Poire thought back to her earliest memories, where she still had a face, a home, goals and ambitions to dream about. “I remember getting up,” she told the lemur. “I remember staring into a mirror and hating what I looked like.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she sighed. “everything was either too big, too small, too round or simply not good enough.”

The lemur cackled. “What a classic human worry.” He said. “What else do you remember, girl?”

Poire closed her eyes.

She felt it, as if it were really happening right now: the slap across her face, the delightful gift from the posh girl that sat next to her in class. She saw herself walking down the corridor, trying to convince her teacher the act was unprovoked. “I swear I did nothing.” Poire shouted until they arrived at the principal’s office, until the principal gave her the usual reply: we can do nothing about it, followed by a shrug and two extra pieces of homework where Poire was to write lists concerning things she should and should not do.

Poire sighed. Papers in hand, eyeing the grey streets filled by cars and smoke that stood before her, she walked home alone. People often stared, leaving Poire to guess whether it was her braces, her long curly red head of hair or her way of walking like she had just been beaten with huge sticks, that attracted their attention. Sometimes, she remembered what her previous teacher had told her in grade school before she graduated: it’s all in your mind. And it worked for a while. But when the kids took her out near the back of the school at recess and threw rocks at Poire, it’s all in your mind stopped working, and Poire went from mildly-hopeful to downright miserable.

Clearing her throat, she paused at her door, guarded by a lion’s head that clearly outdated the building itself. She knocked once, gentle and soft, as if a newborn was sleeping inside. Poire listened to the sound of a key turning very slowly inside its lock. Her gaze met with the eye that now stared at her from behind the slightly opened, slit of the door. “Is that you, honey?” A trembling voice asked.

“It’s me, mom,” Poire groaned, shivering from the cold winds that tickled her ankles. “Could you let me in?”

Poire’s mother hummed, her gaze flickered left, then right. “Are you sure they didn’t follow you home?” Her words were hushed, like someone else other than the crippled leaves beneath Poire’s feet could’ve been listening.

“Mom, they’re not here, nobody’s here, just let me in.” The girl snapped, trying to pry the door open with brute force alone. She paused upon hearing sniffles. “Mom, are you crying?”

Her mother opened the door. The old wood creaked. “I’m sorry, honey. You know I only want what’s best for you.” She said.

Poire nodded. “I know, you say that every day, my memory isn’t that bad.”

“Good. Now then, come in, but take your shoes off at the door. And please, take some of this,” Poire’s mother waited until Poire held out her hands. She sprinkled holy water across her skin, letting out a relieved sigh. “Good. That’s great, honey, now they won’t get us.” The imaginary demons from outside? Poire wanted to say. How long will it take you to realize none of this is real, mom? But images of her mother crying for four days straight, her mother believing Poire was possessed due to the refusal of her absurd requests, flickered through Poire’s mind. And in the end, she simply thanked her, running past her younger brother, who dashed around the living room like the hyperactive child he was, before walking up the steps to her bedroom.

Discarding her backpack, Poire let her body drop against her old mattress. She looked to the ceiling, it was still cracked. She closed her eyes and wondered: is there any pie left for me in the kitchen fridge?