By: Olivia Figuerola Ferretti ’26
For God’s sake, you’re not going crazy. You’re definitely sane. Your mind is at its best. You’re not crazy, you’re ok, you’re fine, you’re perfectly calm. Yes, calm. Calm… like your mind. It’s not you, you’re not crazy. It ‘s them.
They grin, showing off their white teeth and plastic fake smiles. You close your eyes and sigh. You’ve tried to. You’ve tried to change it, but they’re not coming back.
Your family has been replaced by a bunch of imposters.
Nobody believes you? Fair enough. You wouldn’t either, if you were them. But yet you try to desperately explain.
Since you’re little, every single day after school, Mom makes the perfect ham and cheese sandwich, the bread slices lined up perfectly, the Gouda cheese sliced sharply, the Turkish ham establishing harmony between those rare but delicious ingredients…
However, in the last two weeks, you’ve noticed that the bread doesn’t have that crunch to it, the cheese is not Gouda but Cheddar, and the ham breaks a perfect order and makes it, well… unpleasant.
Your parents have never cared about you, about your day… Everyday since you can remember, you open that old rusty door and silence reigns in the house. However, these last few weeks, as you walk in, Mom smiles widely and asks about your day. Dad waves from the living room, as he’s “helping around” with the house chores. Sissy comes running to give you a big hug. Yet, all these nice and valuable gestures are not what they seem. They’re warm, yet cold; light, yet dark; ordinary, yet uncanny…
And then the smiles… They never stop smiling. It’s like a Dollhouse, but it’s not “time for you to play”.
You wipe your tears away, leaving no trace of sadness as you enter the feared house.
As you walk in, Mom greets you warmly, kindly offering a ham and cheese sandwich. You accept it cautiously, and savor those dry bites of bitterness. Sissy hugs you joyfully, pulling your shirt, asking you to come play. All those plastic smiles, those shining eyes, those perfectly styled locks, those neatly ironed outfits…
“In a sec, Sissy” you mutter as you approach the kitchen.
This has to stop. It has been going on for too long. Two weeks is too long. You can’t go crazy. That’s just not you. You can’t.
You close your eyes as your arms reach out searching for it. You find it and grab it strongly by the cool and smooth handle. You take a glance at the mirror as your anger rises. You enter the living room. This perfect family is fake. They took Mom, Dad and Sissy away. They don’t deserve to live.
You hear the laughs, that, two weeks ago would’ve been joyful, yet now you only hear malicious shrieks of laughter. You get goosebumps, as you slowly approach those monsters. You close your eyes and raise your arm decisively once you’re next to them. Three strikes. Three screams. Three seconds of satisfaction. You sit happily between corpses, playing with the knife, blood dripping all over your white pants.
“I’ll wash them” you say as you sway your legs innocently.
You see a car stop by the house, and you excitedly scream. They’re back! You open the door, only to find out that it’s not Mom. It’s not Dad, or Sissy either.
The cops surround you, and you start crying.
“You don’t get it, they were fake. They were not real.”
They nod with their heads, but you can tell they don’t believe you. In fact… they’re mocking you!
“Don’t you dare make fun of me!” they all flinch and shy away from you.
They’re not mocking you. They’re afraid of you.
As they take you away handcuffed, the knife still dripping on your left hand, you turn around and take a last glance at the mirror. And you finally see. You see the real you, pounding the glass weakly, desperately crying, trying to break the wall between the mirror and the crime scene. Your reflection falls down, gives up, and curls up into the fetal position in despair.
You grin, finally understanding.
You win.
They were never imposters. You were.