He was great,

They said.

He'll fix the world, 

They said.

He's not human, but a robot.

No one knows but me.

New technology.

More freedom.

Less wars.

We will all ally with the other countries.

He'll never give up.

The world will be great again.

But, 

If he's a robot,

Who's controlling him?  

I had checked and rechecked all my calculations, filling pages with the scribbles; there was only one possible conclusion. The President walked and talked like a 50-year-old man - but I wasn't buying it. The Kirlian photographs looked very different from anything I'd seen among my neighbors, and the gnostic numerology confirmed it. I sighed and adjusted my tinfoil hat.

I activated my portable radio, cursing the primitive electronics I'd had to rig it from. The Justiciars had said not to call unless something extraordinary happened, and this counted.

"We have a problem," I said, slipping easily back into Rigellian.

A stack of corpses drained with a winelike liquid started dripping decay down the window stall of Mr.President's room in the White House.

I'm just a gardener with a hay hat and a large pair of scissors. I promised my wife I wouldn't run away from this job.

Owl eyes stared from the window,

a dark sticky figure with a blazer and a red tie, whispered in a low pitched frequency a frenzy call for garden blood.

I looked down, and saw my own blood dripping over the white daises, and a large pair of scissors stocked in my heart.

Sarah wrinkled up her freckled nose in preparation for throwing the biggest tantrum a three-year old had ever launched. She had her hysterics down to a science, calculated to get the response she desired. Angrily, she threw herself down on the hard wooden floor, kicking her feet, flailing her arms and scrunching up her chubby little cheeks. Her red hair was standing on end, almost as if electricity were coursing through her frustrated little pumpkin body. Inwardly, she felt proud that she was doing a bang up job of achieving the attention she desired as she spouted her feelings in torrents of frustration. Opening her eyes a crack, she was pleased to see that her parents were reacting as planned.

Her mother and father watched in horrified amazement because they knew no one in their family had ever had this hair trigger temper and they knew why. But, shhh! Sarah could never know. It was a secret that they would preserve to their graves.

“You don’t feel like my mother,” Sarah screamed as her face reddened to the shade of the bricks framing the fireplace. “I don’t want you to be my father! I’m not like anyone else in this family. I don’t like my red hair! Why can’t I have brown hair like you?” She began to yank strands of her hair out in chunks. Her little overwhelmed body was shaking with frustration.

Her mother turned her head so little Sarah wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing her tears. Taking the small child in her arms, she tried to soothe her but Sarah would have no part of it, kicking her in the stomach. Her Dad walked quietly over and picked up the hollering child, carrying her to her bedroom where she cried herself to sleep.

As she grew older, Sarah was even more convinced that she did not belong in this family unit. She was very intelligent, gifted in math and science with a flamboyant creative streak. The other members of her family were quite pedestrian. Her father was a Pentecostal preacher who considered himself the king of the household with his word being law. No matter how hard Sarah tried, she couldn’t conform. Her quick wit was secretly admired by her teachers although she was sent to detention frequently because she was so lively and untamed. Because of her strict parents, she kept extra clothes in her school locker so she could change into them after she left her house. Sarah reasoned that it was her parents” fault that she was forced to be sneaky since they never approved of any of her choices. She certainly couldn’t be blamed for their lack of trust causing her to resort to deceit.

Although she felt miserable, Sarah continued her life doubting that she belonged anywhere at all. She found herself always looking around herself wherever she went to see if she could find a family in which she would feel comfortable. Unable to assuage her longing, she began to pursue her creativity, painting wild pictures and writing erotic poems. She sewed multi-colored outfits and became a fashion show plate. She tasted the nectar of many men indiscriminately as her juices awakened in uncontrollable desire. Savoring life, she backpacked to Europe one summer and had a wild fling. Returning to the States sans her temporary lover, she enrolled in engineering at the local college, attaining top grades while she continued to carouse with her many swains. The world opened up to her like a bud on a rose as she partook of its pleasures.

Marrying and divorcing twice, she still could not find her direction. She decided to return to her home to question her parents as to why she was so different. She was now 39 years old, full of life and passion, but always with a little nagging doubt at the back of her mind. While her parents were working in the parish of their church, she decided to snoop in the drawers of the dresser in their bedroom. Finding a folder labeled ‘Sarah’, she couldn’t resist opening it to see its contents. She wondered why she found photographs from the time she was two but no baby pictures. At the bottom of the folder, she found an official looking certificate and yellowed newspaper clippings which finally satisfied her search for the truth. Shaking, she fingered the papers discovering that she was adopted after her father had killed her mother in a fit of rage. As horrified as she was to discover the early circumstances of her life, she was enraged that her parents had never told her the truth of her birth. She knew in the bottom of her heart that she would rather be the daughter of a murderer than the seed of a family of liars.

Now she understood why she had such fury. She couldn’t contain the overwhelming anger and frustration festering and boiling over her rim. Forcing her temper to take a back seat, she took a large carving knife out of the knife block in the kitchen. Running her fingers over the sharp blade, she watched in fascination as a few small dark drops of blood marched along her thumb, verifying that the knife was honed and ready. Finally accepting her heritage, she smiled in eager anticipation as she awaited the arrival home of her adoptive parents.

"Hey honey?" My mom calls up to me from the bottom of the steps, "Dad and I would like to talk to you!"

Oh no.

What did I do this time? Anxiety courses through me. What did I do?

"Okay okay, let's think this through before we make any assumptions, right? They could just be congratulating me on my grades, or something." Even as I said it I knew I was lying to myself. But Mom didn't sound mad. If anything, she sounded nervous, much like I sound like right now. What could they be wanting to talk about?

"I'm coming Mom, just wait a second!" I scream down the stairwell right back at her. I try to sound nonchalant, but my voice quivered at the word mom.

What did I do?

My hands shake, my palms sweat. I look through my phone, fingers flying, trying to find anything that would get me in trouble. Nothing. I set the phone down on my bed, the purple case clashing with my pink bedspread. I go through all of my drawers, looking for some sort of hidden contraband, although I knew I had none. I'm only in eighth grade, it's not like I have pot stashed in my room.

What did I do?

I pace across the room, back and forth, my feet wearing a path into the carpet.

"What to do, what to do?" I whisper to myself. And then I hear my mother's voice call up the stairs.

"Honey, are you coming?"

"Um-yeah Mom just a sec," I say, my voice shaking still.

"I'd better get down there before they get mad at me, at least, get more mad at me." I take a deep breath, then slowly inch down the stairs, one step at a time.

"Hi Mom, hi Dad," I tell my parents when I arrive in the living room. They are both sitting on the leather couch, very close to each other, like those parents on the covers of those "How to Raise Your Kid" books.

"Hey kid," my Dad says, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles. "Take a seat." He is definitely trying to make me feel at ease. This is really weird.

"Okay, Kayla, we need to talk to you," my mother tells me, her 'perfect parent' smile plastered on her face. She was trying to remain calm, for what reason I wasn't sure, but what I was sure about were the small beads of sweat on her forehead. One thing was for sure, her pleasant facade was cracking.

"We've been meaning to tell you this for a while now, we just never got the courage to actually say it," my father told me, looking down at his shoes. I breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn't in trouble after all! But then the meaning of his words caught on.

My parents have been keeping a big secret from me.

Me.

Their own daughter, made of the same flesh and blood.

"You remember your birth video, right?" My mother asked. They seemed to be switching off, one talking at a time. This conversation had probably been rehearsed.

"Yeah. You always told me that I don't even look the same."

The two exchanged a glance. Something was wrong.

"Well, you see, Kayla," my father stammered, " This isn't your real birth video."

I laughed. "Really, you thought I would believe that? Great prank guys! You really had me scared for a moment." I got up and started to walk back to my room.

"Kayla sit back down!" My mother said sternly. I stopped, shocked at the harsh tone. My mother was usually gentle, never raising her voice above normal talking level. This was serious.

"What we were about to say was that you don't have a birth video at all. This is your sister's." Huh? What does this all have to do with me? I looked up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the situation, but I was completely baffled.

"But I never had a sister. Ever. You said I was the 'one and done' child." They exchanged another glance.

"Kayla, honey, can you promise me something?"

"Yeah sure."

"Promise me you won't freak out or get mad."

"Why would I get mad?"

"Just promise."

"Okay fine, whatever."

"Promise me, Kayla."

"I promise. Jeez what's the problem?"

This was officially getting weirder by the second.

"Kayla, you were never born at all."

"What? Seriously guys is this a joke? I'm here right? How can I not have been born?" I started to get up again.

"Kayla, you were grown in a test tube." That stopped me in my tracks. I tried to laugh it off.

"Did you guys have trouble making a baby or something, cause that's not so bad." I still could tell they were hiding something.

"Remember how we said that was your sister's video?

"Um, yeah?"

"Well your sister died in a car wreck."

My mouth opened so wide that my jaw almost went out of its socket. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. All I felt was numbness.

"Wha-what?"

"That's where I got my scar from," my dad told me, pointing to the jagged scar across his forehead.

Suddenly I was angry. I had a sister, who DIED, and they never told me a thing, just letting me go on with my life full of rainbows and unicorns. I'm in 8th grade, I think I am old enough to process that I had a sister who died.

"Why didn't you tell me this! In old enough to know! No wonder I get all of those looks from your friends, they all knew too!"

I stood up quickly and pointed to them. "You lied to me!"

They sat there calmly, taking my accusations without a single word.

"We knew you would react like this, but there is still something else you need to know, something that you wouldn't be able to understand until now." My mother looked at my dad as he said this, nodding after every word. "Kayla, do you know what a clone is?"

Suddenly it all clicked on my head. My sister's death, my parents, sick with grief. I am my sister's clone. I can picture it in my head, them, crying at the scene of the accident, knowing they will never see their child again. Until the latest cloning technology made it possible. No matter how much money they spent, they were going to have a second chance.

"Does that mean-"

"Yes Kayla."

"Was her name Kayla too?"

"Yes. We tried to make you like her as much as possible. We read you the same books, gave you the same toys, the same clothes, same everything. We wanted our daughter back."

"So I was the stand-in," I told them, fuming. I wasn't meant to be made. They don't love me, they love her. I felt a sudden hatred for my namesake.

"No honey, we love you just as much as we loved her, more even, it's just-"

"I don't want to hear it," I snarled, "You know that you just wanted a substitute. I was never meant to be. Every time you look at me, you are comparing us, analyzing every difference between me and her, and wishing you had her instead! Well guess what? I'm not her! I may look like her, but we are not the same!" I ran up to my room, crying, my mom following me up the stairs. I burst into my room and turned around, slamming the door in my mom's face. I was done being her. Tonight, I was going to become me.

Lionel sat back against his chair, stretching with a groan and snapped forward again, leaning his elbows on the table and staring discontentedly at the crossword puzzle. Beside him, his phone began to buzz.  He wrapped his fingers around the object, lifting it to his bored eyes and read the name "Tarah" without swiping. He set it back down on the table and the call went to voicemail.  Lifting his pencil, he slowly filled in the word Havoc and then the phone began to buzz again. With an aggravated sigh, he dragged his finger across the screen and hit speaker.

"…Lionel?  Hello?" crackled a woman's voice through bad reception.

"Yes.  Hello.  You're on speaker phone," said Lionel.

There was a pause from the other end.

"Is there someone else in the room?" she asked.

"Yes, there's a whole audience all on the edge of their seat, waiting with bated breath over what you'll say next."

"Don't be an asshole," complained the voice on the other end, "Look, I'm calling because…well, you know."

Lionel filled in the words Quid pro quo.

"No, I don't. You could say literally anything.  There's no way for me to know for sure," he replied flippantly.

"You're such a jerk. Do you talk to Erin like this?"

"No."

"Whatever, I bet that's why she went on vacation by herself, she's so sick of you. The reason I called is about the money."

"What money?" asked Lionel, picking up the crossword and holding it close to his face. He set it back down, erasing an earlier filled in clue and replaced Ares with Mars.

"The money that she owes me.  I wouldn't be pestering you guys about this, but I'm kind of strapped right now and you know, with rent almost due, five-hundred bucks is nothing to sneeze at," said the voice on the other line.

"I didn't know she borrowed money from you."

"What do you mean, you didn't know?" demanded the voice, "She told me she needed it fast, and that you didn't get paid until tomorrow, or today, I mean, because she told me yesterday…anyway, I gave it to her because she said you could pay me back right away, she just needed help getting out of town for a bit."

"Ah, yes.  I imagine so. Well, I'm sorry. I'll see if I can find it," he replied, writing down a stitch in time in the small squares.

"Find it?"

"I mean, scrounge it up.  You know what I mean," he corrected hastily.

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"Is everything ok, Lionel?" asked the voice slowly.

"Everything is fine.  I mean, it's terrible, but that's life, right?" he said, setting the crossword down and fixing his eyes on the phone.  The pencil remained in his right hand, poised in the air.

"I just…hey, I'm sorry about what I said earlier.  I know you and Erin are having a hard time.  She told me a little bit about it when I saw her."

"Yeah, well," he retorted, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling and then back to the phone, but he had nothing else to add.

"So she took off for a bit, huh?"

"Yeah, solo vacation," he replied.

"How's her…um, how's her vacation going?"

"I think she's finding it relaxing."

"Yeah, where did she go?"

Lionel was staring directly across the table and didn't answer, so the caller repeated the question.  He jolted, shaking his head.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Hawaii or somewhere like that.  Where do people normally go on vacations?" he snapped angrily.

"Five hundred bucks isn't gonna get you to Hawaii."

"She didn't tell me.  What does it matter?" he asked.

There was another, longer hesitation on the other end of the line.

"Lionel, if you need someone to talk to…you know you can talk to me, right?"

"Yeah, sure," he muttered.

"No, really.  What are big sisters for?  But, you'd tell me. If she left you, you'd tell me?  You wouldn't just sit in the house and mope?"

"I'm doing a crossword puzzle."

As if to prove it to her unseeing eyes, he bent his head back over it and began filling in the word Watergate.

"You only do crosswords when you're upset.  And you never fill them in correctly."

"Look, this clue was 'Who is the god of war?' and I answered 'Mars.'"

"That's a planet," corrected the voice.

"You're an idiot."

"Ok, thanks.  I'll let you go.  But seriously, if you need to talk about Erin…" the voice on the other end suddenly stopped.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll call you and we'll have a real heart to heart about it and everything," he said distractedly.

"Lionel."

The voice's tone was punctuated with some serious note.

"What now?"

"Erin's purse.  She left it here," said the caller, her voice giving weight to every word.

"So?"

"It's got her wallet.  Her driver's license.  And the money I gave her."

"So what?" he asked, setting the crossword down again.

"Is she missing?"

"No, I told you," he said heatedly, "She went on a vacation."

"Without literally everything she'd need?" inquired the voice on the other end of the line, "I mean, she was only here the other day telling me about…telling me about you guys and thanking me for loaning her the money, maybe she got attacked on the walk home or…"

"Will you just shut up a minute?" he cut in, "I'm telling you, she left, she was fine. She took a bus."

"Somethings wrong. I'm coming over."

"Don't!" he yelled suddenly, but continued calmer, "Don't come over."

There was another silence.

"What happened?" asked the caller slowly.

"Nothing.  Just…everything is fine. Don't come over."

"Lionel, what did you do?"

"I didn't do anything!  I…that bitch…"

"I'm coming over," interrupted the voice.

The phone beeped as Call Ended flashed over the screen.  Lionel stared miserably at the phone and then lifted his gaze slowly to the body that was seated in the chair across the table from him.  He picked up his pencil, silently erasing his answers on the crossword.

I thought he was about to burp. However, he just started to talk. He talked, not as if he were addressing a nation, but rather as if he was addressing my and my kinsman. All of his words were precise, making my ears ring with jubilation. I then noticed something. He never seemed to blink. He never seemed to sweat, and he seemed to have no concept of breathing. I never saw him inhale. I then realized something. He wasn’t human. However, I think that he, or it, was what the planet needed for 2076. I simply shut my mouth.

     Earth's newest President is effortlessly charming. Everyone he's ever met has adored him, even the most critical and ornery people. It comes as no surprise that he won the election in a landslide. His victory speech was optimistic and rousing, full of energy and great plans for the future. At the Inauguration Ball, he was absolutely brilliant, mingling with everyone and making them feel valued and important. 

      Maybe that's how I knew something was off. When no one was looking, his happy expression melted off, leaving a cruel and alien visage, quickly replaced when an ambassador greeted him.

     I'm scared.

"Hello Mr. President"

He shifts his eyes and turns abruptly, his tail distinctly tucked under his suit jacket. He quickly shifts back to human. I catch a remnants of reptilian scales, slowing morphing to human skin. Seeing this in the flesh, literally, sends chills down my spine. This is the defining moment I've been waiting for my whole life. I was blessed to know that I was the chosen one. The one who would reveal and destroy the being in front of me. One small vial of promethium will do the trick. I intend to take him out very slowly.

"I would like to inform our viewers that the vote is in. Our new President of the Earth is Octavia Smith!"

Around me, the restaurant erupted into cheers; everyone took a moment to celebrate a hard-fought victory.

I scanned the room, my earpiece crackled. "We have a code 43, middle aged, brown suit."

I spotted him immediately and sprang forward. Before we hit the ground, I heard a sickening sizzle; he had hit his target. 

Fortunately he just hit her arm. She recovered quickly and the rest you know. But for a second I thought I saw her bleeding orange...