Where Reality Ends

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.

The buzzing from my phone cut through the quiet of my room, it was early, too early for anyone to be texting.

My SATs were today, the exam that felt like it decided my whole future, college, scholarships, everything.

I glanced at the screen, an unknown number.

"DON'T TAKE THE EXAM!"

My breath caught, I knew that tone, even in a text, it felt like Michael.

Michael, my older brother, he vanished three years ago, the morning of his own SATs.

Mom and Dad said he couldn't handle the pressure, that he just ran away.

I never believed that, not for a second. Michael wouldn't just leave, not without a word to me. We had a bond, a promise.

I tried calling the number back immediately, my fingers fumbled on the screen.

"The number you have dialed has been disconnected."

A dead end, just like every other time I'd tried to find a trace of him.

My heart sank, but then the phone buzzed again, same unknown sender.

"DON'T TELL MOM. THEY AREN'T WHO YOU THINK."

A chill went down my spine, what did that mean?

"Sarah! Are you ready? You can't be late today!" Mom' s voice called from downstairs, too cheerful.

I quickly shoved my phone under my pillow just as my bedroom door opened.

Mom stood there, a bright smile on her face, but her eyes looked a little too intense.

"Morning, sweetie. Big day! I made your favorite breakfast, blueberry pancakes."

She was trying too hard, her cheerfulness felt off.

"Just getting my books," I mumbled, grabbing my SAT review guide from my desk, making sure it covered the phone.

"Good, good. Your father is already downstairs. We' re all rooting for you."

She came closer, her eyes scanning my room.

I tried to act normal, "Yeah, I know. A bit nervous, that's all."

"Don't be nervous, you're brilliant. You'll do great, just like we discussed."

Her hand rested on my shoulder, a little too firm.

I decided to test the waters, the warning from the text echoing in my head.

"I was just thinking about Michael this morning," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

Mom's smile vanished, her face hardened instantly.

"Sarah, we do not talk about Michael. Not today, not ever. He made his choice."

Her voice was cold, sharp, a complete shift from her earlier sweetness.

"He was under a lot of pressure too," I pushed, my gaze fixed on her.

"Enough!" she snapped, her eyes flashing. "He was weak. You are not weak. You will take that exam, and you will succeed. Do you understand me?"

The force in her voice was startling, it wasn't just concern, it felt like a command, a threat.

This wasn't the mother I knew, or maybe, I was just starting to see who she really was.

Mom' s anger faded as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that unsettlingly sweet smile again.

"Now, come on, honey. Pancakes are getting cold. We want you to go in there with a full stomach and a clear head."

She patted my cheek, a gesture that usually felt comforting, but now it just felt strange, almost rehearsed.

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and followed her out of the room, my mind racing. "They aren't who you think."

Downstairs, Dad was at the table, reading the newspaper, or pretending to.

"Morning, Sarah-bear! Ready to conquer those SATs?" he said, folding the paper.

He sounded normal, like the Dad I knew, but as he reached for his coffee cup, I noticed it.

His wedding ring, it was on his right hand.

Dad always wore his wedding ring on his left hand, always. I'd fidgeted with it as a kid countless times.

I blinked, maybe I was just tired, stressed.

But then he spoke again, "You' re gonna knock 'em dead, kiddo. Just like your mother says, you' re a chip off the old block."

"Chip off the old block?" He' d never said that phrase in his life, his go-to was always "apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

It was small, tiny even, but combined with the ring, a cold knot formed in my stomach.

Mom came in with a plate of pancakes, her smile unwavering.

As she leaned over to place them in front of me, the light from the window caught her face.

There was a scar, faint but definitely there, just above her left eyebrow.

I froze.

My mom had a scar, a childhood scar from a kitchen accident, a burn mark.

But it was above her right eyebrow. I knew that scar, I'd traced it with my finger when I was little, asking her the story over and over.

This scar was on the wrong side.

"Mom," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Your scar..."

She touched her left eyebrow, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second. "Oh, this old thing? You know I' ve always had it, sweetie."

"No," I said, shaking my head. "It' s... it' s on the other side."

Her eyes narrowed. "Sarah, don't be ridiculous. You're just nervous about the exam. Eat your breakfast."

Her voice was sharp again, that same coldness I' d heard upstairs.

"But I know..."

"Sarah Elizabeth!" Dad' s voice boomed, startling me. "Your mother is right. You're letting your nerves get the best of you. Now eat, we need to leave soon."

He was angry, genuinely angry. His face was flushed.

The man with the wedding ring on the wrong hand, using phrases he never used, was now yelling at me for noticing something was wrong with Mom' s face.

I looked from one to the other, their expressions a mixture of feigned concern and barely concealed irritation.

The pancakes suddenly looked disgusting.

I picked up my fork, pretending to eat, my mind a whirlwind.

These weren't my parents.

Or, if they were, something was terribly, terribly wrong with them.

I had to get my phone, I had to see if Michael had texted again.

I took a bite of pancake, it tasted like ash. "Delicious, Mom," I forced myself to say.

She beamed, the tension easing slightly. "See? I told you."

I needed a plan. I couldn't take the exam, not now. Not with these... people.