Assassin - The Life Of A Compulsive Liar.

The roaring of engines turned to a numbing hum as we entered the stratosphere. The seat belt signs flashed off and people began to relax. Taking in a deep breath of relief I physically wrenched my pale hands away from the arm chairs. Deep indentations where my fingers had gripped in panic were visible and with a shifty gaze I steadily ignored them.

Turning my attention to the person sitting next to me; I felt my emotions intensify into a sharp pointed dagger like anger. There he was sitting in the window seat when my ticket, which I had pulled out only a second before boarding, rather clearly stated in bold capital Arial font: 15A (WINDOW SEAT).

Tempted to harass the man verbally I decided to instead sit still silently and fume. As sure as the sun would come up tomorrow I would get him back. An idea put itself into my mind. Planting a smile on my face and turning to the man, I began, “Hey, I’m Azrael Linx, you are?”

He turned his beady black eyes to me, which then and there I decided that I did indeed hate, and they widened as if in shock. Caught off balance he opened his mouth, but nothing came out so he closed it again, reminding me somewhat of a fish. I got a rather disturbing view of his less-than-perfect, plaque covered and hole ridden teeth.

I smirked inwardly to myself. Beads (as I had decided to nick name him on account of his eyes) then loudly cleared his throat and replied, “Oh, err, I’m Jack.”

HA! A fact, could I maybe insult him by calling him a giant killer? Words spewed forth before I could even think, “I am an assassin and I need your help.”

Damnit, I hated my compulsive lying as much as I hated flying and being a kleptomaniac. I watched Jack's reaction carefully, catching every blank blink of his eyes and then the words as they registered in his head. After a slight hesitation as if thinking of something intelligible to say Jack’s mouth fell open as words, or rather a word, stuttered out, “R-re-real-really?”

My smile slipped, wondering if he really doubted me. I looked around the plane as if checking for any listeners, but really I was nervously hoping that there wasn’t any police officer’s around as what I was going to say next was near treason. Dropping my voice to a whisper, I urged him closer with a gesturing finger, “I’m here to kill the PM.”

Jack snuck closer and asked in a quiet, yet serious and stern voice, “You are aware that I’m a flight officer?”

Wow, I was stupid; trying to fool this guy out of all people. And yet my disease of compulsive lying urged me on. I nodded, a very small discrete nod, as if I had always known that he was indeed working for the government, “I need your help. See, it all began when I was born.”

Jack’s stared at me in incomprehension, “Err . . ?”

Yes, I had no idea what I was going on about, but at least it was interesting and it was taking my mind of flying. It definitely helped to not think about the huge metal capsule hurtling through the sky with the pressure bearing down on us and only two people keeping us in the air.

After thinking about that I was nearly hyperventilating and Jack’s face was almost comical. Fear, shock and curiosity all in one. One button was missing from his flannel shirt and I blurted out, trying to get my mind off my heavy breathing, “Where’s your button?”

He stared at it in such alarm that I had to keep myself from laughing. Instead I burst into a coughing fit and as Jack tapped my back he replied, his voice taunt with fear, “I must’ve lost it.”

I stared up at him, my eyes watering from not breathing, “They might have it!”

“Who?” was his instant question.

Pulling his tie, accompanied by his head I whispered breathlessly into his ear, “THEM!”

Sitting up stiffly and wiping the tears from my eyes I cleared my throat, which already felt dry and raw, “Anyway, as I was saying they got me when I was born, or should I say I was CREATED!”

An idea from a book I had read a little while ago popped into my head and instantly was integrated into my lie. I swung my hand to his collar, grabbed on and began to shake him, “I’m only 38% human! My assassin self is slowly taking over me! Soon I’ll be nothing but a murdering machine!”

These lies were getting very, very far-fetched, but the panic building at the depths of my heart was at the very least real. I hated flying and it scared the hell out of me. I let my hands drop and he fell back into his chair. Jack wiped his hair out of his eyes which has come loose from behind his ear after my attack.

He looked shaken, well, it didn’t help that I had actually shaken him. Disbelief sparkling in his eyes and curiosity etched into his grin, he asked, “You mean you’re not human?”

The plane shook violently and my heart hammered out of my chest. This little trip had definitely reinforced my hatred of flying. If god had wanted us to soar he would’ve given us wings! Jack didn’t seem to notice my sudden silence and seemed to think it was an answer of some kind.

Starting quietly, I continued, “I was raised in a white, soft, cushion-padded room and black clothed people trained me.”

Jack took this in. An awkward silence ensued and I sat without a word trying not to vomit. The consistent drone of the engine was unsettling my stomach.

Jack coughed randomly, "Go on . . .” He seemed to be interested in this nice little lie of a life. I decided to carry on as he had advised, “They said I was only suffering amnesia, but they LIED!”

A curtain of rain pattered on the roof drowning out the sound of the engine. Nausea gripped at my stomach and everything suddenly went out of focus. Swaying, I grabbed onto the armchair and forced out, “They’re trying to stop me from telling you!”

As sudden as it had come the rain disappeared and I took in a deep breath of the cold air-conditioned air. Sinking back into my chair I let my head rest on my lap and encircled it with my arms.

Something on my shoulder made me look up and in surprise I recognised it as Jack’s hand, “Hey, I’ll help. Don’t worry.”

Jack’s eyes at that moment didn’t seem as beady as they once had and something stirred in my gut. Flight sickness? . . . No . . . Guilt? I hadn’t thought this was possible, feeling guilt for lying to this man? Maybe my disease was cured! Was I no longer a compulsive liar? I opened my mouth experimentally and waited for something to come out.

What I said is not what I expected, “I’m sorry, and I’ve been lying to you this whole entire flight. My name is really Ballow Tori. I’m entirely human and truthfully I’m a kleptomaniac who hates to fly. I’ve been using you to distract me from my fear of flying.”

Jack’s face was undecipherable. I waited anxiously for his reply. What he said was not what I expected either, “Well, as long as we’re confessing here. I’m not Jack. Really I’m an assassin sent here to murder the PM. I’m only 38% human and now that you know I can’t let you live.”

What?

Something fast approached my head and I couldn’t dodge it. With a thump it made contact and the pain echoed in my head. Slowly my sight began to fade. Blackness was claiming me and I couldn’t escape its talons. The last thing I saw was the man opening his dining tray and writing something.

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Something shook my shoulder and a soft velvety voice greeted me, “I’m sorry, sir. This is your stop.”

A dull pain thudded at my temple and everything that had occurred rush through my mind. Shooting up sharply I yelled, ‘ASSASSIN!”

The air hostess looked at me with shock and steadily ignored all the startled looks we were both getting, “The man sitting next to you left a note. Here.”

She placed it into my hand and all but ran off. Thanking god that I was on the ground in Gladstone where my conference meeting was I unfolded the piece of paper and began to read. A love heart sat at the top, coloured in red. In beautiful running writing were the words, “Sorry, Ballow. I apologise for the hit, but hopefully it has cured you of you’re compulsive lying disorder. I knew who you were all along. I am just a psychiatrist, your mother wanted you normal and I was hired to work with you. Please feel free to contact me. P.S I suffer from the same disorder.”

I stared at the piece of paper, a sigh of relief emerging from my mouth. I considered the letter for a while before coming to a shocking realization.

If he was lying, was he telling the truth?

(Okay, LOL, This was written for my English class, an assignment about a plane trip where you could be anyone you wanted. Naturally I chose something abnormal like this, so . . . yeah ^^")

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