I don't know what is happening anymore.

I know I'm the real John Presto, someone who's known to be quite the shy type by my friends in high school. I never disobeyed the rules nor did I want to. However, I have memories of events that supposedly happened yesterday, memories of me pushing someone off the stairs. 

It wasn't me. I'm sure I'm not the one who did. However, it was so vivid. It's like I was really the one who did that. 

No one believes me. I swear, it was someone else. It might've been my body but I'm sure I'm not the one in control of my head.

Please tell me, that was all just a dream, right?

Then why is everyone blaming? I really didn't do it!

It must be him! That fake who claims to be me, the guy who says he's the real John Presto. 

"John! Are you listening to me?" My mom's obviously angry voice resounds from my left. 

Her hand taps my shoulder which in turn causes me to turn and look at her. 

Right, we're actually inside my room. She's been trying to speak to me about my one week suspension the school notified her about just this morning. I'm sitting on my bed, slightly turning away from her who's standing right in front of me.

Mom obviously looks angry, her face looks dissatisfied. I mean, I did get lost into thought while she was reprimanding me so I guess it's reasonable.

"And you don't even wanna listen? Honestly, you've been like this since last month. Don't tell me you're doing -" Mom didn't manage to finish her words.

"What? Mom, no I don't. I'm telling you, it really wasn't me who did it. It's that guy who's claiming to be me. He's the one who pushed Erika down the stairs!" I tried reasoning out to her but all she did was sigh.

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"John, the CCTV clearly caught you clearing pushing her off the stairs," Mom says with a sigh accompanying her words before she bends down and takes my hands with her own. "We're going to visit a therapist the day after tomorrow on Mom's break so be a good young man for now while you wait for school suspension to end, okay?"

Huh? Therapist? Why would I need to go there? Is it because I always say someone's taking over my head? But it's real. It's not all in my head!

I can't believe her!

"Mom, I'm not crazy! Why do I have to visit a therapist? It's not like I'm c-crazy," My pleads turns into a choke as I feel a little bit of warm liquid gather near the corners of my eyes.

I can feel my chest tighten slowly forcing me to take deeper breaths. I look down and I see myself subconsciously tighten my fists, probably my dishonest way of revealing my need for comfort.

"Okay, don't cry. John!" Mom lets go of hands and clasps my face with both her hands before raising my face.

Right now, we're looking eye to eye. She looks so serious but her gaze was somewhat soft, a gaze I've been familiar with when she raised me all alone for the seventeen years of my existence in this world.

I can feel chest turn lighter. Mom always knew what to do to calm me down. Maybe, I'm actually a little spoiled? 

"John, you don't need to be crazy to go to a therapist. Maybe you're just stressed out. Maybe that's why you're saying those things," Mom says with a straight but soft voice.

"But Mom! I'm telling the truth," I reply to her.

"And personal truth is subjective. John, you're still young. There are things you probably still don't understand about yourself. Besides, don't you wanna feel better?" She asks and slightly backs away. Then, she sits down beside me.

I can only reply with a nod. When she speaks like this, there's no convincing her so I'll just shut up.

"Good. Just stay inside the house tomorrow. You can play games or just sleep. Don't stress out yourself too much," Mom stands up and heads to the door. She then turns back a bit before saying, "Mom's going back to work. Don't get too noisy and disturb the neighbors, 'kay?"

"Okay," a simple reply leaves my mouth.

After that, Mom leaves the room and closes the door, leaving me all alone inside.

Did you hear that, impostor? Mom thinks you're not real. That's because I'm the only real one.

Besides, don't you think it's weird how you're the real John Presto when everything that this body had experienced were the results of my own will for the past seventeen years?

No reply comes. Of course, the guy never replies directly to me. He'd just occupy my body. While doing so, he'd claim he's the real one while doing all of those nasty stuff I would've never done.

"Man, what am I doing?" A sigh leaves my mouth.

My reputation at school's probably ruined by now. I'm pretty sure none of my friends would ever talk to me again. That fake ruined everything! 

Yet no one believes anything that I say.

Or maybe Mom's right. I'm probably just stressed. I hope the trip to the therapist is worth it. 

Surely, that guys probably gonna disappear after that. I mean, it's not normal at all. Why would someone who claims to be the real me just come out of nowhere and say I'm the fake? It's not reasonable at all. 

Is that guy just a figment of my imagination? Or maybe he's some bad spirit? No way, no way! 

Man, I must be going crazy. What am I thinking?

I let go of the heavy feeling from my shoulders and let myself backwards to the bed. Inching backwards, I continuously move until I'm finally lying down on it completely. Pulling over the blanket over my side to my head, the darkness takes over my vision.

It was probably only minutes or were hours but as I remained staring at the darkness and didn't do a thing, my consciousness starts feeling lighter and my eyelids slowly becomes heavier in return.