They say her name is Laura

I used to read short stories, by a girl named Laura. She was my favorite author for awhile. She published her short stories on a blog she managed online, or so I thought. I can't read her stories anymore, because I found out the truth about who she is, and why she writes. One of the things I used to love about her work, is how real it was. She would write horror stories about fires and murder and you would swear she had experienced everything she was writing, it was so real. I used to wonder how she developed such a craft for horrific imagination.

Then one night, the illusion was broken. She posted something that at first sounded like another amazing story, but it wasn't. It was a note. A note begging for help.

Here is the note.

Dear Stranger,

I am finally lucid enough, to be able to ask for your help. I am a published author of what people believe to be horror stories that come out of the imagination of a writer with strange ideas.

I am not. I have been living in a abandoned office building for the past ten years. My stories seem real because I have a rare kind of disorder, when I panic I forget who I am. A man I dated discovered this and decided to try an experiment, with my life. He would trigger my panic and then program me to believe everything you read was real.

He would keep me from running, by feeding me poison. I wrote out my nightmares while spun out for days on end. I was rewarded with dark spoons of sleep.

Please help, I don't even know who I am anymore.

Laura.

I looked at the picture and almost threw up. Had I never seen her before?

Staring back at me, was my face. I vomited and burned all of her books. I don't read anymore.