Where Reality Ends

Where Reality Ends

Gavin

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My SATs were today, the day that felt like it decided my entire future. But then my phone buzzed with an unknown number, displaying a chilling message: "DON'T TAKE THE EXAM!" It was Michael, my older brother, who'd vanished three years ago on the morning of his own SATs. Another warning followed: "THEY AREN'T WHO YOU THINK." Suddenly, my parents' overly cheerful demeanor felt sinister, their familiar faces hiding subtle, unsettling changes. My dad wore his wedding ring on the wrong hand, and my mom' s distinct scar was now on the opposite brow. Every word they spoke, every gesture, screamed that something was terribly wrong. When I finally tried to escape, a long-time family friend, Ethan, ambushed me with a devastating truth: Michael was dead. He claimed it was suicide, and that I was suffering from a severe PTSD-induced dissociative episode, hallucinating everything. My heart pounded as I watched a video of Michael' s funeral, my phone now empty of all his warnings. Was I crazy? Was this elaborate nightmare all in my head, a cruel trick of my own mind? But then, a specific, unspoken childhood promise between Michael and me-a secret about a monster and a particular trip-failed to match. That's when I knew: This "recovery" was another layer of control, a sophisticated simulation orchestrated by the very person pretending to help. I wouldn't let him win.

Introduction

My SATs were today, the day that felt like it decided my entire future.

But then my phone buzzed with an unknown number, displaying a chilling message: "DON'T TAKE THE EXAM!"

It was Michael, my older brother, who'd vanished three years ago on the morning of his own SATs.

Another warning followed: "THEY AREN'T WHO YOU THINK."

Suddenly, my parents' overly cheerful demeanor felt sinister, their familiar faces hiding subtle, unsettling changes.

My dad wore his wedding ring on the wrong hand, and my mom' s distinct scar was now on the opposite brow.

Every word they spoke, every gesture, screamed that something was terribly wrong.

When I finally tried to escape, a long-time family friend, Ethan, ambushed me with a devastating truth: Michael was dead.

He claimed it was suicide, and that I was suffering from a severe PTSD-induced dissociative episode, hallucinating everything.

My heart pounded as I watched a video of Michael' s funeral, my phone now empty of all his warnings.

Was I crazy? Was this elaborate nightmare all in my head, a cruel trick of my own mind?

But then, a specific, unspoken childhood promise between Michael and me-a secret about a monster and a particular trip-failed to match.

That's when I knew: This "recovery" was another layer of control, a sophisticated simulation orchestrated by the very person pretending to help.

I wouldn't let him win.

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The Truth About His Mistress

The Truth About His Mistress

Short stories

4.7

I was four months pregnant, a photographer excited for our future, attending a sophisticated baby brunch. Then I saw him, my husband Michael, with another woman, and a newborn introduced as "his son." My world shattered as a torrent of betrayal washed over me, magnified by Michael's dismissive claim I was "just being emotional." His mistress, Serena, taunted me, revealing Michael had discussed my pregnancy complications with her, then slapped me, causing a terrifying cramp. Michael sided with her, publicly shaming me, demanding I leave "their" party, as a society blog already paraded them as a "picture-perfect family." He fully expected me to return, to accept his double life, telling his friends I was "dramatic" but would "always come back." The audacity, the calculated cruelty of his deception, and Serena's chilling malice, fueled a cold, hard rage I barely recognized. How could I have been so blind, so trusting of the man who gaslighted me for months while building a second family? But on the plush carpet of that lawyer's office, as he turned his back on me, a new, unbreakable resolve solidified. They thought I was broken, disposable, easily manipulated – a "reasonable" wife who would accept a sham separation. They had no idea my calm acceptance was not surrender; it was strategy, a quiet promise to dismantle everything he held dear. I would not be handled; I would not understand; I would end this, and make sure their perfect family charade crumbled into dust.

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