I woke still sprawled across the black leather sofa and couldn't mask my surprise. I had fallen asleep watching Tv on many occasions, but never had my mother let me stay there the entire night. I'd have thought she'd at least place a blanket over my cold body. She still thought, or more so knew, something was wrong with me.

      "Good morning," I greeted, entering the kitchen.

      "Morning," she mumbled. She didn't dare meet my eyes.

      I poured myself a bowl of cereal, watching her in the corner of my eye. Patiently I waited for our usual morning conversation. She liked to talk about her church meetings, she usually had a bunch of stories she considered funny. But today? Nothing. She didn't even eat with me; she grabbed her coffee and newspaper and headed towards the porch.

      Pushing my bowl away, having lost my appetite, I dropped my head between my hands. My fingers on my temple, I finally noticed the tingling in my fingertips. Seriously? I placed my hands beneath the kitchen light. On my left index finger was a small pin hole, the size of a certain crystal pain in the ass. What could possibly be wrong with my fingertips? Were they not round enough? An entire body of flaws, but this is what the Sphere chose to correct? This had to be a joke.

     Isaiah who had just walked in, took a banana from the counter, and shot me a strange glance. I copied his frown. He shook his head, gave me another strange look, and went to his room, where I assumed, he'd be reading comic books all day. I'd be doing something much more productive; I'd finally finish the homework that was due last week. I'd even take out a board game after supper, like we used to do. Hopefully this would change mom's mind. She may very well think the behaviour odd, but I had to try something.

     Mom seemed impressed with the amount of homework I did, and she was even smiling during monopoly. She wasn't smiling at me though. She was having a great time with the younger kids, expression changing every time she glanced my way.

      "Are you and momma fighting?" Isaiah whispered as we finished the dishes.

      I shook my head, fearing my voice would reveal something to the perceptive twelve-year-old.

      "It seems like you—"

      "Isaiah please," I interrupted, begging him to once again drop the topic.

      Shooting me a sad smile, he gave the interrogation a rest. I thanked him, put away the last of the dishes, and went to bed. I didn't care that it wasn't even my five-year-old sisters' bedtime yet. I was tired, and sleep would distract me from my deteriorating relationship with my mother. I hadn't even given her good reason to be suspicious yet. I could only keep this secret for so long.

      Having fallen asleep peacefully, I wasn't surprised to be abruptly woken by a sudden bright light. I came to the conclusion that every time things started looking up, I ought to expect the Sphere to meddle and ruin it.

      Slowly rousing, sleepily shielding the light from my eyes, before I knew it, I was pricked right over the heart. With a sharp inhale, I covered my mouth with my hand, to refrain from bellowing in pain. Yelling unexpectedly would only worsen things with mom. My heart was beating inhumanly fast, pounding so fast that I thought it might burst out of my chest. I gripped the edge of my headboard, panting, and writhing in pain. With every heartbeat, a shot of pain surged through my veins. Panicking as I ached with an intensity that consumed all my thoughts, I didn't hear the footsteps.

      "Clara?" a voice asked urgently.

      How was she so fast? How did she hear me, when I had put such effort in remaining quiet? No matter the reason behind her felt need to check-up on me, this would not be good. Had I been able to, I'd have pretended to be asleep, but I was panting too heavily to do so.

      "What's wrong?" She rushed to my side.

      I shook my head, words unable to escape my trembling lips. She knelt next to my bed, and placed a hand on my forehead, checking for a fever. The moment her hand met my skin, she yanked it back, like one would when you accidentally touched a hot stove. I could have sworn I even heard a sizzle, like my skin had burnt hers. By the frightened look on her face, I assumed I was right. She locked eyes with the bed post I had been gripping and recoiled towards the door. Eyes wide, she muttered what sounded like prayers under her breath. There was a Clara Molino's hand size dent in my bed post.

      "Mom," I croaked, attempting to prevent her departure.

      My voice failed me, and this was much too horror movie-like for my mother. So much for fixing things with her. She without a doubt thought I was Satan's spawn, now.

      I threw everything off my bed out of anger, ridding myself of my mother's thick, handmade quilt. Windows fogging up from the heat, I rolled onto the cold floor, doing anything to cool down. Nothing seemed to work. Resting my head between my arms, I gave up, franticly waiting for the pain to subside.

      Hours later, I fell asleep, still on the floor.

      I dreaded going down to the kitchen the next morning, but I figured if there was going to be a fight it might as well be while the kids were still sleeping. Not finding her in the kitchen, it became apparent that I'd be getting the silent treatment. She walked in just as I was finishing my last toast. She hadn't been expecting me, green eyes widened, and she turned back around. Her eyes were blood shot, sign that she hadn't slept most of the night. I imagined I looked the same.

      "Mom—" I tried.

       She stopped dead in her tracks.

       "Don't call me that," she growled. "No daughter of mine would worship the devil."

       I took a deep breath, jaw clenched. I had known this was coming, but still it surprised me. "Ok... Laine. I do not worship the devil, if you'd just let me explain—"

       "I don't want to hear your lies." She spoke over me. "Finish your breakfast, grab your stuff, and then I want you out of my house."

       "I beg your pardon?" I almost chocked on my food.

       "The rest of your stuff will be packed by the time you come back from school."

        I froze, staring blankly at her for a few moments. I couldn't believe my ears. She was my mother. She was supposed to take care of me when I needed help. Not get rid of me. What had been sadness from our deteriorating relationship, turned to anger in a single heartbeat.

       "You're kicking me out?" I finally demanded.

       Mom ignored me. She left the room, without another word or glance directed my way. I threw the rest of my food away. I wasn't hungry, anymore.

       I paced the kitchen, pulling my hair in frustration. I had expected her to at least hear me out. She jumped straight to conclusions, forgetting everything I had done for this family. She was my mother. She was supposed to be there for me.

        When I realised the pacing wasn't getting me anywhere. I forced myself to march towards my room, forbidding the tears to slip from my eyes. I would not cry; I wouldn't give her the satisfaction. I'd grab my things and leave as she asked.

       As if I wasn't emotional enough, as if I wasn't already angry, I opened my bedroom door and was instantly hit between the eyes. For God's sake. I couldn't even get a five-hour break. When was Mimpi going to make another appearance? I had a few choice words for her. Furious, I made the mistake of slamming my door and kicking the wall. Not only did it hurt like hell, but there was a large hole in the plaster wall. I hadn't meant to kick it that hard. The injections were growing out of control.

       Leaning against my door, sluggishly I slid into a sitting position. I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to slow my breathing. I reminded myself that my life wasn't that bad; many had it worse. I was only being tortured by a crazy Indonesian woman. I was also now homeless, but no big deal. No time for self-pity. Andrews was soon to arrive. I grabbed my bag and headed out.

       My attempt to escape quietly failed, Isaiah exited his room just as I passed his door.

      "What's going on?" he asked, brows furrowed in deep worry.

       I didn't have the energy to deliver an explanation. I might have started to cry had I done so, and I wasn't having any of that.

      "Ask mom," I said instead. Uttering the word mom was much harder than it should have been. "I have to go Isaiah, I'll see you..." I hesitated. I had been about to say tonight, but that would have been a lie. "Later," I answered instead, shooting him a forced smile.

      Mom was on the living room sofa, impatiently waiting for me to walk out of the door.

      "I'm leaving," I announced bitterly.

       "Good," she answered. "Don't come back."

        I almost left quietly, but I was already homeless, and she had really pushed my buttons. Why not piss her off more?

       "Hypocrite," I muttered door half opened.

       "Excuse me?"

       "You. Are. A hypocrite. Always going on about how we shouldn't lie, yet you have no problem breaking the promises you've made—You promised to never leave me like he did!"

       So, much for remaining calm. I took my father's abandonment the hardest. No matter the problems he was facing, I couldn't come to understand how I wasn't enough for him to stay. A parent's love was supposed to be an unbreakable bond. Twelve years of suppose love and he left me like it was no problem. No regret. After he left, I was terrified of offending my mother. Terrified that she'd leave me like he did. But she had reassured me; told me not to worry. She said that she would never do as he did.

       "You said there was nothing I could do for you to act the way he did. You promised to love me unconditionally because I had a good heart."

        "I didn't think you'd do something like this."

       "Do what?!" I half shouted.

       As I thought, she had no answer.

       "You have no answer because I haven't done anything. You're right to think that something is happening to me, but it's not evil. I'm being forced to do something that I don't want to do. It's meant to help people. But you wouldn't know anything about it because you're too stubborn to listen!" I seethed, reopening the door. "I was there for you when you were at your lowest. I took care of you even when you didn't deserve my help. And now that I need your help, rather than facing your problem, you're getting rid of it. You're just as much a coward as he was!"

        I didn't wait for her response. I slammed the door shut, and as soon as I descended the steps, threw my bag across the lawn. I threw it a lot harder than I thought was in my physical capability. Had it not been for our now crooked mailbox, the bag would have hit Mrs. Peters' house across the road. Looking at my tattered bag defeatedly, I sat on the doorstep, waiting to hear the loud engine of Andrews' truck. While I waited, I considered my housing options. There was no way I was contacting my dad, nor my grandmother. Grandma lived just around the corner, it'd be ideal for school, however, as crazy as my mother was, it was nothing compared to her own mother. Grandma would have soaked everything I had ever touched in holy water and exiled me out of town. My other relatives, though great, lived out of town, and I wasn't changing schools during my senior year.