Crimson and still warm, viscous and sticky blood... it drips from the cold steel blade of my axe... it drips onto the floor from the walls, which are smeared with their spilled brains... their brains. It flows from beneath their bodies, still warm bodies. My hands tremble slightly, my head is a mess of intrusive thoughts, so many that I can't latch onto a single one. The metallic smell with its sweet undertone overwhelms and intoxicates me, so concentrated in the room that I can almost see it and certainly taste it. I feel like I’m about to lose consciousness. My stomach churns unpleasantly, and a cold sweat beads on my forehead. All my senses are sharpened to the extreme; I can hear a cockroach scurrying across the wooden floor deep in the apartment, and through the blood-splattered window, I can count the leaves on the nearest oak tree. And amidst the chaotic swirl of disconnected words, sentences, and thoughts, one phrase pierces through with clarity: “I killed them. I killed my parents.”

***

I had always been the perfect child in the family. I was the one other kids hated because their mothers wished I were their son. I was the one held up as an example in school, the one people always made exceptions for. I was the epitome of a model boy with grand ambitions and plans for life: I intended to become a lawyer. I could’ve had everything — an ideal life, a family, wealth — everything. But one fateful day, it all began to crumble irreversibly before my eyes. The picture of my future, carefully planned long ago, sank into an endless ocean, burned in the mouth of a volcano, shattered against the rocky surface of the earth. And it killed me that there was nothing I could do to stop it, nothing to reclaim what was lost.

Lately, I’ve been constantly plagued by a sense of being watched. It felt like someone was spying on me. At first, it was rare — maybe while I was walking through the park or down a dark, narrow alley. That unsettling feeling of a gaze boring into the back of your head, sending shivers through your body and making you tense up in anticipation of something terrible. Back then, those episodes never lasted more than five minutes. But as the days passed, the intervals grew longer. It reached the point where I couldn’t step outside my apartment without the constant certainty that someone was watching me.

I started to stress severely. Just thinking about going to the store made me nauseous, to the point where I would literally gag. The spasms were so intense that it felt like my stomach would turn inside out. I became extremely anxious, flinching at the slightest noise as though it were fire. My sleep became light and fragmented, filled with vivid nightmares I could clearly recall upon waking — and I woke often, sometimes ten times a night or more. By the age of seventeen, strands of gray hair appeared among my dark chestnut locks, standing out starkly against their natural color. I began skipping school frequently because of this torment, and my parents couldn’t help me. Doctors shrugged, saying my body was perfectly healthy and functioning well. When I suggested seeing a psychiatrist, my parents flatly refused, dismissing the idea with, “What will people think?”

Every night, I fell asleep and woke up with the thought that I was nothing but a burden — a useless, pathetic sack of shit. Everyone expected greatness from me, the kind of accomplishments you could brag about at family gatherings: high marks, awards from city competitions, praise from teachers. And I delivered; I enjoyed the pride my achievements brought, the admiration from other parents. But every coin has two sides, and now this worked against me. The expectations were so high that even a single “B” in my report card could lead to an evening-long scandal. I felt guilt and anger at myself... angry because I wanted to do better but couldn’t.

Eventually, I was transferred to homeschooling, which initially seemed like a good solution to the college problem, as I could no longer bear to attend in person. But even this I couldn’t handle anymore. I no longer felt safe even at home. I stared intently at my laptop's camera, trying to determine if it was on or not, and eventually taped it over just in case. But that didn’t help much. Having eliminated that trigger, I became convinced that our apartment was filled with hidden cameras — inside outlets, the bathroom, paintings in my room, even the refrigerator. Everywhere. I felt observed everywhere and believed someone was plotting to harm me.

I refused to do anything. I was afraid someone would shoot me through the window, that while cutting bread, the knife would slip and stab my foot, shattering the bone, or that I’d slip in the shower, hit my head, and fall into a coma or die. The fear of death became my greatest enemy. I desperately wished for it all to end, and my wish was granted.

One day, I woke up to an unfamiliar woman. Well, not entirely unfamiliar—she looked exactly like my mother. She spoke in my mother’s voice and with her intonation, but she was not my mother. “She’s been replaced,” I thought. That day, I realized my father, too, had been replaced. It was strange. These people were perfect duplicates of my parents, but something inside me insisted they weren’t. It was sickening to see them mimic the movements and mannerisms of people I loved dearly.

I refused to eat the food cooked by this stranger impersonating my mother. I avoided the man pretending to be my father. I prepared my own meals from sealed, tamper-proof packages, fearing they’d poison me. I put a lock on my bedroom door, terrified they’d sneak in at night and kill me while I slept. From the moment my real parents disappeared, I stopped speaking to these imposters.

It terrified me that I knew nothing about them, yet they knew everything about me. This paradox broke my mind. I fell asleep and woke up with the question: “Where are my parents?” I tried to find them — emailing, messaging on social media, calling — but it was always these copies who responded, feigning surprise at my behavior.

One day, relatives came over for some holiday, bringing along a close friend I’d known since elementary school. I decided to confide in him, to tell him everything that was happening in my family. I poured my heart out to him. But he looked at me like I’d lost my mind, called me an idiot, and told me to stop talking nonsense.

Until that moment, I didn’t understand what people meant when they said they “saw red.” I hit him. Hard. Again. And again! I lost control. The sound of bones cracking, the sight of blood, the screams and sobs mixed with groans — my fists were covered in his blood. Relatives pulled me away, forcing me to stop. The adrenaline subsided. I’d broken his nose and knocked out two front teeth. I never saw him or those relatives again.

The imposters punished me by taking away my laptop and cutting off my internet access, blaming my aggression and behavior on it. But they weren’t my parents. They had no right to forbid me anything or tell me how to live my life. I’ll figure it out myself.

I was constantly searching for differences between these impostors and my parents. There had to be something, some subconscious clue telling me they weren’t real — and I found it. One day, they came to talk to me, something my real parents had never done and would never do. They tried to act like a loving family — the kind you look at and think, “They’re so lucky.” But they couldn’t fool me. I immediately pointed it out, and they fell silent, stood up, and left. That was it — victory! Oh, how sweet it tasted! They finally understood that I knew everything, and that was enough for me.

But one thing remained...

For a long time, I had considered getting rid of them and finding my real parents. Yet my anxiety kept me from even uttering a word against these strangers — I was too afraid of them and what they might do to me. But now it’s time to show them who’s the boss in this house. I feel ready to stand up to these creatures — not even humans, really. They seemed more like robots. Their movements were too precise, their speech programmed. I clearly understood why they’d been sent for me: surveillance, and ultimately, elimination.

It wasn’t a coincidence that I’d felt someone watching me for a long time. They’d been studying me and my parents to seamlessly replace them with these clones, thinking I wouldn’t notice. But now, I’m no longer afraid. I’m ready to protect myself and my home.

I quietly unlock my door and step into the hallway. There it is — my father’s axe. He’d brought it home not long before he was replaced, almost as if he knew I’d need it. Thank you, Dad.

On tiptoe, I move further into the apartment, hearing only the steady, rapid thumping of my heart. I’m not worried; they’re not real people. I’ll just cut their wires and break their circuits —that’s all. Nothing will happen to me, and no one will ever know because the authorities that sent them won’t dare reveal their secrets.

I hear my heart pounding because everything else is so silent. Outside, the occasional bird sings its melody. One. Two. Three. Three more steps to their bedroom.

My mother loved sewing. She’d made the socks I’m wearing now just a few days before she was replaced. These socks don’t give me away. It’s almost as if she knew I’d need them. Thank you, Mom. Four. Five. Six. A red haze clouds my vision as I enter their room.

“Son, what are you doi-” The thing pretending to be my mother doesn’t finish the sentence. The sharp blade of the axe splits her head in two, splattering wires across the walls. Sparks fly from her head, momentarily blinding me.

But it also blinds the thing pretending to be my father. It gives me a crucial few seconds to swing the axe at its neck, striking what would’ve been the carotid artery in a real person. There are even more sparks this time. Some hit my face, leaving slight burns — but it’s nothing serious. It’ll heal eventually.

I strike again and again. I slash and chop, break and crush, marveling at how lifelike they were. Their skin felt so real that for a moment, I wondered: could this be my parents scalps stretched over these robots? If so, then I’ve avenged my parents deaths. Now they can be proud of me again, just as they were months ago.

________________________________________

There’s so much red in front of me... the haze has lifted, and I’m completely calm. My breathing is steady, my pulse normal. But there’s so much red... and what’s that strange smell? I’ve smelled it before. It’s not sparks..

Crimson and still warm, viscous and sticky blood... it drips from the cold steel blade of my axe... it drips onto the floor from the walls, which are smeared with their spilled brains... their brains. It flows from beneath their bodies, still warm bodies. My hands tremble slightly, my head is a mess of intrusive thoughts, so many that I can't latch onto a single one. The metallic smell with its sweet undertone overwhelms and intoxicates me, so concentrated in the room that I can almost see it and certainly taste it. I feel like I’m about to lose consciousness. My stomach churns unpleasantly, and a cold sweat beads on my forehead. All my senses are sharpened to the extreme; I can hear a cockroach scurrying across the wooden floor deep in the apartment, and through the blood-splattered window, I can count the leaves on the nearest oak tree. And amidst the chaotic swirl of disconnected words, sentences, and thoughts, one phrase pierces through with clarity: “I killed them. I killed my parents.”

Author's Note

Imagine waking up one day, unable to recognize your loved ones. Your surroundings feel unfamiliar, and your family members seem like strangers who may wish to harm you. It sounds terrifying and surreal, but some people live with these emotions every single day. Others, conversely, start recognizing strangers as friends or family members. Some become obsessed with the idea of having a double. What unites these unfortunate individuals is a condition known as Capgras Syndrome (or Capgras Delusion/Fictitious Recognition Syndrome/Misattribution Syndrome — this illness goes by many names).

Capgras Syndrome is a psychological disorder where a person believes that a close family member (or even a pet) has been replaced by an identical impostor ("negative double syndrome"). Conversely, the person may identify strangers as close relatives or friends ("positive double syndrome"). Additionally, the patient might claim that misdeeds attributed to them were actually committed by their double.

This syndrome is classified as a delusional misidentification syndrome, a subclass of delusional beliefs involving the mistaken identification of people, places, or objects. It can manifest in acute, transitional, or chronic forms. There have even been reports of patients believing that time itself has been "distorted" or "replaced."

The disorder is rooted in two key aspects: illusion and delusion. Capgras Syndrome is most commonly observed in people diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia but also occurs with brain injuries, dementia with Lewy bodies, and other types of dementia. It frequently appears in individuals with neurodegenerative diseases, particularly in older adults. Cases have also been linked to diabetes, hypothyroidism, and migraines. There has even been an instance where the syndrome developed in a healthy individual under the influence of ketamine. However, the exact cause of the syndrome remains unknown.

The prevailing theory suggests it is linked to physiological pathology. Visual information we receive is first processed in the fusiform gyrus, which distinguishes objects, including faces. After this processing, the data is sent to the amygdala, responsible for the emotional evaluation of objects and generating appropriate emotional responses. The fusiform gyrus and amygdala are connected by neural pathways, and when these pathways are damaged, the connection between what a person sees and what they feel is disrupted.

Simply put, individuals with Capgras Syndrome experience emotions just like ordinary people, but the disconnect between visual perception and emotional recognition causes familiar individuals to feel like strangers. Imagine seeing your mother, spouse, or sibling but feeling nothing for them — they seem like strangers who merely look like your loved ones. To make sense of this, the person explains it to themselves by believing their loved ones have been replaced.

Another major challenge of any mental illness is the patient’s inability to accept they are unwell. No matter how much you try to convince someone with Capgras Syndrome (or any other mental illness) that their loved ones haven’t been replaced or that a stranger isn’t a friend or family member, they will react aggressively. This can even lead to violence.

For this reason, experts strongly advise against directly confronting or contradicting the person. Instead, support them without validating their delusions. Show patience and care while encouraging them to seek medical help. Unfortunately, in our society, discussions about psychiatry often evoke laughter, fear, or confusion, rather than compassion and a desire to help, especially when it concerns a relative.

Ultimately, with proper support, a person may eventually come to realize the benefits of psychiatric help. Initially, it is essential to calm the individual, assess their level of awareness, and determine if they pose a threat to themselves or others. Involuntary hospitalization is only possible with a court order, but you can take steps to involve relatives, trusted individuals, or a healthcare professional to devise an appropriate plan.

It’s worth remembering that even if recovery seems impossible, help is always possible. If someone is destined to pass away, it is easier to do so surrounded by loving family members, even if they can no longer understand or recognize them. They will still feel the care and affection, much like a baby feels their mother’s touch, smiles when comforted, or cries when she leaves.

Let us support and care for one another.