Double Deception

Chapter 14: The Fragmented Truth

 

The dawn light came gray and trembling through the blinds, but I hadn't slept.

All night, I sat staring at the laptop screen where Emma's last post still glowed faintly. The photo of my apartment door. The caption: He finally looked.
It had been posted at 3:17 a.m.—the same hour that kept haunting me.

I'd deleted the post, blocked the account, even unplugged the Wi-Fi router, but it didn't matter. When I turned off the screen, I could still see it—burned into my vision like an afterimage.

Then Emily texted.

Emily: I need to talk. Please. Just talk.

I should have ignored it. I should have left town, thrown the phone in a river, done anything except what I did next.

I said yes.

The Living Room

By evening, she was sitting on my couch, her knees drawn together, her fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve like she was holding herself together by threads.

I hadn't told her that I'd seen Emma again online, or that I'd found a photo of my own front door from someone who wasn't supposed to exist. But the anger—the confusion—was too heavy to hide.

"I confronted you before," I said quietly. "But I think this time I actually need the truth. All of it. No more masks, no more clever half-answers. Who are you, Emily? And who the hell is Emma?"

Her eyes filled instantly. She inhaled sharply, like she was bracing for cold water.

"I think..." Her voice cracked. "I think it's time I tell you everything."

The Revelation

At first, she spoke slowly, as if the words resisted leaving her mouth.
"Emma isn't... just an alter ego," she said finally. "She's more than that. I've been living with something for years that I didn't understand. It's called dissociative identity disorder."

I stared at her, silent.

"Emma is another personality," she continued. "She's not me—but she is me. It's complicated. There are times I lose control completely. I wake up in places I don't recognize, with things around me that I didn't buy. Messages I didn't send. Photos I don't remember taking."

My skin prickled. Every detail she gave fit too perfectly with the chaos of the last few weeks.

"How long have you known?" I asked.

"A while," she whispered. "I suspected for years, but I didn't get an official diagnosis until a few months ago. I was seeing Dr. Reiss, but she wanted to suppress Emma—to erase her. I couldn't do that. So I stopped. The new therapist says I need to listen to her instead."

Her fingers trembled as she wiped her tears. "I thought I could control it. But every time I tried to bury Emma, she came back stronger. Like she was angry for being forgotten."

I exhaled slowly, trying to keep my voice steady.
"So what—Emma made the posts? She sent the messages, the photos? The letter under my door?"

"I don't know," she said, her voice cracking. "I really don't. There are whole days I can't account for anymore. But I swear to you, I never meant to hurt you. I was terrified that if you saw the truth, you'd run."

The Weight of the Lie

I stood up, pacing, my anger clashing with pity until I couldn't tell which was which.
"So all the times you said you were working late? All the nights you disappeared? That wasn't work—it was her."