was less violent. His depression worsened. He was just not himself anymore. But I was still determined to show him I could do anything Roderick could have. The day my brother died was the day my new plan was put into action. I would no longer prove that I was better than my brother. I would prove I could be him. So I left my father, I introduced him to someone who could help him and I went off to the war. I would become a hero, just like he wanted, and then I would reveal myself as Marigold Shay.

But until then, I would be battling as Roderick Shay.