Shadows of Innocence

I watched in fascination as the years passed and the children, I had taken in grew under my care. They were so young, barely out of their infancy when I first saw them playing on the deserted street at dawn, oblivious to the passing hours and the dangers that could be lurking in the shadows. That day, I had tried asking around the neighbourhood, seeking out any relatives or friends who might claim the little ones, but no one knew them. No one recognized their innocent faces, and no one seemed to care.

With a heart heavy with worry and uncertainty, I brought them home. They were so small and so unaware of the world around them, their laughter echoing through my quiet house as if they had known me forever. That night, I could barely sleep. The children's peaceful slumber was a stark contrast to the turmoil in my mind. I had no idea what to do, but I knew I couldn't abandon them.

The next morning, as I picked up the newspaper, my heart sank. The headline screamed of a family brutally murdered in a nearby town, and the article mentioned that their two young children were missing. I knew, deep in my gut, that the kids in my home were the ones they were looking for. But fear gripped me. Whoever had killed their family was still out there, and if I went to the police, I was terrified they would be in danger. What if the murderer was still looking for them?

I made a decision, one that would change the course of all our lives. I would raise these children as my own, and I would protect them from the dark past that haunted them. No one would ever know who they really were, and I would give them the best life I could.

As the years went by, the children thrived. The boy, who I named Rohan, was bright and curious, always asking questions and exploring the world around him. His sister, Aanya, was equally intelligent, though she was quieter, more thoughtful. Together, they brought light and joy into my life, but there was always a shadow hanging over us—their past, and the secret I kept from them.

Rohan, in particular, was a handful. His mischievous nature often led him into trouble, and I struggled to keep him focused. That's when I began telling him stories about another child, a boy just like him, but one who was my best friend because he didn’t spend all his time playing on his mobile, and he always ate his vegetables and fruits. I told Rohan how proud I was of this boy and how much I wished Rohan could be more like him. It was a harmless trick, I thought. A way to encourage him to behave better.

At first, it seemed to work. Rohan tried to emulate this imaginary boy, striving to eat better and play less. He’d ask me about him, and I’d make up stories about how he did his homework on time, how polite he was, and how he always helped others. Rohan listened intently, his eyes wide with admiration.

But after a while, something strange began to happen. I noticed that Rohan started talking about the boy as if he were real. He would tell me things like, "He’s coming over to play today," or "He told me he doesn’t like it when I don’t finish my vegetables." At first, I thought it was just a part of his imagination, a harmless game of pretend. But it started to grow more concerning.

Rohan’s behaviour became more erratic. He would sometimes act like a different person, polite and obedient, as if he were channelling the imaginary boy I had created. Other times, he was his usual mischievous self, but with an edge to him that I hadn’t seen before. It was as if he had split into two personalities—one that was trying to please me and be like the imaginary child, and another that was still the Rohan I knew, but more rebellious and detached.

I didn’t know what to do. Aanya, his sister, noticed the change too, though she didn’t say much. She became quieter, more withdrawn, as if she sensed something was wrong but didn’t want to acknowledge it. I was at a loss. I had created this other personality in Rohan, and now I didn’t know how to make it stop.

One evening, I overheard Rohan talking in his room. He was speaking in a low voice, but I could hear him clearly from the hallway. He was having a conversation, but there was no one else in the room. My heart raced as I pressed my ear against the door, listening.

"I don’t want to do that," Rohan said, his voice trembling. "I know you think it’s fun, but I don’t. Please, stop asking me."

There was silence for a moment, and then Rohan spoke

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again, but his voice had changed. It was colder, more confident. "You have to do it. You promised. If you don’t, I’ll tell her everything."

My blood ran cold. I opened the door quickly, but when I stepped inside, Rohan was alone, sitting on his bed, looking up at me with wide, innocent eyes.

"Who were you talking to?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

"No one," he said quickly, too quickly. "I was just playing a game."

But I knew it wasn’t just a game anymore. Something was wrong, deeply wrong, and I didn’t know how to fix it.

Over the next few weeks, Rohan’s behaviour became more unpredictable. Sometimes he would be sweet and kind, like the boy I had raised. Other times, he was distant, cold, as if he were someone else entirely. He would say things that didn’t make sense, referencing conversations we hadn’t had or events that hadn’t happened.

One night, I found him standing in the middle of the living room, staring out the window, whispering to himself. I approached him cautiously, calling his name softly.

"Rohan, are you okay?"

He turned to me, but his eyes were vacant, as if he didn’t recognize me.

"He told me you don’t love me," Rohan said quietly, his voice flat and emotionless. "He said you love him more because he’s better than me."

I was taken aback. "Who told you that?"

"The other boy," Rohan replied. "The one you always talk about. He says you wish I were more like him."

My heart shattered at his words. I had created this imaginary boy to help Rohan, to guide him, but instead, I had unintentionally planted the seeds of insecurity and division within him. He believed this other boy was real, and worse, he believed that I loved this figment of my imagination more than him.

"Rohan, listen to me," I said gently, kneeling in front of him and taking his hands in mine. "There is no other boy. I made him up. You are the only one I love, and I love you just the way you are."

But Rohan pulled his hands away, his face twisted in anger. "No, you’re lying! He’s real! He talks to me, he tells me things, and he’s better than me!"

I didn’t know how to reach him. The line between reality and fantasy had blurred so much for him that he couldn’t tell what was real anymore. I felt helpless, watching the boy I had raised spiral into a world I couldn’t understand.

In desperation, I reached out to a child psychologist, explaining the situation as best as I could. She listened carefully and suggested that Rohan might be developing a dissociative identity disorder, likely triggered by the trauma of losing his family at such a young age, compounded by the stories I had told him. She advised me to bring him in for an evaluation, but I was terrified. What if bringing him to a professional meant exposing him to the truth of his past? What if it put him and Aanya in danger?

I couldn’t risk it. Not yet.

Instead, I tried to undo the damage on my own. I stopped talking about the imaginary boy and focused all my attention on Rohan and Aanya, trying to reassure them of my love and care. I hoped, foolishly, that with time, Rohan would forget the other boy and return to his old self.

But the other boy didn’t disappear. He grew stronger, more dominant. Rohan would often disappear into his room for hours, talking to himself, or rather, to the other boy. He stopped engaging with Aanya and me as much, and when he did, it was as if I were speaking to two different people—sometimes sweet, sometimes cold and distant.

Then, one day, something happened that I couldn’t ignore. I came home from work to find Rohan standing in the kitchen, a knife in his hand. He wasn’t using it, just holding it, staring at it as if he didn’t know how it had gotten there.

"Rohan," I said, my voice shaking. "What are you doing?"

He looked up at me, his eyes wide with confusion. "He told me to do it," he whispered. "He said I had to hurt you, or he would hurt me."

Terror gripped me. The other boy, the one I had created, had become a monster in Rohan’s mind. I had no choice now. I had to get help.

I called the psychologist the next morning, making an urgent appointment. I knew it was time to confront the truth—about Rohan, about his past, and about the dangerous path we were on.

As we sat in the waiting room, Rohan beside me, his hand trembling in mine, I prayed that it wasn’t too late to save him from the darkness that had consumed him.