The rain tapped against the windows as I prepared our anniversary dinner, believing Sarah was resting upstairs from a migraine. Hours later, a police officer arrived with devastating news: Sarah had been killed in a car accident an hour ago. Confused and desperate, I led him upstairs to show her sleeping, certain it was a mistake. But the moment he approached the bed, his demeanor shifted, and the chilling truth became clear—this wasn’t Sarah. The still figure beneath the covers, her hair, her nightgown, her presence—it was a mannequin. I had been living with it for weeks, talking to it, caring for it, convincing myself she was still there.
Detective Morrison and Officer Patterson guided me through the fragments of memory my mind had blocked. Sarah had been gone for three weeks, and I had been trapped in a delusion, orchestrating an elaborate life with a lifeless stand-in. The funeral, the empty days, the anniversary rituals—all memories I had pushed aside to avoid the unbearable truth. As I was led away, I realized the horrifying reality: some delusions are so complete, so convincing, that they become a private kind of hell, impossible to escape—even when the truth is staring you in the face.
