The boy's hands trembled, his eyes fixated on the woman sprawled before him. Her face, ghostly and skeletal, peeked out from the blankets, stirring a rush of emotions that threatened to consume him whole. At just sixteen, he was a collection of sharp edges and bony limbs. Yet, despite his tender age, he understood that everything had irrevocably changed.

"What a stupid idea that was," the boy muttered under his breath, attempting to revive a connection long forgotten, buried deep within his chest. But all he found was growing anger coiling around his heart. 

Downstairs, his mother, Esther, was likely radiating that maddening calm he could never quite grasp. The very thought of it made his blood boil in his veins. Nevertheless, he remained resolute in his pursuit of the impossible. So he clenched his jaw and faced the enigmatic woman on the bed. Raquel, that was her name, as Esther had told him during the drive to her house, while tree-lined streets rolled past the rearview window. An old friend who seemingly knew everything about him. But when she spoke those words, something clouded her eyes, leaving him with a gnawing sense that there was more to the story than she was letting on.

Raquel seemed aged—older than his mom, for sure—or perhaps just weathered by years of sickness. If not for the shallow rise and fall of her chest, she might have been dead, her saggy skin marked by the lingering years of the coma. 

For the first time, a pang of pity stabbed him like a needle. How could his mother take such a risk? Endanger everything they shared.

A gust of wind breezed through closed windows, and despite the mild February night, the room felt stifling, intensifying the unpleasant smell in the air, akin to an overripe fruit on the verge of decay. Beads of sweat formed at his temples, dampening his curly hair and trickling down his neck.

Then, as he expected, the insidious voice of self-doubt wormed its way into his mind, a nagging presence whispering that he would never be good enough. And he readily believed it. After all, it wasn't as though He had given him any choice.

So he raised his hands once more and placed them over the ailing body; feeling the rhythm of his own blood pulsing in his ears, the involuntary twitch of his legs, the cacophonous singing of cicadas outside. The sounds blended together, intertwining like an untamed orchestra, threatening to drive him to madness.

He sank his teeth into his lower lip, and surveyed the sparsely decorated room, almost monastic with its few dark furnishings. Above the bed, a simple wooden crucifix hung on the white wall, its brown texture stark against the barren backdrop.

With nowhere to run, the boy implored for help. Once, twice, countless times; his pleas reverberating in the chamber of his mind, awaiting a sign that never came.

After a few minutes, the bedroom door scraped open, and the boy emerged into a dimly lit hallway.

Rounding a corner, he bumped into one of Raquel's daughters. He wasn't sure which one she was—twins, Maria Clara and Maria José. To make matters worse, they both wore the same patterned shirt and tasteless cardigan, creating the strange sight of grown sisters dressing alike.

"So? How was it, Christiano?" she asked, her green eyes brimming with adoration and awe.

"It's Chris. And I don't…" His voice faltered, tears burning like fire behind his eyelids. Incapable of finding the words, he simply lowered his gaze and shook his head.

As he descended the stairs, an oppressive silence settled in the living room, only broken by the metallic ticking of the wall clock. His mother's furrowed brows met his gaze, and the sisters exchanged swift glances. That was all it took for everyone to know what had happened. 

He was a failure. That was the bitter truth he struggled to conceal. 

Unable to bear the tension any longer, Chris turned toward the hideous crucifix-studded wall in the left corner. One of the many Christs, massive, with outstretched arms and hands nailed to his sides, stared back at him with sorrowful blue eyes. And he could almost feel His divine judgment scorching his skin.

Esther stepped closer, offering a much-needed hug, and for a fleeting second, Chris leaned into it. But his pride roared louder, causing him to hesitate. It was all her fault. She had thrust him into this situation with reckless confidence, as if she knew him better than he knew himself. But she was wrong. Above all, Chris wished his extraordinary existence were a colossal mistake.

That he was not, truly, the new messiah.