If anyone had asked me what horror was, up to half a minute ago I would have definitely answered something on the lines of "demons" or "zombie apocalypse".

But nothing could have prepared me for the shock of seeing two identical faces, two indistinguishable beings staring back at me from the yellowed photograph that fell out of my wife's sister memorial.

The more I stare at the picture, though, the more subtle differences I notice. I could definitely tell my wife from her twin in the picture; maybe for the fact that her smile never had that grinny appearance, maybe because her eyes are a lighter shade of brown...
Wait, what color are my wife's eyes?
With all the commotion, I haven't had time to notice, lately. I always complimented her about the expression of her eyes, their ability to communicate her feelings, her emotions to whoever she was talking to.

As I turn the picture over, a single sentence made the last of my securities disappear:

​

"I have always admired you. Always wanted to be like you. Always wanted to be YOU".

​

>!This is my first time ever writing anything. Comments are very appreciated, as is any constructive criticism. I know I am not a good writer, but I would really like to get better and write something for fun. Thanks!!<

EDIT: Wow, the support and constructive criticism of this sub never ceases to amaze me! Thanks to everyone who took a couple of minutes of their time to give me a piece of their insight, to provide an external point of view or to show their appreciation!

EDIT 2.0: An award?? I'm flabbergasted, everyone! Thank you all for the support, advice and encouragement!!

"She never told me that she..." In my hand, I held a photograph of my wife and her late sister, who had been dead for months. The photo looked recent, with the pair only looking maybe a couple years younger than they were, but what struck me was that they looked the same. They were identical twins, and I had never known before that moment.

"Ezekiel? Honey?" My wife stepped into the kitchen with a stretch and a yawn. "How's breakfast going? Do you need help?"

I stuffed the photo in my pocket and turned to face her. "It's going!" I blurted out. "I'm good. I've almost finished these eggs, so-"

"Honey, they're smoking," she said.

I turned to see the eggs blackening. "Crap!" I shouted.

She laughed. She laughed. My wife always showed concern before laughing. A subtle, but noticeable difference.

I rushed to turn off the stove and get the pan off of it, throwing the destroyed eggs into the trashcan and running cold water over the pan so I could wash it and try again. She moved toward me and kissed me on the cheek. "I can't believe I married such a klutz," she teased. That was in character.

"Neither can I," I responded with a nervous chuckle.

She left the room with a quick wave. "It's our day off, so don't mess up any more eggs. I'm trusting you, Ezekiel. We have lots to do today!"

I acknowledged her with a quick, "Yeah," and returned my attention to my second attempt at breakfast. I cracked eggs, placed them in the frying pan, and stirred them around to scramble them. This held the lion's share of my focus, but the picture in my pocket nagged at my mind. Why hadn't she told me her sister was an identical twin? People tend not to leave those sorts of things out of descriptions.

As the eggs were almost done, I placed a couple pieces of bread in our toaster, then slapped everything onto a pair of plates and walked out to the living room where she was waiting. "Finished."

"You didn't put anything on them, did you?" she asked. "I'm not in the mood for my usual cheese today."

I realized I had forgotten to put the cheese on them today. Under normal circumstances, I would get sent back into the kitchen with a half-joking groan and told to put some fiesta blend on them, but... not today. I shook my head. "I forgot."

"Lucky you."

My wife had been acting slightly off since the untimely passing of her estranged sister. She had rarely spoken of her sister even when prompted, but I had thought it was because the relationship was strained. But something was up, and she wasn't being forthwith about it.

"If you don't mind me asking, what kind of relationship did you and your sister have?" I asked.

She very nearly choked on her toast. "What brought that up?"

"Well, you never really talked about her, so I was just wondering. You never even said you were twins," I said. I produced the photo I had in my pocket. "You dropped this when you were coming home last night, so..."

She took it, for some reason looking annoyed. "I never talked about her, huh?" She spaced out for a moment. "Of course I didn't. Our relationship wasn't all rosepetals and bath bombs."

My wife had always had a habit of coming up with eccentric idioms, and that was definitely something she would say. Perhaps I was worrying over nothing.

"It's best if you don't worry about it, Ezekiel. She's gone now, so it's not even a consideration."

"That's cold of you," I said, concerned. "She was your sister."

She frowned. I could see frustration building on her face, but I hoped I could tread the line and prevent her from breaking entirely, like I usually did. "Estranged sister. We didn't like each other anyway."

"You seem happy enough in the photo."

"That was years ago. Things were different."

"I mean, you must miss her," I said. "What changed?"

"She changed, not me!" she snapped. Immediately, she slapped a hand over her mouth. Slowly, however, after considering her words, she pulled it away and continued. "I... mean... after we got married, she started acting differently. Just... cold to me. And after she seemed so excited about you, too."

I suddenly felt guilty about pushing it. "I'm sorry to bring it up," I said. "I didn't mean to bring up something painful, I just-"

"You were curious. It's okay."

We finished up breakfast and I placed the dishes back in the kitchen. I started to make my way back to the living room, but I stopped as I was about to round the corner. She was listening to a voicemail message on her phone.

"Parker, if you're receiving this message, I am dead, and I need you to do something for me. My husband, Ezekiel, is dangerous. Not in deed or personality, or in any way he can control; he wouldn't hurt a fly, the sweetroll he is," the voicemail said. "But there's something no one except for me knows about him, not even himself: If he experiences any loss, any trauma, he will destroy this Earth. I can't explain to you why, and I can't tell you how, but it will happen. I need you to become me. The arrangements to fake your death have already been made. Step into my place, be Ezekiel's wife. You know I would never lie to you, so I need you to do this one last thing. If you're even a fraction as lucky as I was, you will fall in love with him just like I did. And one last thing- I'm sorry, Parker, for leaving you behind. Ezekiel took my whole attention, for both his sake and the world's. After being married to him for a few weeks, you'll understand. I promise. Goodbye."

I stepped into the room. She hid away her phone. "Elizabeth?" I asked.

"Yes, honey?"

"Who are you?"

The ground started to shake.

A vase whizzed past my head, causing me to jump in shock.

"WHO ARE YOU?!" roared my husband, rushing up to pin me between his massive arms. I shrunk against the wall, terrified.

"What are you talking about? I'm your wife!" I cried, seeing fear and rage in his eyes, and something else. Something... unhinged.

"Are you? Because you changed after we got married. After your sister died. Y'know, I always thought it was weird that you didn't want me to meet her. But now, finding the picture? It all makes sense. You replaced her. You killed my Natalie, and you took her place." He removed one of his arms and dug around in his back pocket, pulling out a picture of my twin sister and I when we were teenagers; hugging, smiling, wearing intentionally ugly matching outfits.

"You... you think I'm Helen?" I gasped, my voice quivering and my knees shaking as I reached for the photo. I held it lovingly, anger growing in me as I knew he'd found the photo by rummaging through my things.

"I know you're Helen. Our daughter doesn't look at you the same way she used to. You don't smell the same way you used to. You stand different, walk different. You don't like your favorite foods anymore. Trauma can change a person a lot, Helen, but it can't do that." he was raving, ranting, beginning to pace throughout our living room.

"My sister, my Helen, died in another state, James! I wasn't anywhere near her that night! I was here, with you, planning OUR WEDDING DAY. Remember that? Lovely ceremony, about 3 years ago? And you're right, I have changed! And it's not just trauma!" I said, opening the hallway closet to grab a broom for the vase shards, "I wanted to do something, anything to keep my sister alive. So I started using her favorite beauty products, hence the smell change. I salvaged some of her favorite clothes and heels from the donation piles, thus my posture change. You walk different in stilettos than you do in flats, James. Corsets make you stand straighter, James. I've changed intentionally, to be more like Helen, to keep her alive in me."

I could see the gears turning in his head; logic was winning out. "But what about Ava?"

"She's SIX, James! She doesn't want to be glued at her mother's hip all day anymore! She wants to play with dolls and run around the backyard and eat fuckin' lip gloss!" I filled the dustpan and emptied out the shards into the trash, heartbeat racing.

Somewhere above us, I heard a shuffling and a thud. "Great, she was eavesdropping. I'll go soothe her while you sit down and think about what the hell you just said to me." I said, wiping my hands on my apron and walking upstairs.

"Ava, honey? Are you all right?" I said, knocking on her open door.

"Mommy, why is daddy so scary lately?" she hugged my waist, hiding herself in the folds of my skirt, "Is it because of the accident?"

"Yes, baby. It's because of the accident." I said, smoothing down her hair.

James used to ride a motorcycle every day. Used to. One day last year, he got t-boned by one of those little ice-cube shaped mini-cars. Flew 30 feet. The phone call I got from the hospital filled me with the kind of dread I'd only ever felt once before; when I was informed by my parents that my twin sister had been found shot in her local park while jogging, a casualty of a gang's civil war.

He was in a coma with severe brain swelling for a full month. And when he woke up, he was different. More aggressive, more paranoid. Gaps in his memory. The doctors said it was a miracle he survived. As I held my sobbing daughter in my arms, and faintly heard my husband booking a session with his therapist downstairs, I wondered if it was any miracle at all.

After dropping the photo on the ground in complete and utter disbelief, I couldn't help but collapse onto the ground.

"What the actual fuck is going on here?" I whispered to myself. I had no time to keep processing the shocking discovery I had just come across as I could hear "Lauren" coming down the basement stairs. Standing up as quick as I could I immediately headed towards her. This devil took MY wife away from me and was trying to steal MY wife's life? Oh hell no!

I got to the bottom of the stairs just before Hannah the succubus did and I couldn't contain the rage pumping through every copper wire in my being.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" I wailed at the absolute top of my lungs, shaking my vocal cords. "WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO WITH LAUREN?" This put a look of complete disbelief on her face. It actually seemed pretty genuine but I knew what type of game she was playing. There was no chance I was going to fall for it, there needed to be justice and revenge for Lauren.

"I know who you are you psychopath! You think you can get away with this shit?" Before I knew it I was grabbing her by the shoulders, shaking her violently.

"Mark what the hell are you doing? What are you talking about?" Hannah was fighting back, yet still trying to maintain her innocence. "Babe get off me why are y-." Her plea was cut short due to the state of both my hands clasping as tight as I could around her throat.

"You stupid bitch, coming into my life and fucking it up. Huh? Nothing to say now huh?" I continued to squeeze for the next 10 to 15 seconds at the same intensity, staring as deep as I could into the eyes of the woman who had murdered my wife. As her eyes started to close I released her. She went into a horrible coughing fit, covering the wall in her filth.

"You won't feel the sweet release of death tonight Hannah, I'm going to make sure you rot in jail for the rest of your miserable life." I said adamantly. I quickly headed up the stairs and grabbed the house phone to call the police. While dialing 911 I walked back to the top of the basement stairs to check on Hannah. I had revealed I knew her true identity and didn't want to take the chance of her escaping. As I saw she was still laying there, coughing more softly now, the 911 operator picked up.

"911 what is your emergency?"

"Hi, yes, I believe I have information on a murder case. I have the killer in my house right now and I need a unit here immediately!"

"Ok sir tell me your address and we'll have some officers down there right away." The operator said in a very composed manner. After relaying that I lived at 308 Negra Arroyo Lane Hannah decided to speak up again.

"Mark, honey, why are you doing this?" She was struggling to get the words out of her crushed trachea.

"Shut your mouth and stay right there, the police will be here any moment." I quickly answered. I wasn't going to stand for her deceptive ways. The woman laying on the stairs was being of pure evil, one that needed to be treated as such.

After a few more moments of Hannah's desperate pleading I heard a knock on the front door.

"Get ready for your twisted little sick life to get a lot worse demon." I said to Hannah before heading to answer the door.

Outside were three cop cars, an ambulance, and four officers crowded onto my porch.

"Hello sir we got a call about a possible domestic dispute. Can you tell me what's been going on tonight?" The officer closest to the door asked. He seemed to be the Lieutenant or Sergeant as he wore a different badge than the other officers. This was the man I needed to be talking to. Before I could even get a word out, something happened I never could have expected.

Hannah came walking down the stairs from the second floor. She was in much worse shape than I had left her in on the stairs. There were multiple cuts on her face, her nose seemed to be broken, and there was a massive purple bruise on her left cheekbone. While keeping her distance from me and after giving me a frightened look the officers could surely see, she began to speak.

"Oh thank God you're here officers! He's been beating on me and I couldn't take it anymore!" I almost believed her for a split second too. She sounded so innocent and heartbroken, like she's been battling with inner turmoil for a lifetime and finally decided to take action. She even had tears streaming down her face for dramatic effect.

"Is this true sir?" The officer in charge asked. I couldn't believe what the hell was happening. First she appeared upstairs, then the bruises and cuts appeared, and now she was feeding a bullshit story to the officers with the delivery of a seasoned Broadway actress.

"Hell no this isn't true!" I said with confidence, finally managing to get a word out. "This woman here is a killer! She murdered my wife Lauren and is trying to steal her life! You have to believe me!" My words seemed to have little to no effect on the officers.

"Ma'am?" The officer said inquisitively to Hannah.

"I don't know what he's talking about officer, he's gone crazy or something!" Hannah said innocently.

Looking back at me the officer sighed and pulled his handcuffs out. "Please turn around and put your hands behind your back sir."

"What? No way I didn't do anything!" I said defiantly.

"Sir, turn around and put your hands behind your back NOW!" The officer wasn't playing around now. I tried to think of what to do next and the officers took that as a sign of resistance. Within only a moment I had two sets of hands, one on each arm, turning me around and hand cuffing me.

"You can't do this to me! She's a killer! A KILLER!" I screamed as the officers dragged me away from my house. How did she do it? How did she get upstairs? How did she get those marks on her face? What the hell was happening right now? So much had happened in the last 10 minutes my head was spinning and I was beginning to feel sick. The officers read me my Miranda rights and threw me in the back of one of the squad cars. I could see Hannah spreading her lies to one of the officers who stayed to talk with her. He was writing down notes and probably believing every word she was saying.

The officers who had detained me started to leave in their cars so I was forced to sit and watch Hannah give the rest of her statement. Once they finished talking and the officers started walking back towards their cars, Hannah stayed in the doorway to watch. She locked eyes with me and I could swear, was even smiling a little. Whoever that was, it wasn't Lauren.

The officers drove me to the police station without saying a word. Once at the station I was processed and booked. My mug shot was taken, my fingerprint was filed, I was charged with first degree assault, and I was also charged with first degree battery. I thought, this can't be real. I had definitely choked her, but that was besides the point. The woman living in my home wasn't the woman I married. She had murdered my wife and was now trying to steal her life.

Once processed I was given an orange Albuquerque prisoner jump suit and thrown into a tiny cell. The five foot by five foot "room" consisted of a piss stained cot and shit stained toilet.

"Fuck." I said quietly to myself. "How did I end up here?" I spent the next hour or so trying to process what my next steps would be. The charges against me weren't going to be dropped and there was no way that I could fight them after what happened at the house. All of the officers had seen a beat up, cut, and bruised woman cry before them about how she couldn't be abused anymore. Still though, I would eventually have a chance to seek out justice for Lauren. They couldn't lock me up forever because of this.

After sitting in my cell for another hour or so my chance came sooner than I thought. An officer opened my cell door and told me a detective wanted to speak with me. I was escorted out of the cell block and taken to a private interrogation room. I waited for only a short time before a man walked in carrying a huge binder. He didn't wear a blue uniform like the rest of the cops, but instead khakis with a button shirt and a tie. His badge hung down from a lanyard covering part of his tie. He seemed to be about forty five to fifty years old, probably an experienced, grizzled cop who had seen a lot of shit in his day. He pulled his chair real close to mine, pinning me in the corner.

"Hi Mark I'm detective Gary Fring, I've heard a lot about what's happened tonight so I just need to understand what happened from your side. Tell me your version of events from tonight at the house." Detective Fring seemed to be reasonable and willing to listen.

I stand there, my heart pounding against my rib cage. Long dark hair, soft smooth skin, brilliant brown eyes... Miku and Ai were twins?? My hand trembles as I flip the photo over. "Miku and Ai, Churaumi Aquarium, '20". This photo was taken just a year before Miku and I got married! How did I not know about this? Why would she keep this from me?

"Hiro!" I hear Miku's sweet voice behind me and I jump. "What do you have there?"

My voice sputters for a moment as my tongue remembers how to form words. "J-just a photo of you and your sister," I finally say. "Why did you not tell me you were twins?"

"Oh..." Miku's gaze drifts to the floor. "We... drifted apart. We didn't get along very well."

I show her the photo of her and Ai, together on Okinawa. "This photo was taken two years ago," I say sternly. "You look pretty close to me."

"Oh, that?" Miku looked up at the photo, slowly taking it from my hand. "This was the last time I saw her. On our way back to the hotel, I told her you had proposed to me. It was strange, she got really upset. I don't understand why. When we got back to the hotel, she left, saying she was going for a walk. I never saw her again after that."

"Hmm..." I stare at her, my brow creased with frustration, but eventually, I relax. "All right. I'm sorry I got upset."

Miku moves closer to me, places a hand upon my chest, and smiles. "Hey, it's okay, Hiro," she says sweetly. She kisses me on the lips, lingering for a moment. Her lips taste like cherry and I realize she is wearing lip gloss. I freeze. Miku never wears lip gloss. I detect a hint of strawberry emanating from her. She is wearing perfume, but Miku does not even own a bottle of perfume.

She pulls away and smiles. "Come, I've been preparing some soup for this chilly day." She takes my hand and pulls me along, tossing the picture onto her dresser. I follow, but my nerves are tingling. Something does not feel right. Her behavior has been odd since Ai's death. Is it grief? Perhaps she is trying to maintain her composure and taking extra steps to ensure she does not break down. I close my eyes and shake my head. I must be overthinking this. Still...

Miku pulls out a chair and sits me down. She takes two bowls, serves up some soup, and places one before me. It is aromatic and I feel myself begin to relax. My stomach growls and I remember I have not eaten anything today. Perhaps I am just hungry.

I take my spoon and sip the hot soup carefully. Miku sits across from me and watches me eat with great intrigue. The hot liquid glides down pleasantly, warming my shivering body. It is rich and brothy, and packed with vegetables. I detect basil, seaweed, and leeks. I melt into the flavors. Miku smiles and eats along with me. As soon as she takes her second spoonful, it hits me: Miku hates leeks.

I pause, watching her eat mouthful after mouthful of a food she had adamantly been against since we started dating. I set my spoon down and look at her hard. "Miku."

She looks up at me innocently. "Yes, Hiro?"

"You hate leeks."

"Do I?" Miku asked, scooping another spoonful. "They're not so bad."

I frown. "Miku, you loathe leeks. I stopped eating them completely because you would refuse to even kiss me if I did. You said you could taste them on my lips. So what is going on?"

"Honey, I thought I'd do something nice for you!" she said, getting upset. "I put a lot of work into this. I know how much you like leeks and you've been so accommodating with me since my sister's death. What has gotten into you?"

I narrow my eyes. "You never call me 'honey'."

"Dammit, Hiro!" Miku slammed her spoon down on the table, spilling soup onto the tablecloth. "What's your problem?!"

She stands up and walks into the kitchen. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. It is true, I have been so focused on her recently, I have been ignoring my own stress. Perhaps I just need to relax, destress, refocus. I should see how much vacation time I have and take her somewhere fun, just the two of us.

I hear a clatter in the kitchen and open my eyes. Miku stands before me, holding a giant kitchen knife. Her long hair had suddenly become disheveled and hung over her face as she stared at the floor. My heart races and I swallow.

"Miku? What are you doing?"

She says nothing, just stands there gripping the knife tightly. Her knuckles turn white and her chest swells and falls from her heavy breathing. I slowly stand up, making no sudden movements.

"Miku, knock it off. You know the creepy horror girl look doesn't sit well with me."

She slowly looks up at me, peering at me through her hair with cold dark eyes. She steps forward and I start to back away.

"Hiro... why, Hiro? Why did you have to go poking around?" Miku whispers hoarsely.

"M-Miku... w-what are you talking about??" I raise my hands, taking another step back.

Miku tilts her head back, her eyes gleaming as a sneer spread across her face. "You couldn't leave it alone. We could have had a lovely life together... but you... you took it all away from me."

"Miku...?"

"Come on, Hiro... don't you know your own true love?" She lurches forward, knife held to her side. "I'm not Miku... I am Ai."

"What are you...?" I stammer on my words, my hands fumbling behind me, looking for something, anything, to defend myself with.

"You loved me," she says, moving closer. "You promised we'd be together forever. But suddenly, you left me for Miku. I knew my bitch of a sister had a thing for you, but I never thought you would actually go for that slut."

My rear bumps into our piano and I remember I keep a gun stashed underneath the bench. If I can just get down and retrieve it without her noticing...

Ai shambles closer. "But something didn't seem right," she continues. "My Hiro would never leave me. My Hiro would never behave that way. So I did some digging, and I discovered the truth."

"The truth?" My heart races faster, threatening to crack my rib cage. I slowly, carefully stoop down, my fingertips caressing the piano bench. "W-what truth?"

She raises the knife, pointing it right at me. "You know the truth... Haru."

Shit. Our eyes lock as she mutters my twin brother's name. Time seems to freeze, our gaze intertwined. Silence falls, the only sound is the pounding of my battered heart. After what feels like an eternity, our eye contact shatters and she lunges toward me. I grab the pistol from under the bench, raise it up, and pull the trigger. A single pop echoes through the house as I feel the knife plunge deep into my heart. I look up, my body wracked in agony, and see Ai's face contort in not pain, but sorrow. Her sad eyes meet mine and she slowly pulls the knife out before collapsing onto me. We fall to the floor, our blood pooling together into a crimson tide. As we lay there, our dying hearts beating against each other, her final words as the room fades to darkness caresses my ears: "I love you, Hiro."

I stare at the once-forgotten piece of paper, tracing the wrinkles with my finger. So he found it. I knew this was futile, it's not like I ever loved the shithead. I place the photograph back into my sister's favourite book. I lay atop the bastard's bed, wondering what he thought of me. He probably thinks I'm infatuated. I gag at the thought.

&#x200B;

What did he hope to achieve by staying silent? Was he playing detective? So childish.

&#x200B;

Now came the big question. What do I do? I can kill him. I can run away. Burn the photograph. Pretend I was "reading my favourite book when I couldn't help but notice it." I could pretend I don't want to talk about myself or go the other way and come up with an excruciatingly elaborate lie.

&#x200B;

I sigh, wearily getting up, as I do, the doorbell rings. Possibilities fill my mind as I walk towards the front door.

&#x200B;

"Can I help you, officers?"

&#x200B;

Again?

&#x200B;

"Ma'am, you are under arrest for the mur-"

&#x200B;

I snap my fingers, and a familiar piece of paper appears between them, a drawer in front of me.

&#x200B;

A letter this time. A suicide note. This is going to be good.

The glass frame shattered all over the grey and mundane carpet. Within the mangled mess of the shards of glass and the crimson frame, which had been shattered in two, was the grainy photo. It had a white picket fence and unfathomable lengths of green grass and in the middle, a red eyed family stood proud. A father, a mother, and two sisters; two very similar sisters. In fact, they were almost identical, both with green eyes, both with chestnut hair, and both with wide grins on their face. I did not realize how close she was with her sister; I also did not realize that your wife and her sister were both twins. In fact, the only thing keeping them both apart was the visible twitch her sister had during the photo.

"What was that?" A booming yet calm voice called. I immediately snapped out of my daze; her voice always seemed to do that to me recently. "Just dropped a photo sweetie." I replied. By that point I had convinced myself that the photo meant nothing. It WAS nothing. "Get a mop and clean it then." She spoke in a passive aggressive tone. I walked out of the bedroom, along the hallway with its paintings of Van Gogh and Munch and a bunch of flowers by the staircase. I went down the staircase, creaking with every step. Once I reached the bottom I walked straight to the kitchen.

Chop, chop, chop. The knife swung down onto the chopping board like a guillotine. She turned to me with an unfeeling yet loving smile. "The mop's just next to the larder." She explained. I nodded slowly whilst I pondered the photograph. I moved my hand towards the mop and grasped it, I then made my slow trip back up the stairs and passed the paintings and back into the bedroom. I pushed the glass away and took the photo, I couldn't stop staring at the twitch in the sister's eye. At first, I wanted to throw away the photo and never think about it again, but I couldn't; I couldn't even bring myself to touch it. So instead, I gently picked up the shards of glass and binned them, then I binned the photo frame. Finally, I slowly cradled the photo and stared at it again. I had gained a tiny cut on my finger from the glass and now the crimson fluid had blurted out onto the photo, covering my wife in blood. Somehow, this frightened me, and I threw the photo in the drawer.

I felt a chilling breath on my shoulder, and I turned around to see my wife behind me with the kitchen knife in her hand and a white apron covered in a damp liquid and a big smile on her face. "Are you done yet? She asks. "I need a hand in the kitchen". I stared at her for what felt like hours, until I plucked up the courage to ask the question that had been trapped in the back of my mind all day. "What happened to your sister?" I asked, whilst I hid my trembling hand behind my back. Her gleeful smile became wider. "She's dead sweetie." My wife said, her emerald, green eye twitching. Suddenly I had realized the truth, my wife's been dead the entire time, and I never noticed. "How did she die?" I asked, now my whole-body trembling. "She was stabbed four times in the chest." She said, her smile becoming wider and wider. I waited for a second, I wasn't sure if I should ask it, but I knew I had to. "Why did you do it?" I asked. "What do you mean?" She asks, her smile continued to widen but this time her eyes were engulfed in flames. I stared at her with a serious face, not flinching one bit. "You know, don't you?" She asked, her eye and hand twitching, with the knifes blade pointed towards me. "You can't make them take me back there! I don't belong in the hospital!" She shouted, pointing the kitchen knife at me. I was frozen in place like a statue, and she began moving closer and closer until she stopped and stared at me with her bulging green eyes in which tears began to form. She then stormed off with the knife in her hand as I stood there motionless. What the hell was I supposed to do now?

Sckkkkkk… There is was again, that damn scratching coming from somewhere within my old Victorian home. This one was soft that time. The noise long, winded. Almost as if it was tired, as tired and as old as the wood flooring. I don’t blame it frankly, it’s been nonstop these last few months; even with myself and my wife in and out of the house, with dozens of people coming and going. The noises never stopped. Dusk til dawn, this house was screaming, but never singing. The noises were always bitter, never sweet or gentle - and I couldn’t help but shake the feeling it was speaking to me, telling me something.

Warning me.

I left my office, it was nearly midnight; I’d been hiding out long enough. It was time to get back to reality. Back to my wife, who was somewhere in this home; this too large home. I wasn’t but a few steps into the hallways when I heard a creak, and once again, the door to the spare room where our stuff was stored was cracked. I went to close it, but noticed a frame; cracked and broken laying in the gap preventing the door from closing.

I picked it up, and in that moment; my breath caught. I could feel my palms get clammy, the photo beginning to slip…the photo that contained two teenagers - both of whom looked like Jenny. Looked like my wife. Is my wife.

But it wasn’t my wife. She was pretty. Blonde hair, curled to the ends. Grey eyes that sparkled like the moon. A smirk, with the right side curled slightly higher than the left.

The girl on the right, however, was almost unidentifiable. Her face was scratched out, the eyes scratched out; the nose was replaced with a hole. And the mouth, the tiniest and whitest smile the woman could muster; was covered but a giant black”X”, that was thick and scribbled all over. I knew those features, I knew that face…

That’s the woman I fell in love with.

“Leif?” I heard her voice ask, it was sharp, stinging. I turned around, and saw that crooked smirk first. Uneven. Unsettling.

This wasn’t my wife.

"Daddy, daddy, look!"

His youngest child, Clarice, dashed through the hallway. One hand held a soggy, half-eaten chocolate chip cookie, the other a plastic bag filled with water; an orange goldfish shook in it, eyes wide in terror. Or maybe that's just how they naturally looked.

Regardless, Zack pitied the poor animal.

"Mr. Bubbles woke back up just like you said." Clarice shook the bag with reckless abandon as she spoke. It'd be a miracle for any fish to survive more than a week with her, and miracles didn't happen in this world.

Zack and his wife - Priscilla - replaced 'Mr. Bubbles' for the fifth or sixth time that year. It felt almost cruel to keep this secret from Clarice, but children were better left shielded from the world's cruelty.

He smiled at his daughter and whispered, "we told you the Bubblenator would be fine, didn't we?" His throat felt sticky from the fake-sweet voice adults spoke to children in, but he continued. "But please, keep it down for mommy's sake. She's a bit sad right now. Ok?"

Wide, searching eyes met him, but a verbal response attacked him from behind.

"Mom's doing fine." His teenage son - Trevor - said. He stuffed three whole cookies in his mouth and choked out, "She's cooking up a storm and humming in the kitchen. You ask me, never been happier."

That's precisely what I'm worried about, Zack thought. His son didn't understand women. If they went more than two days without complaining, it was suspicious. His wife had gone seven, a code red. He imagined biting into a soft cookie she made especially for him, only to find divorce papers hidden in it like a fortune cookie.

His blood froze over at the thought. His greatest fear was his wife coming to her senses and leaving him - maybe she'd leave the kids with him, to add insult to injury.

He orders his son to pretend to be a good brother and watch Clarice, and he prepared to face the monster in the kitchen. She was ready for him, draped in a pink frilly apron. Her skin looked moist and soft; lush lashes accentuated her narrow eyes. She held a black spatula, perfectly balancing two warm cookies. She crooned -"Hi Honey,"- in a voice the sirens would envy. The perfect wife.

But not his wife. The Priscilla he knew only eyed him like a worm, berated him for his unhealthy eating habits, and disciplined him like he was the third child. She'd badger him about the clothes in the hamper, the smell of beer on his breath, and any other shortcoming. Secretly he welcomed it; it was a sign she hadn't given up on him and the marriage yet.

He was still trying to figure out what to make of this new pattern of behavior. He grabbed the cookies, smiled, and asked her, "anything you need me to do?"

"Hmmmm. No. You can relax and watch sports." Priscilla said.

"What about the trash?"

"I took it out already."

"I could wash the dishes."

"Cleaned those while I cooked. It's always easier that way."

"The gutters?"

"I hired someone to do it while you were at work."

Zack's frozen blood began to crack. His wife may have already realized that she didn't need him. He'd hoped he could keep the wool over her eyes until he was on his deathbed, only croaking the truth to her at the last moment. You've been bamboozled. Major life events had a way of making anyone reevaluate their lives, and she had a doozy of one last week.

Eight days ago, she attended the funeral of her estranged sister. The details burned vividly in his mind. It wasn't hard; there was little to remember. A minuscule crowd consisting of him, Priscilla, and their two children were the only ones to attend.

Before the funeral, his wife hardly spoke of this sister, so he assumed she was showing face. But at the event, her head hung like a dog caught stealing Thanksgiving ham, and he swore she used the cover of the rain to mask her tears. Since then, her bold and slightly - probably more than slightly - condescending demeanor had been replaced by this new bubbly avatar. She was a peace sign and dance away from being a damn anime character.

"Look, Priscilla, if you want to talk about the funer-"

"Oh dear, I forgot the ingredients for dinner. I'll have to go to the store." She vanished before he could stop her.

Pre-funeral Priscilla would have made him get the ingredients.

It was always like that when he mentioned the funeral. She'd do anything in her power to avoid talking about it. In one of his less exemplary moments, he'd asked while they lay in bed and gleefully watched her tie her hair back and straddle him. Replaying the manipulative moment in his head made him feel sick. Divorce was coming, for sure.

The following day, Zack began a last-ditch effort to save his marriage. He scavenged the attic, searching for mementos from the past, anything that could pull the old Priscilla out of the animated clutches of this new persona. Through the dim light, his eyes located a dust-covered album book. He scoured the book looking for ammunition and only found questions.

Each picture in that book contained two avatars of his wife. He assumed camera malfunction at first, before the dim light bulb in his mind sparked. Twins. Her sister is a twin. Cool, he thought. He placed the album book down and descended from the attic before the lighting of epiphany struck twice.

Twins. Twin sister dead. Wife is acting different. Almost like a new person.

It was impossible, that type of thing only happened in movies. If he had talent, he'd make a kine Hollywood scriptwriter with his impressive imagination. Childish imagination, Priscilla would say, unless she was dead.

No. Get that out of your stupid head, Zack thought. Someone would notice, this isn't a movie. Life isn't filled with mindless side characters, utterly unaware of their surroundings. He pushed the thought to the side of his head. He was at peace until he remembered it was a closed-casket funeral.

It was all too suspicious. But, try as he might, he couldn't let it go. It made sense in a moronic way. His wife, perfectly domesticated? Priscilla? She'd rather be stoned by molten rock. He had to do something to quell his stupidity.

At dinner, he asked Priscilla to pass him the mashed potatoes. When Trevor reached, Zack launched into a speech about following direction and obedience. Trevor left the table, storming up a storm of attitude. A small price to pay.

When Priscilla reached to give him the mash, he clutched her wrist and pulled her shirt sleeve back. He searched. Zack had picked Priscilla up mid-tantrum in his foolish younger days and spun her around, hoping to defuse her with humor. He wasn't aware of his surroundings and spun her into a pole. His diffusion attempt backfired. The mark from that day was not on this Priscilla's arm.

Her eyes narrowed at his touch, but she flashed a smile.

After dinner, he insisted on helping Priscilla clean the dishes. She resisted but allowed him to hover around.

A stale silence sat in the kitchen with them. She did the scrubbing; he passed her dishes. Conspiracy theories swam in his mind the whole time until he finally unleashed them.

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

Reminders:

>* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See Reality Fiction and Simple Prompts for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

&#127381; New Here? &#9999; Writing Help? &#128226; News &#128172; Discord

I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please contact the moderators of this subreddit if you have any questions or concerns.

[removed]

[removed]

[removed]

[removed]

[removed]

[removed]