In House 200 of Ngong's Flora Estate...
"Hey, Mdachi, call him already. Isn't he late? He should've been here an hour ago," Anita complained, clearly impatient, nagging Mdachi once again.
"Relax. He'll be here. I hope," Mdachi replied, an uneasy look flickering across his face.
"You hope?... You hope? That's it! Give me your phone!" Anita demanded, thrusting out her hand, expecting Mdachi to comply. She always acted this way with him—bossing him around as if she owned him. And he always let her, too timid to stand up for himself.
Mdachi adjusted his glasses, turned to face her, and said calmly, "And why would I give you my phone? You've got your own, right? Use it."
Anita shot him a sharp glare, clearly taken aback by the sudden pushback.
Mdachi didn't flinch. He was done letting her control everything. Who did she think she was?
Without warning, Anita shoved him off the bed and lunged for his phone, which was lying atop a small wooden cabinet beside the bed.
She snatched it up quickly and turned it on almost immediately.
Meanwhile, Mdachi, stunned from being pushed off his own bed, scrambled up from the soft rug and adjusted his glasses again.
When he saw her frantically pressing the phone, he snatched it out of her hands, glaring daggers at her. He was pissed.
In retaliation, Anita tried to grab it back, struggling with him.
Mdachi, clearly fed up, blocked her with one hand pressed to her face and the other holding the phone aloft.
The struggle lasted a few seconds—Anita clawing the air, Mdachi pressing her to the bed.
Finally, Mdachi shoved her backward. She fell onto the bed and bounced slightly on the mattress.
"Enough childishness!" he snapped. "I'll call him myself. Besides, it's my phone. Why are you giving me such a hard time about it?"
"Well... I left mine at home. And I really need Edward to come here soon or I'm going to lose it. So, if you weren't going to call him, I was," Anita replied, completely unfazed and now lying back comfortably on his bed.
When Mdachi finally looked down at his phone, ready to unlock it and call Edward, he froze. It was already unlocked—and in the call app.
"How... how did you know my—" He stopped himself. There was no point asking. Of course she could. She was capable of that and more. "You know what? Never mind."
The phone rang once.
Twice.
A third time—and then, it connected.
"Hello? Mdachi?" Edward's voice sounded somber.
"Oh hey, Edward, how have you been—"
"Just go straight to the point," Anita whispered, now kneeling on the bed, scooting closer so she could hear every word.
Mdachi nodded. "Hey, Edward, I don't want to seem impatient, but..." Anita glared at him. He swallowed. "Shouldn't you have been here like an hour ago? I mean, it's already midday."
The two waited quietly for a response.
Edward sighed heavily. "I'm so, so sorry, man. But a lot of shit has been going on lately at my house..."
Mdachi cut in. "Lately? But you never told us anything. I mean, you could've said something at school yesterday. We wouldn't have planned the hangout."
Anita squinted a glare at him. Mdachi caught it from the corner of his eye. He swallowed hard again. He knew he rambled too much sometimes—especially when silence would've served him better.
Edward, quiet for a moment, finally replied. "I know, man. I'm really sorry. But it's complicated. I'll tell you guys about it on Monday. For now, just know I can't make it. I'm pretty sure I'm grounded. Please tell Anita I'm sorry." Then the line went dead.
Mdachi wanted to ask what Edward meant by "pretty sure" he was grounded. Was he or wasn't he? And why? But he held his tongue. Too many questions.
Anita, who'd perked up when the call first connected, now flopped on the bed, sitting on her folded legs, clearly disappointed. She didn't need Mdachi to say a word—she'd heard it all.
Recovering quickly, she grabbed her bag from the top of the cabinet, pulled out her own phone, and headed for the door.
Mdachi watched her, wide-eyed and speechless. He tried to say something, but no words came out.
At the door, Anita slipped on her dark sunglasses, turned dramatically, and said, "See you later... or never, baby boy. I'm headed to Ruby's. Oh, and make your room lively. Edward's definitely is." With that, she walked out, leaving the door wide open.
Exhausted from dealing with her, Mdachi collapsed onto his bed, facing the ceiling.
He sighed. "What a fiasco. Guess now I have to help Mama tidy up the attic."
He closed his eyes, resting briefly before joining his mother.
---
In House 254...
After ending the call, Edward gently dropped his phone beside his feet. He was still seated on the window seat, now with his back against the wall, one leg stretched out, the other bent, and his arm hanging lazily over his knee.
He rubbed his face in frustration. Like he'd said, a lot of shit had been happening.
He stared at the now miraculously fixed door, hoping something strange might happen to confirm he wasn't losing his mind. Nothing did.
Time flew by as Edward sat there, watching the vast Ngong Road Forest. At first, he admired its beauty. Then his mind drifted to confusing thoughts, questioning everything—even his sanity.
The sun dipped below the horizon. A somber twilight took over the sky, embroidered with stars and a waning gibbous moon.
The night sky was beautiful. Captivating.
Edward's eyes roamed the heavens until they locked with the glowing moon.
---
Under the full moon, Edward slowly turns to face whoever's following him in the woods. His eyes meet vicious red ones. The wolf's canines drip blood. Edward, frozen in terror, lets out—
---
His flashback shattered as he heard the click of his bedroom door unlocking. It creaked open.
He didn't need to look. He knew it was his mother.
"I see you're quite occupied with the night sky," Miridald said, approaching from behind.
Still gazing upward, but mentally distant, Edward responded, "Isn't it just gorgeous, Mom?"
"More than me, I see," she teased, leaning against the wall behind him, arms and legs crossed, looking out at the sky too. "Can't even spare your mom a glance now? Am I that hideous compared to the universe?"
Edward turned to her. Sitting up, he took her hand, looked into her eyes with sincere warmth, and said, "You're more beautiful than the world deserves, Mom. Don't ever forget that. And I'll never choose anyone or anything before you. It's you and me, from the dawn of time till its dusk, remember?"
Tears shimmered in Miridald's eyes under the moonlight.
"Yes, son. You and me... from the dawn of time till its dusk." She pulled him into a warm embrace, tears of joy trailing down her cheeks.
Edward hugged her legs in return, hearing her sniff above him. He knew his behavior was disturbing her peace. He couldn't stand causing her pain.
"Your dad's only trying to look out for you the best way he knows how," she said softly. "He loves you, in his own way. Okay? He's only—"
Edward pulled away. "First, call him 'father.' He doesn't deserve the 'dad' title. Second, he doesn't love me. If he did, he'd at least give me the benefit of the doubt, right? I mean, he'd believe me, right?" Hope sparkled faintly in his eyes.
Miridald stepped back, sat on the bed behind her, inhaled deeply, then began, hesitantly. "You... you know... that tale of yours is just a tale. It's insane, Edward."
"I know. I know, Mom. But... I'll prove it to you."
"What do you mean?" she asked sharply, now sitting upright and eyeing him carefully. She sensed danger in his tone.
Edward, oblivious to her shift in mood, rambling with enthusiasm, continued, "Well, I could go out there," he said, pointing at the woods. "Try to find some evidence. I mean, the backyard door was broken, but now it's not. Like—how? That doesn't make sense. Or I could bait myself, at night, in the woods, with a camera. It didn't hurt me last time, didn't even take a strand of my hair. Why would it this time?"
"No." Her tone was firm. "You're doing no such thing, Edward."
He was stunned. "No? But why?"
"Enough, Edward!" she snapped. "We've had enough drama and battles in this house to last me the whole month. I'm tired. I'm full. No more. You're not going out there chasing some mambo jumbo fantasy. Am I clear?"
Edward hesitated, then replied, "Yes, Mother."
"Good. Now come downstairs. Dinner's ready."
"I'm sorry, Mom, but I'm not hungry," he mumbled, curling into his usual low-spirits pose—legs folded tight to his chest.
Miridald, halfway off the bed, paused. Her eyes closed. Her lips pressed into a tight line. Her fists clenched midair. She remained like that, breathing deeply.
Once composed, she spoke calmly. "Edward, I'm really not in the mood for your shenanigans. Your father's are enough. You'll come downstairs, eat, and get it over with. You haven't eaten all day. So don't give me that 'I'm not hungry' nonsense, darling. Okay?"
She didn't wait for a reply. She stood, walked out, and took the spare key with her.
Edward sulked. Then he sighed. She was right. He was hungry.
As he descended the stairs, the aroma of sizzling food hit his nose. His stomach growled. His mouth watered.
He hurried down, but tripped on the last step and nearly face-planted. Thankfully, the banister saved him.
After brushing off imaginary dust, he headed toward the dining table—only to freeze.
There, seated like nothing had happened, was Jarold, the so-called man of the house, serving himself.
Edward's heart thumped—not with fear, but with loathing.
He stood still, shooting a glare that could burn through Hell's walls.
Then he heard it—a soft voice calling his name.
"Edward..." His mother, smiling and standing behind her chair, beckoned him to the table.
Edward, now snapped back to reality, feigned a broad smile in return. Then he marched to the table, deliberately avoiding Jarold's escorting gaze.
He took his seat—to Jarold's right—picked up a plate, and served himself from the spread displayed on the table. Miridald, seated to Jarold's left, served herself as well.
Just as Edward was about to dig into his delightful delicacies, Jarold stirred the pot.
"Kijana, I'm not seeing any vegetables on your plate."
Edward felt like telling him to mind his own plate and leave him the hell alone—but instead, he muttered, "I don't feel like it tonight." His eyes stayed fixed on his plate. He didn't want to meet his father's intimidating stare.
Sensing trouble, Miridald intervened. "Please... can we just have a peaceful family dinner tonight?"
No one spoke after that. They all ate in tense silence.
After a few minutes, Jarold abruptly dropped his cutlery on the table and said, "You know, with this stubborn attitude of yours, boy, you're not going far. As your father, I advise you to eat vegetables—they're good for you—but nooo, Edward knows better. He always does."
The gauntlet had been dropped.
Edward picked it up.
"Are you sure we're talking about vegetables here, or something else? And what do you mean by 'advise'? You were clearly ordering me, though indirectly—like you always do."
He'd stopped eating now, his face tense with a frown, his eyes locked tight with Jarold's.
It was on.
It was time to slug it out, once and for all.
Miridald, clearly annoyed but powerless, rested her chin on her hand, elbow pressing against the table. She knew this storm would eventually break loose. No matter how hard she tried to keep it on a leash, it had always been untamable—inevitable. She only hoped that by arguing it out—without violence—they would finally settle their scores and return to how they used to be.
"Don't talk to me with such disrespect, boy. This is my house," Jarold thundered.
Springing to his feet, Edward retorted, "Oh yeah? And what if I do? What are you gonna do—hit me?"
"SIT DOWN, BOY!" Jarold ordered, voice sharp with intimidation. He was on his feet too now, leaning forward with his left muscular arm planted on the table, while his right hand pointed at Edward's chair.
Edward's body instinctively obeyed. He sank back into the seat.
Miridald sighed.
But Edward's heart was galling from the treatment—and something inside him snapped.
He was on his feet again.
The next thing he felt was a piercing ring in his right ear.
The room spun clockwise—no, wait. It wasn't spinning. He was falling.
His chair hit the floor first, then came the left side of his body. But it didn't stop there—his body recoiled, almost like rewinding through the air—then slammed against the ground again. This time, it stayed.
His head throbbed like crazy, but that wasn't what shocked Edward most.
He had bounced on the solid floor.
That... was new.
As he lay there, dazed, a strong arm grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him to his feet.
Then the dragging began.
He didn't know where Jarold was taking him—just that he wasn't done. This was just the beginning.
While being dragged across the herringbone-patterned floor, Edward managed to tear his gaze away long enough to look at Jarold.
Coincidentally, Jarold turned to glare at him with a mugged expression—just as it happened.
A crimson hue flashed across his eyes.
Edward froze.
The wolf.
Could it be?
Before the thought could settle, he was shoved aside. He stumbled, landing hard on his butt. He still felt dizzy—like a drunk.
Looking up, he saw his mother—who had been screaming and beating against Jarold's back since the dragging began—now seized in his grip, held by the shoulders, being shaken like a maraca.
Edward couldn't hear exactly what Jarold was yelling at his tear-soaked mother, but he could guess: probably blaming her for always siding with him.
With bulging eyes locked on her husband's face, Miridald shook her head in denial, refusing to oblige to whatever he was saying.
Instead, she broke free and tried to rush to her son—
And the world stopped.
In slow motion, Edward saw his mother thud to the floor.
Jarold froze.
His hands trembled.
This had never happened before.
He turned nervously to face Edward. Guilt flooded his expression.
Still sitting on the floor, Edward stared at his mother in shock. She didn't move—not even a twitch.
Silence. Terrifying silence.
Tears spilled down Edward's face, fast and hot. Something inside him cracked wide open.
His body began to levitate.
He hovered, upright and weightless. Everything around him sharpened into impossible clarity.
He didn't understand how it was happening. He didn't care.
Power surged through him like lightning in his veins. And he needed to let it out.
Glaring at the bewildered, trembling man before him, Edward thrust his hands forward.
Wide open.
And screamed.
A second later, Jarold went flying across the room—slammed into a wall—then plummeted to the floor.
He didn't move.
He was out cold.
A dent was left in the wall where he'd hit.
Edward slowly lowered his arms. His feet touched the floor again. The rage drained out of him like a flood receding.
Sanity returned.
And when he saw what he had done—and the look on his mother's face, watching him from the floor—he panicked.
Clutching his hair, he tugged at the roots, slowly unraveling.
He tried to speak. The words wouldn't come.
Miridald scrambled up, rushed over, and embraced him tightly.
She held him, rocking him gently, patting his head as she whispered calming words. It worked. Bit by bit, his trembles slowed.
Edward had wanted to hurt his father—after everything—but not like this. He didn't even know how it had happened. All he knew was that he was sorry.
So sorry.
Miridald cupped his face in her hands and turned it toward her.
"Relax, son. Everything is going to be okay..." Her voice quivered with desperation and anxiety.
Edward interrupted, panicked. "But what if I've hurt him? Or worse... what if he's dead?"
Terror laced every word.
"I'm sure he's okay. I'll perform first aid. We'll go to the hospital tomorrow..."
"B-but—"
"We'll figure this out, okay? As a family. For now, go to your room. Don't let anyone else find out about this." Her voice had calmed, but only because it had to. If she wasn't calm, Edward would spiral again.
He hesitated.
"Go!" she barked.
One last glance at Jarold's motionless body—and Edward bolted to his room, his heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum.