A/N: Ok, firstly this story will be seriously depressing, angsty, and may even involve character death, but I'm not sure yet. It deals with graphic sexual abuse of a child, so if that bothers you, please hit the back button or the little red 'x' on your browser. If I get any reviews on this that people like it, I'll continue, otherwise I'll take it down, and start over again. But anyways, thanks for reading.


My name is Shawn Spencer. I have a photographic memory, which allows me to pass myself off as a psychic to the Santa Barbara Police Department.

Really, that's all my life is when I think about it. It's all one big lie. Everything about me -who I am, my whole life, all of it -is just one big lie stacked on top of another. I don't even know who I really am, and how much of it is a lie that I designed to hide a lie that I thought up to cover another lie to...

Well, you get the idea.

I wasn't always this way though.


I talk a lot. Well, I never really stop talking, to be perfectly honest. Just about everyone who's ever met me agrees: they all want me to shut up.

I didn't always talk non-stop.

It actually started when I was twelve. That was when I realized that if I was talking, I wasn't thinking. That my brain could only focus on what I was trying to say, rather than assail me with crystal clear, full length, unedited, HD quality home movies of memories I never wanted in the first place.

Lie #1: The great Shawn Spencer loves to talk.

That this point, if I stop talking, or even think about not talking, my brain kicks into overdrive, and starts spouting random facts. Which tends to make people think I'm insane, but I guess it's better than the alternative, huh?

Lie #2: It's impossible to give yourself A.D.D.

I wasn't always the overactive, jabbering, easily distracted guy everyone knows and loves. And not just because everyone doesn't love me.

When I was a kid, I could focus on anything for hours, never losing my concentration. But shortly after my thirteenth birthday, I realized that if I kept my thought process moving, let any little thing distract me, I never had to think about anything before something else would distract me. Now, even when I try to focus, I can't stop myself from getting distracted.

Lie #3: People who act happy, are happy.

It started out as something to distract everyone. Tell a few jokes, make everybody laugh, and all of the sudden, everybody things you've got it all together, and your life is perfect.

Yeah at first people questioned why I went from depressed zombie to class clown. But after a while, they forgot about Zombie Shawn, and only seen Clown Shawn.

Lie #4: Photographic memory is a gift.

My mind has always been my worst enemy.

I was raped two hundred and thirty seven times from the time I was nine 'til I was thirteen.

And I remember every little detail.

I remember the exact number of tiles (five hundred and forty-eight) in the elementary school showers where I was raped.

I remember e very last detail of the clothes I was wearing, and the knife my gym teacher used to threaten me.

I remember every mole, scar, and hair on Mr. Beneviste's body.

I remember the exact size, shape, and other details of his genitalia, right down to the small scar on his penis from where he had a mole removed.

So you tell me: photographic memory, gift or curse?

It started my fifth grade year. Since second grade, I'd heard the older boys say to stay away from him. That something was way off about the guy.

But Jonathon Beneviste was my gym teacher. So while I might have been able to avoid him four days a week, I had gym class every Thursday for two and a half hours.

The third week of my fifth grade grade year -October first – was when he caught me alone in the showers for the first time.

Five hundred and forty-eight tiles

Eleven bars of soap.

Twenty three dirty towels, not counting mine.

Thirty four light bulbs. Seven of those blown.

Six drains.

Twelve shower heads.

One backpack, a pair of sneaks, four socks and seven pencils left behind.

It started at three oh four and twenty-two seconds.

It finally stopped at three twenty-nine and thirty-six seconds.

It seemed a hell of a lot longer.

Every Thursday until summer vacation, except for twice when I got out pretending to be sick, and once when he was outta town for the week.

After fifth grade graduation, I thought I was safe. Thought I'd never have to see him again, and I could move on with my life.

Imagine my surprise when I walk into the middle school gymnasium for sixth grade orientation, and see him standing there, chatting with the other new teachers. He'd been transferred to the middle school, and the torture continued for another three years.