A/N - Thanks for the reviews! I was going to wait a few days before adding the second part, but, damnit, I have no self control.

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2

I've gone on about how wonderful my sister became, and I've neglected to mention one thing; my father never got to see her bloom into the beautiful, talented woman she did. He died. He fell off a cliff and broke his neck. It was a tragic accident. What I felt I don't believe I can express to you, but I'll tell you this; it involved a horrible sinking felling in my stomach and a loss of pressure from my chest.

The last birthday of Sabine's that my father saw was her fifth. I'd racked my brain for weeks as to what I could get her. Amelia had made a pretty dress with large, orange flowers on it. Tom had got her a doll. Finally I came up with an idea.

For about a week I would disappear for hours at a time, and return sunburnt and covered in dirt. My father noticed, and made pointed comments about seventeen being an odd age for a boy to start rolling around in the mud. When I ignored him, he picked an argument with me.

"Stomping mud around the house," was the crime I'd committed. I looked down at my socks – I'd taken off my boots. They were white (grey, actually).

"Dad, I left my boots outside," I said calmly. I didn't mention that even if I hadn't, then it would be me cleaning it up. Despite this, I wasn't clear of guilt. Being cocky was the next offence, and then he made a point in walking over to where I was standing, and pointing out several clods of dirt that must have been clinging to my clothes.

I did the easiest and smartest thing; I apologised. In my head I wanted to do all sorts of things. Talk back. Go back outside and put my boots back on, and then stomp around the house, on couches and beds and eating surfaces. Even get a bucket of cow muck and dump it on the bath mat. The one that caught hold of me so I stored it in my head for latter contemplation was the idea of stripping off completely and asking, coolly, "How's this?"

Sabine's birthday came, and I proudly held back on my present for her. I made a big deal about it. I even blindfolded her. She was so excited. And then I told her that we were there, and she took it off, and there we where – in the middle of a plot of land that was mainly bare patches of earth but

"It's a garden," I said, feeling my heart sink. But it didn't stay sunk for long, because a great big smile spread across her face at my words, and then grew wider when she noticed the large red flowers I'd already planted there; the start I had made for her.

When we – the party for her – walked back to the house, my father revealed he had had a second present for Sabine. He said that my "little project" had given him the opportunity to get his proper present ready.

Sabine was crazy about the rabbits. They were two slow looking fat white things, and she loved them. She forgot about my garden, and didn't remember until days later.

Sabine went to bed early, tired from her exciting day. My father and I stood in the kitchen, washing up and clearing away the remains of the party. We were silent, and concentrating on what was in front of us, so for a few moments we both managed to forget the tension that seemed to almost be between us, I even forgot the rabbits, and I felt relaxed in his company for once.

"That was a nice party," my father said, almost to the world in general. He seemed to have forgotten little Matthew throwing cake up all over his shoes.

"Yes," I said. I placed the plate I'd been cleaning on the rake and took another one and dipped it in the water. My father came over from what he had just finished and took up the clean plate to dry.

"It's a shame your mother couldn't be here to see it," he said. For a moment I didn't breath, but I made myself relax.

"Yes," I said. "I remember her at one of my birthdays wearing that white dress she had, taking a picture of everyone."

"You were eight," he said brusquely. "I remember, because it's the year your mother got you that basketball hoop."

I paused for a moment. I remembered that hoop, but didn't associate it with that image of my mother. Besides, I knew my father had given it to me. My mother wouldn't get me something she knew I wouldn't like. I remember I invited Danny to play with me, and told him I bet he wasn't tall enough to slam-dunk it. He broke it.

"Mom didn't buy me the hoop," I said firmly. "She got me that globe of the world – the really fancy one that lights up. You got me the hoop."

"Nope, it was her who got the hoop," my father insisted, a touch of terseness entering his voice. It was starting to feel like normal again. "She wanted to encourage you to be more active."

"What do you mean?" I said. "Mom didn't have a problem with my behaviour."

My father let out a sigh.

"She was worried about you," my father said. "You spent so much time alone, reading…"

"Don't lie," I interrupted, starting to loose my temper.

"I'm not lying," my father said. "You were young, you couldn't really know what she was thinking. Her concerns were adults' concerns."

My hands started to shake and I dropped the scrubbing brush and started to walk away. I couldn't loose my cool. I couldn't loose my cool.

"Ben, where are you going?" my father said angrily as he threw down his drying up cloth.

I spun around, my fists clenched and my eyes feeling like they were burning fury into my father.

"You never understood her," I almost shouted. "And you know why? Huh? You want to know why? Because you're an outsider. An impostor! You don't belong like she and I did."

"Me? I'm the outsider?" He scoffed. "You were never quite right, Ben. The way you stare. The way you almost never seem to react. Slouching around like some kind of retard."

I waited a few moments to react, calming myself whilst I walked around the table, touching the smooth wood with my hand. I looked up at him. He looked like he was about to burst.

"Sure – I never react," I said quietly. "I don't want to give you the satisfaction. You're always pushing me and pushing me. Goading me. You're…" I paused for affect, and pronounced the word clearly, "…pathetic."