Truth-Or-Die: My Cheating Husband's Curse

A chill crawled down my spine.

I looked deep into Steve Manson's eyes and asked again, "Are you Steve Manson?"

His expression remained calm. "No."

My lips trembled. "Then, who are you?"

He couldn't answer this, for he could only respond with "yes" or "no" to questions—or, in special cases, "yes and no", which I had heard for the first time earlier.

I scrutinized the face that bore an uncanny resemblance to Steve's. A scar traced the edge of his forehead, a lasting reminder of what had happened three years ago.

Back then, an object had been hurled from a high-rise building. He had shoved me out of the way and taken the blow himself, leaving a deep gash on his forehead. The wound required seven stitches, and the scar remained to this day.

This was Steve's scar. I couldn't be wrong.

I fell silent, a million conflicting thoughts screaming at each other.

Steve's responses had always been factually accurate, even when the questions asked were supposedly beyond his knowledge. For example, he could predict the score of the Global Cup Finals and tell me if a certain celebrity's scandal was true.

In fact, I had even earned a ton of money relying on this niche skill of his. So, I had long moved past the stage of doubting his ability.

Even if one day I asked, "Will there be an earthquake in five minutes?" I would pack my bags and run for my life as soon as he answered, "Yes."

Yet now, he told me he wasn't Steve. Even when I asked if the real Steve had died, he answered, "Yes and no." Honestly, it spooked me.

If the person before me had never been Steve, who the hell had I been spending the last three months with? And where was the real Steve? Could he really be a zombie or something?

Just as I pondered if I should tie him up and interrogate him, a series of urgent knocks sounded on the door. I opened up and saw two police officers standing before me.

"Renee Rosewood, is it? We're from the Metropolitan Police Department. Before we proceed, we'd like for you to remain calm," one of the officers said.

"At approximately 9:30 am, we received a report and recovered a severely decomposed body from the riverbank. We found an ID on the victim identifying him as your husband, Steve Manson.

"We're here to ask whether you know anything about this."

I almost lost my footing. "You're kidding."

The officers exchanged a cautious look. "What do you mean by that, Mrs. Manson?"

I dug my nails into my palms, forcing myself to stay calm. "There's no way my husband is dead. He's right there."

I pointed at the quiet figure sitting on the couch, his head dipped.

The officers were taken aback. They made a beeline for the living room couch and began comparing the man on the recovered ID and Steve. Seeing that they looked identical, the officers fell silent.

"My husband is a scatterbrain. He always loses his stuff," I hurriedly explained. "I'm sure someone picked up his ID on the street and got into an unfortunate accident. I mean, what a coincidence, ri—"

The older-looking officer interrupted me and asked Steve, "Sir, are you Steve Manson?"

Flatly, Steve answered, "No."

The air turned cold, and so did the way the officers looked at me.

Without a second thought, I retrieved Steve's hospitalization records. "Officers, please hear me out. Three months ago, my husband was in a car accident that severely damaged his hippocampus.

"Besides losing part of his memory, he also developed a language impairment. He can only answer with "yes" or "no". If you don't believe me, I can prove it."

I walked toward Steve. "Steve, do you like eating shit?"

"No."

"Steve, are these two officers bad guys?"

"No."

"Steve, are you really Steve?"

"No."

A helpless smile tugged at my lips. "See? His current cognitive ability is about that of a seven-year-old child. He can't really be held accountable for what he says."

The officers exchanged a look, read through the professional-looking hospitalization records, and called to verify them. After confirming I had been truthful, they visibly relaxed.

"Looks like it's just a misunderstanding. Still, please come with us to the precinct to give a formal statement."

I asked if I needed to bring Steve along. To that, the older officer pondered and said, "Sure. You wouldn't be at ease knowing he's at home alone, right?"

Hence, Steve and I went to the precinct together.

Earlier, I had deliberately asked questions that would ensure a definite "no" answer. The second question helped me confirm that the officers were good, which meant they wouldn't make things hard for me.

After giving the statement, we prepared to leave. Suddenly, a female officer barged in with a solemn look. "Hold on. I have a few more questions."