My father is somewhat severe, my brother and I are always compelled to satisfy him in every possible way.
When we were old enough, we both were given a job in agreement to our preferences: my brother was a shepherd and I was a farmer.
We both were very fond of what we were doing, and very good at it, each on his own way: he had very strong and healthy animals, I had plump and tasty fruits and vegetables.
One day, our father asked from us a sacrifice, so he could eat and be pleased with our worship. Each of us brought the best we had at hand: my brother brought his finest, most tender lamb, and I brought my sweetest, ripest fruits. We both rendered and immolated our most precious possessions, but my father was displeased with mine: my brother's sacrificial smoke rose proud and kind, whilst mine crawl and lurked, ashamed of itself.
I was embarrased, afraid of my father's rage, and I kept rendering the best I harvested, but it all proved to be in vain: my sacrifice wasn't enough at my father's eyes.
So, one day, with my hands covered in blood and my eyes drowning in tears, I sacrificed what I held dearest in my heart: in my altar lied my brother's corpse.
My father vanished me from his sight, not understanding that what guided my hand while it stroke my brother's face with an ass' jaw was pure love and awe for him, always pretended nothing but his approval and recognition. So he casted me away, damned to eat ash and drink blood, always away of his warm light, roaming in the land of Nod.
And I was afraid, and alone...