The Art of Lying

Prologue

When I first met James Levian, he immediately struck me as odd. Despite his youth, I could see exuberance in his eyes, with a spot of mischief hidden deep within the emerald eyes that captivated many, with their shining brilliance, and the twinkle they gave off in the moonlight. Despite these odd orbs, the rest of him was mostly plain. A constant fidgety, jittering movement constantly possessed him, and those orbs flitted from one sight to another, never remaining still for long. This was my first impression of James, just under a year ago. Of course, this was before all of the chaos happened. While James still conceded to the mental illnesses that would consume him only weeks later, he was much better at hiding them, despite having less cause to. He spoke in an even, enlightened tone, and was very loquacious in his speech patterns, displaying Victorian tendencies at many times.

While my first meeting with this boy was before all this trouble started, my real association with him started much later, in the middle of the trouble. As I recall it, we were in Turkey, in a resort, a beautiful place, when we first briefly met. Back then, I knew nothing of the boy I was soon to know very well, who would be living under my roof, for sanctuary. I knew nothing of the bloodied towels, the crying friends of his and long nights I would spend with this boy, tending to vicious wounds. That was all to come however.

Now, onto the business matters of this tale. Fortunately, I am not the one narrating this tale. I am simply the scribe of this story, told to me by none other than James Levian, shortly before he left my house. His words make up this story, made solely out of experiences of this remarkable boy. All comments by me in this story will be made in parentheses (like so). And so, with these formalities over with, James' words will flow.

D.L