Deadly Deception Read online

  Deadly

  Deception

  P.J. MANN

  Copyright © 2018 P.J. Mann

  All rights reserved.

  1. my life as a liar

  I am a liar…a filthy liar.

  The problem is that I do not even realize whether I tell a lie or not. It seems my brain records the facts correctly, but it distorts them when I need to recall them.

  In my life, I have lost friends, family, and relationships because I was considered a liar.

  Then, one day, an article came unexpectedly in front of my eyes. It was about pathological liars, and the more I read it, the more I could find similarities in the story of my life.

  For this reason, at the age of twenty-three, I decided to seek psychiatric help.

  So, there I was, sitting on a chair in the waiting room of a psychiatrist, waiting for the door to open and someone to call my name.

  Several people were waiting for their turn, and I tried not to stare at any of them, but either I wasn’t careful enough, or, as usual, I failed in my purpose. One man waiting there looked annoyed at me and grabbed a newspaper, which covered his face as he read it.

  I thought it was a very good idea, so I grabbed a paper as well and browsed for anything interesting to read.

  I couldn’t find anything interesting, just a couple of articles on international politics and travel advertisements. Nothing with which I could kill some time. As I looked at the clock, I realized, disappointed, that not only did I not kill time, but it wasn’t even wounded.

  I looked around, noticing every detail in that waiting room. Surprisingly, it came to my mind how the waiting rooms of healthcare institutions resemble each other. They all have that “ill,” neutral look, and in my opinion, if a person is not sick after having spent a few hours there, they will become sick. Perhaps it is a way to increase the number of illnesses to be treated.

  As I was deep into my own considerations, I must have lost track of time because, against all odds, the doctor himself appeared at the door, calling me. I jumped from my chair like a spring and walked toward the door.

  I looked around, hoping to find a healthier environment, but with disappointment, I noticed the same gray walls and gray floor. The only thing that broke that colorless monotony was the dark brown desk, matched by a dark brown couch.

  “So, Mr. Jackson, would you like to tell me how I can help you?” he asked in a calm tone, smiling kindly at me.

  I took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to explain my problem.

  “I do not actually know how to explain it, but I am a liar,” I said, taking a short pause to see his reaction to that statement. “You see, I do my best to recall details and events as closely as possible to the reality. However, what comes out of my mouth turns out to be a lie, and I do not even understand how this can happen. I was reading once about people who have this same problem. If I recall correctly, it is called compulsive lying.”

  “I see,” he replied. “This is fascinating. Indeed, there are a few cases of people who cannot stop telling lies. Some people try to gather attention, to be admired, or to be commiserated. Others, just like in your case, do not have the slightest idea that they are not telling the truth. But while your illness is very interesting, it is not only a bit rarer than the former, but also harder to treat. With this, I mean that I need to know something more about you and your way of lying.”

  “Of course. I understand,” I replied, still hoping he could find a way to help me out.

  “Can you give me some example of your habit? Can you recall any particular event when your parents or your friends busted one of your lies?” he asked.

  There were thousands of examples I could give, but you know how it goes – as soon as you must recall something, your mind becomes a blank screen. I closed my eyes, trying to focus on something, anything.

  “Yes!” I exclaimed as suddenly one case came into my mind. “This happened last week. I have this friend of mine, Stewart, who is a football fanatic. We decided to go to the Sunday game, and he asked me to buy the tickets for both of us. Now, on Friday afternoon, he asked me if I bought the tickets, and I replied that I had them in my backpack. Certainly, I bought them because I remembered clearly that I went to the booth, bought the tickets, and even exchanged some chit-chat with the seller.

  “He came to my place to get his own and to pay me, but I could not find them. We searched the place without any success, then he asked me if I were sure that I bought them. Of course, I was sure. I also remembered that I paid with my credit card. At that point, Stewart asked me to check my bank account because he started to doubt that I even bought them. Do you believe it? The payment didn’t show, meaning one thing: I didn’t buy the tickets.”

  I shook my head in disappointment, thinking about how stupid I must have looked in front of his eyes, but honestly, I still remember I bought them.

  The doctor looked at me with a serious expression, “That is, indeed, a very interesting case. I intend not only to understand more about this illness, but also to find a way to treat it.”

  I felt relieved that he understood and seemed to sympathize with my condition. Nevertheless, I felt concerned when he mentioned the word “illness.” Did he mean that I was going insane?

  “I am afraid to ask it, but will I be locked up in a mental facility for the rest of my life?”

  He smiled broadly at me. “Not all illnesses require treatment in a hospital. You might have misunderstood your problem.”

  “Since you mentioned a mental illness, I thought about either being locked up or being prescribed with strong drugs. So, what will be the case? Will I be locked into a psychiatric facility or turned into a zombie freak?” I replied with a slightly sarcastic tone.

  He looked at me for a second, then laughed heartily. “Surely, you are a man of humor, and I like that. Don’t you worry; nothing like this will be necessary for your case.”

  “Will I have to go through a series of psychotherapy sessions, or something similar?” I asked curiously.

  He turned serious. “The point is that, as I told you before, your case is not easy to treat, and I meant that there isn’t any absolute cure. The illness itself is relatively rare; therefore, it is not fully understood in its complexity. I am afraid to tell you that there is very little that I can do to help you.”

  “You mean that I came here uselessly?” I asked, my hopes crushed down.

  “This is not entirely correct. I said that there aren’t therapies that can, for sure, cure you,” he replied. “I will try to be clearer; I have been working with a colleague of mine at the University in similar cases. All the conventional treatments seemed to fail miserably, but we developed a non-conventional treatment, which, in theory, should help people like you. Our research project met the interest of the scientific community and some private institutions. Thanks to them, we can have access to a substantial funding for our research. What we are missing is a patient. If you agree, you can be part of our research, and with some luck, your condition might improve.”

  It was like God Himself came down from the Heavens to give me a blessing, and my hopes came back in force. However, suddenly, I started to think about what their treatment was about.

  What kind of risks are involved? I thought.

  “Will it be dangerous? Are you going to electroshock me?” I wondered, exploring all the possibilities that came to my mind.

  “I am proposing six months of travel, wherever you desire,” he said, smiling.

  “T-travel? I do not have any money to travel for six months, and I have my job. I can’t leave for six months,” I said.

  “As I told you, we will use the funds for the research,” he replied. “The only things you will have to pay for will be your p
ersonal expenses, like food and drinks. Concerning your job, we will explain to your employer that you need to be in therapy for six months. You will always wear a camera, which will be remotely connected with our laboratory at the University. It will record every single move you make. Therefore, I am afraid you won’t have any privacy during this period.

  “You cannot check the content of the camera, and this is because you will have to submit to us a sort of daily diary about everything you can recall about the day you had,” the doctor continued. “Every week, we will send the corrected version of your diary to you, and we will underline what and how it went wrong. You should use some time to focus on the corrections we underlined and compare it with your memories.”

  “Hold on. Are you telling me that you will pay me to take a six-month holiday and to write a diary every day?” I asked, surprised.

  “This is exactly what I mean. Every Sunday, we will send you some tests, which you will submit at the end of the day,” he replied.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I said doubtfully. “On the other hand, I think I do not have anything to lose by accepting your proposal. After all, if it might work, then I am ready to take the chance and go for a long holiday. Jesus. Last time I went on vacation, I was ten years old.” I felt excited about it.

  The doctor looked at me with a big smile, “Great. I will write a letter to your supervisor, so you won’t have anything to worry about. Now, I would like to have a chat with you and do some further tests to assess better your situation,” he said, inviting me to get more comfortable on the couch.

  After a good forty-five minutes, he invited me to sit down on the chair in front of his desk and he started to write a letter on the computer for my supervisor.

  “Here it is, Mr. Jackson. This is for your employer,” he said, handing me the letter. “It explains briefly your illness and its need for a therapy. I explained why you will need this long time away from your job and invited him to call me, so we can discuss the details and I can answer all the questions he might have. I suppose he won’t be really enthusiastic about it, but on the other hand, you have all the right to be treated.”

  I took the letter in my hand. That was a tangible proof that I wasn’t imagining anything; it was real, and I was excited.

  I got out and walked the streets. I couldn’t believe what had happened there. I wondered whether my mind was still distorting the reality, or if it was true that I was involved in a project that would bring me on a holiday for six months.

  I reached home after one hour, still unable to believe what happened. As soon as I came in, Moses, my cat, came to greet me. His presence brought me back to reality.

  He never judged me for being a liar. Whether he understood it or not, he had always been there, when I was crying or when I was laughing.

  I owe Moses more than he can ever imagine, “Hello, there. Did you miss me?” I asked.

  “Meow,” he replied contently as I scratched his head.

  Suddenly, I realized that I couldn’t bring Moses with me, and it would feel terrible for him to live in a sort of pension for pets. Six months is a long time, I considered.

  I looked at him and sighed. “I am just wondering how to make you understand my absence for six months,” I said, looking at him.

  I went to the kitchen to eat a small snack when the phone started to ring.

  “Hello,” I replied absentmindedly, still checking in the fridge for something to satisfy my hunger.

  “Ethan, my old buddy, how are you?” Stewart asked.

  Stewart was one of the few friends who remained at my side. We’d known each other since high school, and he was the one who could stand my lies, trying patiently to correct them whenever he’d notice them. Honestly, there weren’t many people ready to accept the fact that I was a liar.

  “Oh, hi. Nothing special here. I went to the doctor to figure out a solution to my problem,” I said, a bit evasively.

  “For that issue, I think that a simple injection of honesty would be sufficient,” he replied sarcastically.

  “Well, for your information, I do not lie because I want to do so. This is a real illness, and for how rare it is, it doesn’t have many chances to be cured, at least with conventional medicine,” I snapped. He just could not understand how it feels to know that there is something wrong in your brain. Being mocked is something I consider rude and mean.

  “OK. Sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean to be offensive. So, what did the doctor say, besides confirming that you are a pathological liar?” he asked.

  “Dr. Wright suggested I be part of some sort of research he is undertaking together with one of his colleagues at the University,” I told him.

  I looked again at the letter he wrote to my supervisor, to be sure that I was not going to tell another lie. “I will have to undertake a half-year trip to different locations and keep a diary of everything I have seen during each day, trying to remember everything with the maximum accuracy. At the same time, a camera will always be connected to tell them what happened during the day. They will send me their corrected version of my diary, and I will have to take some time to analyze and to remember,” I said.

  Believe me, I felt like I was lying big time, even if I wasn’t.

  There was a long pause. I began to wonder whether he was still there. Then, I heard him burst out in laughter. “You have been telling lies all your life, but this is the most absurd of all. How do you expect me to believe something like this?” he replied, amused. “It reminds me of that time you told me that you finally received that answer about your dream job. You were so excited about their positive answer and how impressed they were with your CV. Then, when I read it, it was just another automated answer by which you didn’t even get to the interview. Or that time when you had that girlfriend of yours-”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I interrupted him, feeling a bit upset. “I remember that day, but this time is different. I do not know what to say. I have just read you what the doctor wrote to me and to my supervisor at work to justify my absence. I know it sounds crazy, and if I wasn't reading this paper to you, I would have thought I was lying, too,” I replied.

  “Really?” he wondered. “May I also read it, to be sure that you are not doing it again?”

  “Yes. I can even show you the paper. I am not kidding, and this is not a lie, for once. By the way, I will need someone to take care of Moses.”

  “Would you prefer that I bring him to live with me, or me to come to your place every day to give him food and play with him?” he asked.

  “Well, you decide. Personally, I’d prefer you take Moses with you. That way, he will have all the attention and the company he might need. And if he needs the vet, you’d be able to take care of his health promptly,” I considered.

  “Sure. He can stay here with me. At least Molly will have some company. By the way, Moses is neutered, isn’t he? You know Molly hasn’t yet been sterilized, and I wouldn’t like to have to divide them during one of your cat’s assaults,” he said, chuckling.

  “Don’t you worry. He has been neutered, and he has always been a gentle cat. You make sure that Molly is not the one to assault him,” I replied, amused by the tone of our conversation.

  “Molly is just a kitten. She is not jumping over every male she finds.”

  “Well, anyway, Moses is neutered, so he won’t be a threat to Molly’s virginity. You can be sure of that. Should I presume that you are going to keep Moses at your home?” I asked.

  “Sure. Why not? No problem. Just get well and be back safe, sound, healed, and tanned, you lucky one,” he replied with a slight tone of envy in his voice.

  “I’ll try to do my best. By the way, did you call me only to know what the doctor said, or did you have something else to say?” I asked.

  “I thought that since today is Friday, we might have some fun downtown. What do you say?” he proposed.

  “Sure. What time?”

  “Hmm, let’s see. I can come to pick you up in a couple of
hours. Will it be too early for you?”

  “It will be perfect. See you soon. Bye,” I replied, hanging up the phone.

  As I ate, I took out a world map, trying to figure out where I’d like to travel. Since it would have been mostly paid, I decided to start with all the destinations that I’d never been able to afford, but would love to visit.

  “Wow. The world is huge; there are so many countries I do not have the slightest idea about,” I said aloud as I pondered it.

  Africa was one of the continents which interested me the most. Besides the natural wonders, I thought about the history of each country on that continent. I thought about the colonialism and the revolts. The internal wars between ethnic groups and the tribal heritage. I was fascinated.

  I started to feel excited about it.

  I wanted to travel to Asia, Africa, maybe even Europe and South America. I felt intoxicated by the great opportunity opening in front of me. Moreover, the chance to be healed from that mental issue that cursed my life so far made the entire adventure increasingly appealing.

  ***

  Saturday, from the moment I woke up until the late afternoon, I pondered all the things that happened the previous week: the meeting with Dr. Wright and his crazy proposal, travelling to cure my lying behavior, the afternoon and evening with Stewart, and all the fantasies about visiting as many places in the world as I could possibly imagine.

  Once again, I took the letter in my hands, and I read it time and again. However, the more I read it, the more I found it impossible that something so amazing could happen to me.

  I have no idea how many times I read it. I was afraid that my brain would have messed up the events and what I remembered was already a lie.

  For the whole afternoon, I thought about my journey, the meeting, and all the details I was desperately trying to remember correctly.

  I started to feel uncomfortable with being alone with my thoughts, so I called Stewart, asking him to come to my place. Somehow, I felt almost paranoid about the possibility of being falling into a well-set trap.