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The grassy field was your sister's domain.

You, the brother, the firstborn son. She, your sister, your sister, whose hands tended the sheep that she offered to God.

You were jealous, Cain.

They say the Bible never told us why God rejected your offering, but we know.

You were the first murderer, and she, your first victim.

She was bright eyed, she was vibrant, she had a life that did not bow to the first born fist or will, and that which you could not outshine, that which you could not control, you killed.

Her blood on your stone in the field where you worked, her sheep cast adrift without her.

How fitting

How fitting indeed

That humanity's first malice should be a man's jealousy and violence,

That his first victim be the woman who trusted him.