Lies (from the Munich Tales)

LIES
By Michael Kroetch

He was a puppet. It´s what he said to people. But then, he thought everyone was a puppet. Most just didn´t know it. Knowledge was important to him. He thought he knew more than most. Maybe he did, it´s hard to say. But what´s beyond all doubt is that he knew a lot about his own disease, where his soft spots were. At night they lit up his room. It´s why he lived alone. He had to. He feared sometimes they would get so bright and so hot they would ignite the room while he slept, catching the bed linen in flames first, then spreading to the curtains and beyond. It was easy for him to imagine the whole apartment complex consumed by flames that were born from his sleeping flesh. He was that kind of puppet with that kind of disease. But as much as he might talk openly and often about his theories on the vicissitudes of puppetness and puppetry, he rarely, if ever, overtly spoke of his disease. He collected data about the disease anywhere he could find it that would not leave a recognizable link back to him. The public library and the internet were taboo. He suspected most doctors also reported directly to the government about the topic as well, even if they swore the opposite and promised on scout´s honor to throw their own mother off a cliff if it was true. They were puppets just as much as he was, so how could he believe a word they said? He had enough trouble believing his own words. He knew he lied sometimes. He wasn´t sure why. It sometimes happened when he least expected. He would be telling someone about how to get to the nearest butcher shop and suddenly would lie and tell them directions that were completely false. He did not know if this was a result of him simply being a puppet or something related to his disease. He thought about such things for hours sometimes, pushing various possible justifications for either side of the argument. He knew the disease was spreading inside him more quickly than in most of the case studies he had examined. Why this was he wasn´t sure, but he was keeping careful track of his soft spots. They were the most dangerous areas. In such realms it seemed almost anything was possible, given the particular nature of the disease. The bright light that emanated from his body while he slept was among the more innocuous dangers presented by the ailment. He tried not to think about the more devastating repurcussions it could involve. Better to keep his mind occupied with the world of puppetry. As a child he had a whole set of puppets. Nice puppets Circus puppets. He took them with him everywhere he went. His adventures in the world were always shared by the puppets. But then the puppets got jealous when he left them home once. They set fire to his house and his family and everything he knew. It was after the fire that he discovered that he, too, was a puppet. A little boy puppet running in the street with a pack of matches and a smile as big as the North Pole.