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Pathological


by Foster Trecost


I live in a cave by the sea. Walk with gulls while waves wash my feet.

Walk with gulls? Not sure where I get this stuff.

But I do live in a cave.

No, that's not true either. I don't live in a cave.

I live by the sea.

Not even close.

I live in a home for disabled veterans. Lost a leg when I stepped on a mine. Can't remember it going off. Guess some things we forget on purpose.

And some things we make up on purpose. This isn't true. At least not for me.

I don't have a home. I live where I happen to be and there's no telling where I'll be next.

Another lie.

I live off the land.

I'm not even sure what that means.

I live on a boat.

Nope.

I live on a faraway planet and use powerful telescopes to observe distant worlds-

Just stop. That sounds ridiculous, even to me.

I live in a small town filled with small minds.

Maybe once, but not anymore.

I'm halfway through a thirty-year sentence. Spend my time staring at the ceiling. Turn my head, there's a cinder block wall. Turn the other way, another cinder block wall. Behind me are bars, but I don't look at them. I know they're there, don't need to look. So I stare at the ceiling.

Now that's almost believable, but who stares at ceilings? 

I'm blind, can't see anything. Happened saving a family from a fire. Got everyone out, but lost my eyes somewhere in the smoke. Pure luck I found a door. Or was it a window? Can't remember.

Can't remember because it never happened.

Or did it? I make up so many things, it's easy to get confused. But here's a bit of truth: somewhere up there, I didn't lie. You don't need to know which part. What matters is I know which part. I wasn't sure I could still tell the difference.


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