They Stole Our Identities, I’m Taking Them Down

Blake was in his final year of high school and was supposed to be preparing for the university of his dreams. It should've been a focused, decisive time in his life.

Instead, everything fell off.

The shift started a few years ago, subtly, like rot beneath polished wood.

It began when Elliot Hawke, our butler of twenty years, asked to move in with us. Blake liked his cooking, so I didn't object. In fact, I told him to stay, assist with chores, and manage the house.

I thought I was being considerate.

And then my illness returned. The doctors called it a flare-up. I called it a curse. Regardless, it pulled me away from Knightley Industries and Blake. So I entrusted both to Roxanne.

During that time, Roxanne reassured me that everything was fine with Blake. She even mentioned that he had made a good friend, none other than Elliot's grandson, Cyrus.

I should've come back sooner. Something about her words had always left a metallic aftertaste in my mouth. This time, I finally acted on the instinct I should have trusted.

...

When I returned home, I walked through the front door and found Blake sitting on the couch, motionless.

Blake's eyes were wide, hesitant, unsure how to greet me.

"Dad... you're back," he said softly, inching toward me like he was uncertain whether to approach.

I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. But the moment I held him, he stiffened with a sharp gasp.

Alarm bells went off in my mind.

I gently pulled up his sleeve, and there were bruises all over his arms. Deep, angry blotches of purple and blue bloomed across his arm like a cruel watercolor.

I clenched my jaw, fighting the fire rising in my throat.

"Who did this to you?" I demanded, my voice like ice.

Blake buried his face in my chest, trembling. "Dad, I... I accidentally fell..."

"I'm sorry, it's my fault," he repeated, shaking uncontrollably as he apologized.

The sight of him so broken, so vulnerable, twisted something deep inside me.

My son had never been like this. Never afraid to look me in the eye. Never fragile

It was my fault. I'd left him defenseless. I should have been here. I shouldn't have let this happen. And someone had broken him.

At that moment, I vowed I wouldn't leave his side, no matter what. I just pulled him close, my hand on the back of his head.

"Tonight, you stay with me," I said quietly. "You're safe now."

...

I led him to my room and settled him on the bed. He clung to my sleeve like a child, the way he used to when he had nightmares. But I could tell that his nightmares didn't end when he woke up anymore.

He began to calm under my presence, though the tremble in his hands hadn't faded completely.

As I sat beside him, lost in thought, the door suddenly burst open.

Blake jolted awake, his eyes wide with fear.

A figure in silk pajamas barged in, pointing an accusing finger at my son. "You bastard, who told you to sleep here?"

He stormed in, but when he saw me, he stopped, frozen.

I turned slowly to the intruder, my voice dangerously low. "Who are you? And why did you open the door without permission?"

The boy hesitated, confusion written all over his face. "This is my parents' house. Why should I knock?"

The audacity. The arrogance.

My patience thinned to a razor's edge.

"Your father?" I echoed. "I don't have a son like you. Get out. Now. Before I lose my temper."

He started to protest, but then Elliot appeared, panic evident in his eyes. He rushed forward, covering the boy's mouth with his hand.

"Sir, this is my grandson. Sometimes, he sleepwalks. Please don't take it personally," Elliot explained, his tone calm and apologetic.

'Sleepwalks.' I chuckled bitterly.

That lie might've worked on someone else. But not me.

Elliot dragged the boy, Cyrus, out of the room.

When he returned a few minutes later, he carried a bowl of porridge in both hands, bowing slightly.

"Sir, Blake hasn't eaten tonight. I made some lean meat porridge for him."

I gave a curt nod. "Leave it. You may go."

He bowed again and retreated.

It was then that I noticed something.

But Blake didn't move. His eyes were fixed on the door like it might open again. His entire frame had gone rigid.

I noticed how he shrank in their presence and pulled inward like prey around a predator.

"Blake," I said gently. "Aren't you hungry?"

He shook his head violently. "Dad, I don't want to eat. Please, I don't want to eat. I hate how I look now."

My heart shattered as I looked at my son. He wasn't the lean, fit boy I used to know. He'd gained weight. His face was bloated. His skin was darkened, acne-scarred, and inflamed.

But that wasn't what hurt the most. It was the self-loathing in his eyes.

He looked physically ill when he stared at the porridge, once his favorite.

"I don't want to eat it," Blake repeated, staring at the bowl of porridge with disgust.

I reached for the bowl, placing it aside gently.

"Alright," I said. "You don't like this. Tomorrow, I'll make something else for you."

He let out a shaky sigh and slowly lay back down beside me. His breathing evened out, and soon, he was asleep.

I remained still, staring at the untouched bowl of porridge and then at the boy sleeping beside me. My son no longer trusted the food in his own home.

My expression darkened. Something was very wrong.

And I was going to find out what.

I reached for my phone and called my assistant, "Johnson, I need you to send something for testing."

Then I glanced back at the porridge and added, “Yes, right now.”