The Fake Substitute
The sunlight outside was harsh and blinding, yet I felt an icy chill coursing through me, as if I were submerged in freezing winter water.
A nurse carrying a tray walked past; her white coat brushed my knees, faintly scented with disinfectant.
She sighed and said, "Mr. Lincoln, have you really thought this through?", I nodded silently—I had long since made up my mind.
The phone in my pocket vibrated; it was Wendy Scott's Moments update.
In the photo, she stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of the VIP ward. Beside her lay the newly awakened Yale Gabriel, their hands intertwined. The caption read, "Happy rebirth, my light."
I stared at that photo for a long time, until my eyes ached.
The gunshot in the bar three years ago suddenly rang in my ears. The image of Wendy throwing herself to shield me from the bullet, and now her gentleness toward Yale Gabriel, overlapped like a dull blade slowly cutting into my heart.
Back then, I thought she loved me, which was why she risked her life.
Only today, when I saw Yale Gabriel's face—seven parts resembling mine—did I realize she wasn't shielding a bullet but fearing that her 'white moonlight' would lose its substitute.
When I was discharged and went home, the hallway's voice-activated lights were broken, so I felt my way up in the dark.
Every step felt like treading through memories—here was the laughter when Wendy Scott and I first moved in, the balloons I secretly arranged for her birthday, and... so many more things that now, looking back, seem like a bitter joke.
I opened the door; the living room light was on, yet there was no sign of Wendy Scott.
Only a cold cup of coffee sat on the tea table, beside it a note written in her familiar, elegant handwriting: "Pack up your things and move to the second bedroom; Yale needs me to take care of him."
Clutching that note, I rubbed the edges of the paper between my fingers until they frayed.
The second bedroom was small, with only a tiny window; it had once been used for storing clutter, but now it was to be my "bedroom."
As I stepped into the master bedroom to pack my bags, the wardrobe still held the couple's jackets of Wendy Scott and me.
Her coat was off-white; mine was dark gray. Back then, she said it looked like "clouds resting on the mountains," but now it seems it was merely my one-sided fancy.
In the bottom drawer of the bedside table lay an iron box.
It belonged to Wendy Scott during her college years and was covered with faded cartoon stickers. I once asked her what was inside, and she always said, "It's a secret."
Compelled by some inexplicable impulse, I opened the iron box.
Inside, there was no jewelry, no love letters—only a diary with a blue cover. Its pages were yellowed, and the corners badly curled.
September 26th, the rain poured down heavily.
At the entrance of the alley, I was confronted by three thugs. They grabbed the straps of my backpack and threatened to throw it into the river. I was so frightened that tears streamed uncontrollably.
My hand suddenly froze; the warmth at my fingertips seemed to disappear instantly.
On September 26th, ten years ago, I had just returned from my Grandfather's house. Passing that alley, I witnessed some young thugs harassing a girl.
On September 26th, later, someone rushed over.
He wore a worn blue jacket with frayed cuffs. He shielded me behind him, his voice hoarse as he said, 'Don't touch her.' At that moment, hiding behind him, I only saw how broad his shoulders were.
My tears fell with a soft "plop" onto the diary, smudging the words.
The blue jacket I wore ten years ago was my grandfather's; the worn cuff was torn when I helped him fix the pipes, and I never had the heart to throw it away.
"September 27th, I went to the alley to find him, but found nothing.
On the ground lay a silver button; I picked it up and placed it in my wallet, hoping to meet him again."
I hurriedly touched my jacket, and sure enough, the cuff was missing a silver button.
That was sewn by Grandfather's own hands, with tiny patterns on it. I searched for it for a long time back then but couldn't find it, only to discover it was with her all along.
"On January 1st, I saw him at the mall!
He was standing in the bookstore reading; his profile was exactly as I remembered, and he even had a small red mole at the tip of his nose. It must have been him!"
My heart suddenly raced, as if it would leap out of my throat.
But on January 1st, I was already abroad. Grandfather was ill, and I went overseas to find a specialist and get medicine. How could I have been in the bookstore at the mall?
"On January 2nd, I mustered the courage to ask his name. He said his name was Yale Gabriel, his voice so pleasant, just as gentle as I had imagined. At last, I had found him.
Staring at the three characters 'Yale Gabriel,' a cold shiver swept through me.
It turned out she had mistaken someone else—she mistook Yale Gabriel for me, and treated me, the one who truly saved her, as a mere substitute.
The sound of a key turning outside the door made me hastily shove the diary back into the iron box and latch the drawer.
My knuckles struck the wood, pain sharp enough to make me grit my teeth, but I couldn't bring myself to care—I feared Wendy Scott would see this diary, and, upon learning the truth, lose even the last shred of her 'guilt' for me.
Wendy's voice came through first, carrying a gentleness I hadn't heard in a long time: "Yale, slow down—the floor is slippery. I'll support you."
I stepped out of the master bedroom and saw her supporting Yale Gabriel as he sat on the sofa. Yale's hand rested on her shoulder, and when his eyes met mine, there was a faint, barely perceptible hint of provocation.
Wendy looked up at me, her tone like that of a mistress giving orders to a servant: "Simon Lincoln, have you packed? I've already had the nanny clean the second bedroom. You'll move there tonight."
Her tone was flat, as if she were saying, "What's for dinner today?", completely disregarding my feelings.
Yale Gabriel nestled closer into Wendy Scott's embrace, his voice soft like a kitten not yet weaned: "Wendy, wouldn't I be too much trouble for Simon? How about I sleep in the second bedroom? I'm fine."
When he said this, his eyes were fixed on me, a faint, elusive smile playing at the corners of his mouth, as if showing off.
Wendy patted the back of his hand, smiling as she said, "It's no trouble at all; he's the most sensible and wouldn't mind."
She hesitated, as if her words sounded too blunt, then added, "Once your body is better, we'll have him move back. Don't overthink it."
I fixed my gaze on Yale Gabriel's face, on the mark mimicking the mole on my nose—a cheap tattoo sticker, its edges peeling up.
"Wendy, he's a counterfeit," my voice quivered, as if gambling on the last thread of her trust in me, "The one who saved you back then was me, not him."
Wendy's figure froze for a moment, her expression blank for a brief instant.
I thought she would believe me, would ask for details, but in the next moment, a sharp slap struck my face with force.
The blow was so strong that my ears rang instantly, and my cheek burned as if on fire.
I sank to the ground, staring at Wendy Scott in disbelief. Her hand that had hit me remained frozen in mid-air, her eyes filled with a coldness and contempt I had never seen before.
"Simon Lincoln, don't you know your place?"
Her voice was like an ice pick, stabbing painfully at my heart. "Let me make this clear: you have been nothing but a substitute from the start! You're the real impostor!"
Yale Gabriel exclaimed, cupping the hand that Wendy Scott had used to hit me, gently blowing on it: "Wendy, your hand must hurt a lot, right? It's all his fault for dragging you into nonsense and making you angry."
When he said this, there wasn't a shred of worry in his eyes—only cruel glee.
"Wendy, he's only pretending!" I struggled to rise, reaching out to grab Wendy's hand. "That night, when you were trapped by three thugs in the alley, I saved you! I was wearing a blue jacket then, with worn cuffs, and I dropped a silver button on the ground. Is that button still in your wallet?"
The disdain that Wendy once held softened somewhat, and she instinctively touched her wallet.
I saw a glimmer of hope and crawled towards her on my knees, gently holding her hand. "Believe me, I am the real one... Look, I have this very mole on my face, just as you wrote in your diary."
"Ah! My head hurts so much!"
Yale Gabriel's scream suddenly pierced the brief silence.
He nestled in Wendy Scott's arms, lifting his tear-filled eyes, timidly looking at me. "How does Simon know so much? Did he read your diary?"
After speaking, he hurriedly covered his mouth, as if he'd said something wrong: "Ah, Simon definitely didn't mean to invade Wendy's privacy, right? Wendy, please don't be upset."
But I clearly saw the triumph lurking in his eyes; he did it on purpose, deliberately leading Wendy to misunderstand me.
In an instant, Wendy's face turned pale; the fleeting hesitation and tender memories vanished, replaced by anger and contempt.
Her gaze upon me was like that cast upon a dark maggot, filling me with utter discomfort.
"Simon Lincoln! How dare you rummage through my things?"
Her voice was sharp as she suddenly snatched her hand back from my grasp, rubbing it vigorously as if it had touched something filthy. "You truly disgust me!"
Those words were like a dagger dipped in poison, piercing straight through my heart.
My voice hoarse, despair and pain slowly spreading through my entire body: "Wendy Scott, you said all of yourself was mine, and all of me was yours. How could you say that to me?"
"Those were just lies to deceive you, the substitute!"
Wendy sharply cut me off, her eyes utterly cold. "Do you really think I loved you? If you didn't look like Yale, I would never have married you!"
Stricken by advanced pancreatic cancer, I had long since lost all strength and collapsed to the ground again.
The pain in my abdomen grew unbearable, like countless needles piercing me, yet the ache in my heart eclipsed all physical torment.
"Wendy, it's all my fault for causing the argument between you two."
Yale Gabriel leaned against Wendy Scott, his voice plaintive, but his eyes challenged me with a quiet defiance.
I saw the disdain in Wendy Scott's eyes instantly soften into pity for Yale Gabriel. She gently patted Yale's back and comforted him softly.
"What does all this have to do with you? You're unwell; I'll take you to rest."
Wendy picked up Yale Gabriel and turned to leave. Passing by me, she stopped and said coldly, "He's just a substitute, yet he still dares to dream of replacing you—truly overestimating himself."
She never glanced at my anguished face again, clutching Yale Gabriel as she retreated to the master bedroom.
Out of her sight, Yale Gabriel gave me a victorious smile, a grin as sharp as needles that pierced my eyes with pain.
"Ahem—"
A sudden rush of fury overwhelmed me, and a dark pool of blood sprayed from my mouth, splattering onto the floor.
I looked at that pool of blood and suddenly found it absurd; as if my entire life had been lived for Wendy Scott, yet in the end, I was left with this fate.
Wendy glimpsed the bloodstain, her brows knitting slightly, but seeing Yale Gabriel's weakened state, her face immediately turned cold: "Clean it up. Don't let me and Yale have to see this."
Her words struck my heart like a block of ice, chilling me to the core.
I slumped onto the cold floor, staring up at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
The lights were bright, yet before my eyes, everything grew increasingly dark. Wendy, you would rather believe a flawed liar than trust me. Will you regret it someday?
I don't know how much time passed before I slowly got up and cleaned the bloodstains on the floor.
The door to the second bedroom was open. Inside, there was only a small bed and an old wardrobe. I placed my things inside and gazed out at the night sky, suddenly overwhelmed by a deep loneliness.
The next morning, I was awakened by sounds coming from the living room.
Stepping out of the second bedroom, I saw Yale Gabriel standing in the center of the living room, directing the workers as they moved things. He wore my gray pajamas, the collar open, revealing red marks on his neck.
"This photo frame is hideous. Throw it away!"
Yale Gabriel pointed arrogantly at the wedding photo of Wendy Scott and me on the wall. "And those books on the shelf—move them all downstairs to burn. They're an eyesore!"
I rushed over and grabbed the worker. "What are you doing? This is my home. How dare you throw away my things!"
The wedding photo was taken on the first anniversary of Wendy and me. She smiled so happily in it, and I always believed it was her genuine smile.
Yale frowned in displeasure. "It was Wendy who told me to do this. She said I could clear out anything I didn't like, including you!"
He took the hammer from the worker's hand and struck the wedding photo with fierce force; the glass shattered with a crashing sound, and the smile in the picture splintered into fragments.
"You're not only smashing my photo, but you want me gone too?"
I glared at Yale Gabriel with venomous eyes, the pain in my abdomen intensifying. "Does Wendy know what kind of man you truly are? Does she know you've been deceiving her all this time?"
Yale sneered, stepped close, and whispered in a voice only we could hear, "What does it matter if Wendy knows? She loves me— not you, the mere substitute."
He bumped into me with his shoulder; I lost my balance and fell to the ground, hitting the wound on my abdomen.
Blood immediately flowed out, staining my pajamas red.
I curled up on the ground in pain, watching Yale Gabriel's smug face; the fire of anger within me burned ever stronger—I couldn't just let this go. I had to make Wendy Scott know the truth.
By the time the workers took me to the hospital, my consciousness was already fading.
The doctor said I had lost too much blood and needed a transfusion. He also told me my pancreatic cancer had reached its late stage, and I had at most one month to live—I should prepare myself.
I lay on the hospital bed and called the private detective.
"Help me investigate everything about Yale Gabriel over the past ten years—the more detailed, the better," I said hoarsely. "Money is no object; just have the results ready in two days."
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