Average Exception

Average Exception - Part 1.

(Author Note: Thanks for all the comments thus far. I was quite pleasantly surprised by the positive reaction. I will continue this, but bear with me a little longer - Uni's killing me right now but I'll have the summer to make up for my lack of writing.)

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Hello,

Having been exposed to this sort of fiction a while back and having read some out of curiosity, and being one who enjoys writing, I've finally built up the courage to have a stab at submitting something to this site. This is my first time writing for this genre, and also incidentally my first time writing in the first person. I therefore look forward to your comments, and we'll see where we go from here. The standard disclaimers about suitability of information apply the consequences and responsibility of what you do or do not read, where, when and with whom you read it rest with you.

The events, persons and situations that follow are entirely fictional, any resemblance to those in real life are purely coincidental.

One last point before we begin: The style, or more accurately combination of styles with which I write causes most of my stories to have a moderate to long build-up before the plot comes together. Therefore, if you're looking for an instantaneous dive into hot and steamy smut, you'll probably want to wait for at least Chapter 2 for the big prize. That having been said however, if you're looking for a more substantial 'storyline' with firm foundations that you can sit back and relax with, then read on and bear with me.

Chapter 1.

"Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it". (Goethe).

It started innocently enough, when I was about thirteen. But then again, I suppose there are very few things of this nature that truly ended in the spirit with which they were begun. Indeed, looking back now, I sometimes find it hard to believe that this even happened, or, for that matter, is still happening. It's like looking at the past in a mirror. What's there is real, and yet, it's only a reflection of the tangible thread that is life. Perhaps comparing it to an out-of-body experience is better. You know yourself that what happened was real, the feelings and memories remaining with you forever, yet the rest of the world considers it a joke, a phantom of some over-active imagination.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here. Perhaps it's best if I start off with a little background history and information. Trust me; it'll make more sense that way.

I suppose you could say that we were what one would describe as a fairly average family. My father, rest his soul, was a computer and files administrator in the Verplicht Ziekenfonds Verzekerd, the national health service here in the Netherlands. Not the most glamorous of jobs, but he was well respected and, if you think about it, played a major role in keeping the whole system of departments and operational processes ticking over smoothly. I'm sure you would agree that a business, particularly one that holds the lives of thousands of citizens in its hands, such as the VZV would surely grind to a halt without reliable and efficient administration. Dad enjoyed his job. It was relatively straightforward for a methodical man such as he, and it allowed him to interact and socialise with the other 'general' employees at their level.

Mum worked, and indeed still works as a sales manager at Albert Heijn, the country's largest supermarket chain in terms of market share and retail space. Again, a fairly standard job, nothing fancy, but one, which she enjoys and relishes, and one, which lets her, mingle with the everyday people. She loves the chance to keep up to date with the latest news and gossip, and really, it's quite surprising how many friends you make with the regulars, from the night watchman at the old folks' home across the street, to the cabin crews popping in to pick up a quick lunch before their next flight to places far and wide.

I hope you're still with me, even though this is probably far from what you expected or were even looking for in the first place.

I have a sister, you know. Oh, the things I could write about her, singing her praises, would surely keep me here for a very, very long time. Her name is Claire. Let's just stop and repeat that. Her name is Claire. And she's an angel. She's my age, entering the world just a scant ten months after me, and I will be forever thankful to my parents and the powers that be for this. The world is truly a better place for having her in it. Let me describe her for you. In fact, given such a wonderful specimen of humanity, I insist.

She's tall, five feet, eleven inches and with a slim, yet athletic figure. Her heart-shaped, sculpted face with those full, luscious lips and oval, blue-green topaz eyes, ever alight with a sparkle of passion and adventure is an image of unimaginable beauty. Her smooth, pale skin seems to shimmer in the sunlight and her long, smooth, silky sun blonde hair frames her head like a halo. She moves gracefully, like a cat, quick and light as though on a current of air. She's Claire, my sister Claire, and she's gorgeous. And she means the world to me.

And last, but certainly not least, there is I. I'm nothing special really, certainly by no means a shoe in for the Bachelor of the Year award. I'm tall, sometimes inconveniently so, six feet, two inches. I'm thin, lanky, bony in all the wrong places and almost completely lacking in the muscle department. With my tangled mop of black hair, brown eyes and slightly tanned skin, slightly rough from long summers playing in the sun when I was younger, there's really nothing about me that would cause me to stand out in a crowd. I'm one of those people that often get overlooked at first, well, that is, until you hear my voice. Now that is something I am proud of. And honestly, that's not just me being delusional; I've had people comment to my face on how great it sounds. It's low, deep and constant. It expresses emotion. It reassures people, gives them confidence. I'm proud to say I'm one of those people that rarely need to raise my voice to get my point across. There have been many stressful situations, times when people have been rushing around, yelling themselves hoarse to no avail. And what do I do? I wait, wait until there is a break in the noise, and then say a few words. A few words, the right words, in a calm, confident manner, just enough to get the job done. But I think that's enough of me blowing my own trumpet. I do have this problem, you see, of going off on a tangent. It's a bad habit, but one which I find very hard to break. But moving on.

Clare and I have always been close, for as long as I can remember. Being almost the same age, with both parents working full time jobs and with no relatives living within easy travelling distance, we have grown to depend on one another. Indeed, those that see us together often mark that we seem to act as though we are one and the same being, as though we can read each other's thoughts, pre-empt each other's actions. And I suppose this is true, to a point. Siblings that are as close as we are form a bond, one which is unbreakable and which defies all rational logic in its extent and capability. We can sense each other, feel each other's emotions, and know when the other is angry, anxious or upset. And often, it's almost as though we can know what the other is planning, and react instinctively. Like passing things to each other at the right time across the breakfast table, without speaking a word. To some this may seem like a frightening invasion of privacy. But to us, it's real, it's amazing, and it's something we've come to cherish. Take note of this, it'll play an important role in events to come.

I think that's all there is to say about our family for the moment. I'll add more details as they become necessary. But for now, let me start on the tale proper. The tale of two who redefined the meaning of the term close. Two who stretched the bonds of sibling love to new heights of intimacy. The two of us.