"I told you it wouldn't work," Chris grumbled, banging his head on the passenger seat, anger prickling painfully on his skin. "Why do you keep insisting? I can't do this."

Esther stole a glance and calmly turned the car wheel. "Sorry, son. But that's how it's going to be from now on."

Her words dripped with a condescending tone that Chris hated so much. As if his life was a toy for her amusement. Always guided by a mysterious force he couldn't understand, towards an end he did not know. He sank deeper into the seat, staring blankly at the monotonous landscape—the bleak scattered houses of that Godforsaken place, the empty streets, the endless starless sky looming above. And when he spoke again, his voice was as cold as the void surrounding them.

"I'm tired," he mumbled. "I shouldn't have to deal with this, not right now. To be honest, I never wanted this in the first place. I don't know why you thought I could heal that woman."

"I've confronted my own trials and embraced my responsibilities. It's time for you to embrace yours," Esther replied firmly.

"Do you know what you look like? A lunatic woman. Exactly like those two," he spat out the words, but as soon as they left his mouth, he regretted it.

Esther's eyes narrowed dangerously, and she uttered his full name in a low, warning voice, causing the shame to spread across his cheeks, fiercely red. Still, he couldn’t help and press on. "But what kind of twins dress alike at their age? I'm pretty sure if I stayed there for one more minute, they would start worshiping me."

His mother opened her mouth in disbelief. "You, of all people, should respect others as they choose to be and not judge them."

"Oh, please, spare me from the Biblical lecture."

They locked gazes, the tension escalating fast, and for a brief moment, Chris wondered if she might finally snap—scream, lash out, declare that he'd never meet her impossible standards. Instead, she merely focused her attention on the road ahead, refusing to take offense.

When Esther pulled into the driveway, the stillness was so thick that it could be sliced with a knife. They trod across a patch of vivid green grass, slick with night dew, before Chris made a beeline for the living room and collapsed onto the couch.

"And that wall covered in crucifixes," he said. "Was it supposed to be the set of 'The Conjuring'?"

Esther pursed her lips together, suppressing a chuckle, and vanished into the kitchen. But to Chris's surprise, she returned promptly with a smoldering stick of Palo Santo clasped between her fingers.

"What are you trying to do now?" he asked.

With a few flicks of her wrist, she waved the dense smoke that swirled around his head as if he were about to combust. "Improving your vibration. I can't bear to hear your complaints for even one more minute. I believe you'll do just fine next time." She winked.

Chris opened his mouth, fumbling for the right words, but all that came out was a mortifying high-pitched squeak. Fueled by frustration, he spun around and stomped up the stairs.

Within the narrow hallway, his eyes landed on a simple image of Christ, nestled amidst a sea of portraits and esoteric knickknacks his mother loved collecting: crystals, masks, souvenirs from trips he'd never even heard of. With simmering resentment, Chris snatched up the image and shoved it behind a photograph of himself and Esther, a happier time now buried and forgotten.

As he stepped into his room, Chris slumped onto his unmade bed, the burden of responsibilities pressing on his chest like an old, familiar wound. His gaze involuntarily drifted to the wooden ceiling until the buzz of his phone jolted him back to reality. But it was only a notification from a useless app. On his Instagram page, a solitary landscape in the midst of an empty white feed. Not even on a simple social network could he reveal his true self.

Looking at the posters on the walls, the books he never bothered to dust, his computer, and his latest Nintendo, Chris couldn't deny that he possessed everything he could ever want. Yet, the normalcy of adolescence was a rare luxury, especially when he was incessantly reminded of his extraordinary origins. 

So he buried his face in the pillow, questioning when normality had become what he craved the most.

In moments like these, memories surged, overwhelming his senses. And he relived every crucial juncture of his brief existence like a well-watched film, searching for answers to the countless questions that tormented his mind. From the circumstances of his conception, to the community privy to his true origins, all to shield the boy destined to reshape the world.

Even the miracles he supposedly performed as a child, right there in that isolated house on the sprawling lawn surrounded by towering pines, cedars, and jacaranda trees, in that city disconnected from the rest of the world, seemed like hazy images. However, what hurt him the most was the absence of his Father.

To Chris, he was merely another child of a single mother.

During the recent holiday, he had even dared to prove his worth, standing in the backyard and attempting to command a fierce summer storm, much like Jesus himself. But all he managed was a horrendous cough that clung to him for days.

Once, he spun stories of the feats he might accomplish, believing that his very existence was a gift, a rare and precious thing. But as time wore on, that conviction turned to doubt and then dread, until he was confident that his origin was not a blessing but a curse—an unbreakable chain that bound him to a fate he could never escape.

Oh, to be unremarkable and free from worries. To be forgotten by the world. To be just another stranger on the bus.

Suddenly, Chris's heart felt crowded with impossible wishes, heavy as lead, and he turned restlessly in bed. But exhaustion seeped into his bones, and his mind released its grip on the weighty thoughts, surrendering to a dreamless slumber. Oblivious to the fact that soon, his powers would shape the future of many, whether he desired it or not.