They say you'll never forget your first time. I know I won't forget mine. It's etched in my memory for good. I guess that's partly because it was with one of my closest family members.

I was eight and Xaiver was six. We looked a lot a like, now that I really think about it. Dark brown hair with hazel eyes that were such a mix of colors, it was hard to point out any one hue. We were mistaken for twins once by a woman that my mother knew. I remember how angry I was when she said that I looked like him. So angry in fact that I ended up killing her and rendering her daughter mindless some seven years later.

My father had a brother, my uncle Ronan. Ronan was my father's older brother and was always doted on. My father talked in his sleep, even up until his death. Often, he would go on and on about how much he hated Ronan and how he swore that he would never treat one of his sons better than the other.

Well, unfortunately for dear old Dad, like father, like son.

The difference? I didn't get to go to the World Cup. I didn't get what I wanted for Christmas. Or my birthday. Or even a surprise gift. I never got to go to work with my father to see what he did all day. He never sent me post telling me how much he missed me when he went away on business. He didn't stay home with me when I was sick or read me stories to make me feel better.

Did I forget to mention that my brother even shares my father's name?

I never wanted to be one of those pathetic kids with daddy issues who was always acting out for some kind of attention. I didn't want my father to do anything out of pity for me. I wanted to be respected, not appeased.

We lived on an estate out in the country. It was barren and desolate for most of my childhood with the exception of the woods that my brother and I played in all the time. There was a creek that ran through the middle; it was where we went in the summer to cool off.

Don't get me wrong, Xaiver and I got along fine. Up until I went to school, he was the only real friend I had. He knew my secrets and he trusted me. He looked up to me. I taught him how to tie his shoes and how to read.

But that's not the point. The point is, no matter what I did, I was always second best.

My mother had decided during the winter that she wanted a garden to offset the sad looking house. Construction began the spring before I left for front of the house was covered with all sorts of plants that I had very little interest in. In the backyard, a maze was being constructed. She never cared much for mazes, but thought that it would be a nice place for Xaiver and I to play. And it would have been.

She kept reminding us not to run about the untrimmed shrubs or trip over garden tools. Boys never do listen, do they?

I challenged Xaiver to a race on the first day of summer. He was fast, but I was faster. There were lots of twists and curves and I figured that my mother wanted to keep us busy which was why she designed it so intricately. She almost had me fooled, but I had only run into a dead end once.

I was nearing the middle when I rounded a sharp corner and stopped suddenly. There was a hole about ten feet deep and I was inches from the edge. I couldn't see everything that was at the bottom, but I could see the sun's glare on a pair of garden sheers.

I thought about calling to Xaiver whose footsteps were getting closer and closer. I thought about telling him to stop, to look out, to turn around, that there was a dead end. I stepped to the side with my back against the bush and watched as my brother turned the corner.

It was almost in slow motion. He looked elated that he finally caught up with me, something he had never been able to do. But when he took another step forward only to find that there was nothing beneath it, his glee faded and he turned his head in horror. I didn't even blink as I watched him fall.

He tumbled forward and I heard the snap of his neck. I wanted to tear my eyes away from the gruesome sight of my dead brother but I couldn't stop looking at him. How positively angelic he looked.

My first thought should have been along the lines of 'My God, my brother's dead' or 'What have I done?' At the very least, I should have shed a fear tears at his grave sight. I should have felt a lump in my throat and my chest should have started heaving.

But this, my dears, is what I thought;

I don't have a brother to be compared to anymore. I'm number one again.

At his funeral, my father cried. He bawled his eyes out. My mother ordered the maze to be destroyed and the flowers died by July. The house went back to its repulsive state. My father started working longer hours. He would never come right out and say it, but I knew it was because I looked so much like Xaiver. He couldn't stand to look at me anymore.

My parents never accused me of killing him but they never denied it either. And rightly so. I may not have pushed him, but I didn't stop him either.

Like I said, you never forget your first. Murder, that is.