I hold four bottles of tomato sauce in my left armpit and five in my right as I walk along the corridor. It’s calm, I can hear myself gnashing my teeth. I need fresh meat.

Without warning, someone opened a door I had just passed behind me. I stop walking yet I don’t look around but I can smell that person; it’s Flora.

She asks, “Belinda, are all those bottles of sauce yours?”

“Yes, Flora,” I respond. “You want some?”

“Of course, they look good.”

I turn around slowly, before I know it, I found myself in front of her body. I see her reddish heart beating below her breast and it annoys me. I want to stop it, fortunately for her she interrupts my evil thoughts, “Are you okay Belinda?”

I stay quiet. My mind tells me to smile. I do. “I’m okay, girl.”

She smiles back and stamers, “But, you don’t l-o-o-k so well.”

“I’m fine.” I wink at her. “Take one bottle, to be yours.”

“Um, really?” She hesitates her hand.

“Come on, take it,” I say melodically, licking my sour lips.

Suddenly, someone yells at the end of the corridor: “Don’t take it Flora, it’s dangerous!”

Instantly, Flora slams her door and she already sounds like locking herself inside. I get irritated. I chuck my eyes at that yelling girl with intent—it’s Merisa. How dare she want to ruin my kindness. I mean, my plan!

I tramp towards her. My mind tells me to punish her by biting off her lips and her tongue next. I reckon those organs have helped her say damaging words to my plan.

Surprisingly, Merisa is not moving. How brave.

Before I reach her, I see the prayer team members appearing behind her, one by one, finally, Gloria looks so challenging, and something like a flashing light illuminates them.

I curtain my eyes with my eyelids and face down.

“Those humans are not alone,” an old woman’s voice urges me, “run as fast as you can.”

Immediately, I drop all the bottles of tomato sauce, but I fail to run, my legs feel like boneless, the prayer team members are shouting a holy name I hate most: “Jesus Christ!”

They are now touching my head, my brain can’t handle it and I feel nausea, I threw up on the floor.

“Oh no, you vomited my tomato sauce,” an old woman cries in my mind. I feel her shaking up to leave me. “I don’t know where to go,” she says as she escapes from my back.

I fell on my back, feeling brandnew. I’m back to normal. One day later—at Nangi’s funeral—school Chaplin encourages us to: “Pray without ceasing”.