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Rated: 13+ · Prose · Dark · #2051069
The lies we tell hurt us more than we realise.
She supposes she's sat there more than once or twice telling lies to passers-by, acting honest and innocent but she's not too sure. It's been a long time, drawn out by the cold and calculating way in which the world has treated her. Now she's left to sit and suffer and she does not regret a single night, a single lie, a single person who has skimmed through her, sat on her, or ignored her.

Because now is the same as before.

Now is as raw and as honest as it's ever been.

She was young once, a person with as much sense of right and wrong as any. It quickly became twisted before her very eyes. She heard it all wrapped around good intentions – dirty machinations that seem so innocuous at first, that she was oblivious to at her best. She doesn't remember much from before. When all seemed good and right and light.

If it ever was.

When she sleeps she slips through the bars of her cell, something created of her own errors; horrors that are hers and hers alone.

Her only redemption is that she is alone. She has taken no one with her, corrupted no other souls; neither before nor after.

She doesn't remember when it started, nor when it finished. She just remembers the times in between when, sleeping on the bare strips of wood, shivering in the summer and getting lost in the fog of winter. She spent night after night surrounded by her own frozen breath and nothing else. No one else. Even in spring it was already over even as the rest of the world around her was beginning, renewing, restarting. For her it was always the end. Always over.

She grew icicles on her arms and spider-webs spread over her sides, fine strands of ice and web that covered her completely as time passed. A single movement would break everything, ruin the nature's hard work and when she sat up the next day everything fell away to the floor, melted and muted into the earth once more only to start again when she lay back down, closed her eyes for another night, another week, another amount of time she barely noticed. She was barely aware she even moved sometimes.

She wasn't alive, nor was she dead.

Just a ghost of an existence, taken from a woman who would not care for her, a father who could not care for her. Left to lie and be lied to. She was found here, she thinks, she's not sure. But there's no one to answer her questions, to prompt her memories, to even correct the few she still has a tenuous grasp of. Some are stronger than other, but still in pieces; lying to her mother, running away from her brother, sleeping in the same bed as another girl, like herself, small and blonde and not quite alive...


Somewhere, deep inside she remembers laughing.

Laughing at someone maybe. Cruel shakes of her body, amusement at misfortune rather than humour.

She was the person who had left her there, alone on the bench, asleep and at the end. No bad guy, no villain, no one person responsible for why she was here. No one person responsible for the person she had become, the person she always was. Just her. It was always just her.

It would always be just her, no matter what. Just her and the lies she's told.

She won't be telling lies any more.

She doesn't care.

588 Words
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