Pants

I had always been a sober, level headed person. I prided myself on being logical and not jumping to conclusions. I had always believed that fear was rooted in misunderstanding, and once you understood something, the fear no longer had it's power.

Knowing this, you can understand my complete shock, when I started to notice strange, unexplainable things happening around me. They were things that completely defied my previous way of thinking. They've changed my life forever.

I was sitting in church, just as I always do on Sunday. I was listening with great interest and occasionally making a note about what was being said. As I was doing this, I couldn't help but notice my pants. They seemed bigger than normal. Were they longer? Maybe more baggy? I couldn't quite place what it was, but I quickly brushed aside the idea - after all, there could be no doubt that these pants were the same pants that I always wore. What a silly idea to think they were not my own.

As the days went on, I continued to notice my pants. There were things about them that made me question their identity and true character. The thoughts became very disruptive for me, occurring at all hours of the day. I would be in a meeting, or in the grocery store, and all of a sudden, I would look at my pants, and start to sweat. I would become very afraid and have to excuse myself to the restroom. There I would remove my pants and carefully examine every hem and stitch. I would look for something - anything - that would verify their identity. Only until I found something I recognized, would I put them back on and go about my business.

I hoped that time would solve my problem, but it didn't. In fact, it only made it worse. So I decided I would throw away every pair of pants I owned, and buy new ones. This seemed to solve the problem, but after a few days, the new pants began to take on the same qualities as my previous ones. I didn't trust my pants. They were not mine, and I would not wear them.

I quit my job, because I could no longer wear pants. I stayed at home and did what I could to make ends meet. I lived very cheap, and I learned how to make money on the internet. Things were going well, until one day, when I noticed my hand. It was typing something that I did not what it type, and I quickly pulled it away from the keyboard.

I looked at my hand, and carefully examine every detail. I moved each finger individually feeling every motion and knowing it was my own. I saw the scar from the time my neighbor's dog bit me. I saw my chewed fingernails and the large bony knuckles. It was indeed my hand. There could be no doubt.

But seeing what I had just seen, I could no longer trust my hand. It had stepped outside its bounds and had disobeying my orders and direction. I walked to the kitchen and opened the drawer under the counter. With my left hand (careful not to let my right hand know), I pulled out a large knife. My right hand would pay for its insolence. And it did.