.
The Truth:
I am a compulsive liar. I lie all the time. I can't help it; it's like a tick some people have, only it's not that. It gives me a thrill, lying, and you know? I don't even feel bad after.
Spot Conlon was not a compulsive liar, no, but he was a compulsive idiot. He couldn't help it…Which is why he got himself killed.
Poor fool.
The Lie:
No one killed Spot Conlon. The things they tell you? Rumors, legends passed down from leader to leader, until they've been blown out of proportion and don't even sound remotely like what actually happened.
Spot Conlon killed himself one night in late August. I saw it happen. I saw him, standing alone on the docks, just staring out into the water.
That water never got warm.
He stared at it for so long I almost considered going back inside. But he was my leader; I was his second. Now, good ol' Spot would be turning over in his grave if he knew I was telling you this…and that's considering he actually had a grave—which he didn't, save for the icy waters of the East River—but I looked out for him.
I had to; it was my job as his second.
The Truth:
There was no turf war; he didn't die then. We had them yes, but Spot Conlon? Die in a mere turf war? No possible way. Spot Conlon would wait for Hell to freeze over before he would even consider dying in a turf war.
No, this was a murder he couldn't see coming.
It came from his second in command. Me.
Yes, I wanted him dead. So what? I didn't like the guy. I was his second, but it wasn't like I watched out for him or anything.
Why should I have? He never looked out for me.
And he stole my power, damn it. I was supposed to be the leader. I was destined for it. I was bigger, stronger, older…
And he took up the 'throne' before I could even sit my rear-end in it.
So, one morning in February, when the snow covered the ground like frosting on a cake, I did it.
I killed him.
The Lie:
He didn't move for so long. I wanted to walk up to him; ask him if he was okay. Spot was the closest thing to a brother, to a best friend, that I'd ever had.
Spot Conlon never just sat around doing nothing. He was always moving, always on the prowl. Spot Conlon always had to know what was going on; know what was happening.
I suppose that's what made him a great leader.
But that night, as he stood there, alone, he wasn't looking for anything except an answer to the riddle of himself.
Spot Conlon was a riddle, a mystery if you will, to us all.
We never knew he was a conundrum to himself until the night he threw himself off the docks.
It wasn't even that deep. Seven feet at the most.
I didn't think much of it when he jumped in. We were always swimming, always. I thought he'd just needed some cool, refreshing water to clear his head.
But when he didn't come back up onto the docks, my heart raced, and I felt the cold, sweeping cloak of panic swoop over me.
I raced to the edge of the docks. He was nowhere to be found.
I stared at the water. Before I knew what I was doing, I had jumped in after him.
The Truth:
Spot always got up early. Always. He never wasted a moment, that one. So when he arose that morning, I knew it was the time. The moment had finally presented itself; it was there in all its glory, beckoning to me.
I followed him out of the Lodging-house and to the docks. He climbed upon his perch and sat, gazing out at the clear blue water.
Poor fool didn't even see it coming.
I approached him, and he turned at the squeak of the wood.
Damn. Now I'd have to see his eyes, shockingly blue, or maybe they were vividly green—I never could decide—either way, I'd have to see them when he died.
That would be the hard part.
I wanted him dead, oh yes. More than anything else in the world, I wanted him dead so I could lead. But watching him die was bad enough; I wasn't sure I could stomach watching him die while he looked me in the eye.
But I kept it casual. He asked me what I was doing up so early; I told him I couldn't sleep. Then, as he turned his head to look back at the water, I did it.
I whipped out the knife I had kept concealed in the pocket of my pants and stabbed him with it, smack in the heart.
His head flew back to me as he felt the icy blade slice into his skin.
His beautiful eyes widened as he looked down at the knife handle that protruded from his chest, keeping the blood inside his body.
I pulled it out. Hard, fast.
He gasped. He began to sputter, his eyes darting from side to side as he struggled for air.
His knees collapsed and he fell to the docks at my feet.
He rolled over, lying on his back, all the while looking up at me.
His mouth widened as if he were going to try to speak, but his lungs couldn't pull in enough breath.
His tongue was devil red, and his teeth were the color of strawberries. His blood was seeping into his mouth, making its way from his chest.
The Lie:
After diving down into the depths of the River several times, my hands found his body. Using all my strength, I pulled his limp body to the surface. He floated.
I pulled him over to the edge of the dock and pulled myself up. His perch was so far above, and he hadn't jumped from where we usually swam.
No, he picked a space further down, closer to the surface of the water. He picked the area where he'd had to work to keep himself under long enough to drown. To punish himself, I suppose, but for what I do not know.
The distance from the top of the water to the hard surface of the dock was a mere two feet up, and I pulled his body out of the water after me.
He wasn't breathing.
He wasn't moving.
I checked for a pulse. Nothing.
My lungs nearly closed with the sheer terror running through me.
Not knowing what to do, I stared at him.
Back then, I hadn't known about breathing for him, or pumping on his chest. I was just a stupid kid of sixteen.
And my best friend was dead.
Maybe I could have saved him, but I didn't know what it was possible. So I did the only thing I could. I woke the boys, and, after they had raced down to see for themselves, we wrapped his body in the sheets from his bed.
We had no money for a cemetery plot, and we couldn't bear to see our leader buried in some unmarked grave. So, after saying a prayer in his name, we gently laid his body to rest in the East River.
Spot Conlon was dead.
I became leader.
That was so long ago. I still miss him.
The Truth:
He stared up at me, his eyes slowly glazing over as shock and death approached him. His body began to shake slightly, blood pooling out of his chest and spilling over his body onto the docks, staining the wood a deep red.
I smirked at him, reveling in my success: in a few moments, Spot Conlon would be dead. And I, as his second, would become leader.
He let out one last moan of pain before he was still. He stopped shaking, and his eyes lost the little light they had left. His chest ceased rising and falling with his breaths, and slowly, those eyes, those dangerous eyes, fluttered closed.
Spot Conlon was dead.
I became leader.
It was so long ago. I still don't regret it.
.
The honest to God truth? I'm a compulsive liar. So maybe what I told you was the truth is really the lie. Maybe it's the other way around. Did I kill him, or did he kill himself? Did any of it actually happen, or did Spot die an old man, warm in his bed?
You may never know.
But then again, maybe I was telling the truth.
But I probably lied.
{EndNotes:}
I don't own Spot, he owned himself. Disney owns Newises.
What do y'all think? I don't know where this came from. It just popped into my head tonight while I was watching a Lifetime movie…I love Lifetime.
But anyway.
Review me!!!
L'n'MP,
Glimmerkins