Safe, because as I'm crazy no-one will believe me when I tell them that my husband is dead and there is a monster in his skin. And because of that they won't kill me. Locked up in loony bins, I won't say rest home or sanatorium because this is a loony bin, because we know our loved ones have been replaced by soulless emotionless things who look at us as if we are bugs. And bugs get stepped on. Bugs get squished, stomped, squashed and ground underfoot.
Bugs get dead.
I loved my husband. I really did. Sometimes I allow myself to wonder, to hope that maybe there is something of him left. The real him. Time is a fluid concept here.