Pickpocket

A pickpocket stole my truths from my back pocket. Now, only lies slip through my teeth. I can say my name and personal facts, but I can’t talk about memories. They become twisted and wildly untrue. When I say these things, it doesn’t even feel like I’m lying.

The strangest thing about this, everyone believes the lies. No questions asked. I could make up the most unbelievable, fictional story and everyone would believe it. They don’t even just give simple, robot responses either. They seem interested, asking questions for more details. And without hesitation or time to think, I’ll answer them. I could tell about the time I killed a hoard of zombies and someone will ask what species of zombie they were (Homosapieo zombifus, if you were wondering. They’re easy to kill once you know the technique. Their weak spot are their throats, softer than an average human.) Or I could tell about alien merchants, and alien families and how friendly they are. Or possibly other mythical creatures or anything that just seems like it’s from a fiction book.

That pickpocket took my truths, or mayhaps it gave me something. My memories. Mayhaps I was a zombie killer or a space traveller in another life or universe. Or possibly this life and this universe.

Mayhaps that’s why a huge chunk of my life is missing from my memories. Mayhaps that’s the reason I know so many useless facts about space and mythical creatures. And possibly, that pickpocket took everyone else’s truths and gave them back their memories. Maybe we’re all space travelers. Maybe we’re living in a movie, or some short story. I don’t know that.

Not yet, anyway.