You Can't Spell Believe Without Lie
Prologue.
June 5, 2007
I’m a compulsive liar. I don’t want to be, but I am. And Diary dear, I know you probably don’t care an awful lot, but no one else seems to listen very well. As I write, I can hear my parents – well, my father and my step mother – screaming at each other through the walls. They aren’t going to listen. My sister isn’t home; she never is. She can’t listen if she’s not home. So, Diary, you see, you’re all I have left.
Now, Diary, you might ask why I’m even bothering to tell you this. You might, if you were alive, but you’re not, so I guess it really doesn’t matter. Why explain yourself to an inanimate object?
I get my habit of lying honestly, so to speak. My habit echoes from my father’s. Every time I talk, just about, a lie seems to escape from my lips. I think the truth in my mind, but I guess that don’t amount to much, seeing as I’m the only one who hears it.
My friends tell me I need help. True, I don’t have many friends, but the ones I do have say that I need help. I try not to lie to my friends as much as others, but sometimes I don’t have the greatest successes. They understand.
My grandmother tells me I need to go to church more often.
I guess I agree with both of them. But I don’t see how they will stop my lies, on account’a church just helps in your heart, and I’d probably just lie to the counselor.
As I write, the screaming of my parents dies down, and then comes to a stop, ever so slowly. My father’s mighty footsteps vibrate through his room, falling heavily on their wooden floor; mine’s the only room with carpet. His footsteps echo down the hallway; into my room. I tell myself I’ll ask for privacy as he opens my door.
“Lily, what are you doing?” he questions. He steps through my open doorway, up to my bed, and sinks onto the edge of it next to me. If he notices my diary and pen, he doesn’t acknowledge them, and makes no moves to try to read them. He usually respects my privacy.
I look up at him, notice how his large, rough hands are still trembling with anger, and I decide that maybe it’s not so good of an idea to ask him to leave. I force a smile, setting down my pen. “Nothing.” Just writing down every bad thought so I don’t explode from anger…
“That’s nice…” He smiles back. “Do you want to come to the store with me? You seem lonely.” I examine his face; it tells me that he’s lying. I can see right through most of his lies, his emerald green eyes are very expressive. My father doesn’t think I’m lonely; he just knows that he himself is. And, he doesn’t want to leave me alone with my step mother; he knows all too well that she isn’t fond of me.
I like my dad, I don’t want to lie to him, but I do anyway. “Sure,” I murmur. But not really. I want to stay here and write, to lock myself in my room, where I have peace and quiet. Where I’m away from all the anger and questions.
He examines my face, my brown eyes, trying to determine if I’m lying. He finds nothing; my eyes aren’t as expressive as his. He brushes a strand of dirty blonde hair from my face and nods; he’s decided I’m telling the truth. If only he knew the lies that he misses. “Okay, then,” he says, “Come on” He pushes himself off my bed and starts to leave my room.
I nod to his back and stand up, pulling at my shirt; smoothing out my jeans; lining up my bracelets. I shake a loose strand of hair, fallen from my ponytail, out of my face and slip on my tennis shoes.
So, this is where I leave you, Diary, dear. Me, Lily Mellisa Richards, the compulsive liar; the awful daughter; the outcast. Take your pick.
Goodbye…
I’m a compulsive liar. I don’t want to be, but I am. And Diary dear, I know you probably don’t care an awful lot, but no one else seems to listen very well. As I write, I can hear my parents – well, my father and my step mother – screaming at each other through the walls. They aren’t going to listen. My sister isn’t home; she never is. She can’t listen if she’s not home. So, Diary, you see, you’re all I have left.
Now, Diary, you might ask why I’m even bothering to tell you this. You might, if you were alive, but you’re not, so I guess it really doesn’t matter. Why explain yourself to an inanimate object?
I get my habit of lying honestly, so to speak. My habit echoes from my father’s. Every time I talk, just about, a lie seems to escape from my lips. I think the truth in my mind, but I guess that don’t amount to much, seeing as I’m the only one who hears it.
My friends tell me I need help. True, I don’t have many friends, but the ones I do have say that I need help. I try not to lie to my friends as much as others, but sometimes I don’t have the greatest successes. They understand.
My grandmother tells me I need to go to church more often.
I guess I agree with both of them. But I don’t see how they will stop my lies, on account’a church just helps in your heart, and I’d probably just lie to the counselor.
As I write, the screaming of my parents dies down, and then comes to a stop, ever so slowly. My father’s mighty footsteps vibrate through his room, falling heavily on their wooden floor; mine’s the only room with carpet. His footsteps echo down the hallway; into my room. I tell myself I’ll ask for privacy as he opens my door.
“Lily, what are you doing?” he questions. He steps through my open doorway, up to my bed, and sinks onto the edge of it next to me. If he notices my diary and pen, he doesn’t acknowledge them, and makes no moves to try to read them. He usually respects my privacy.
I look up at him, notice how his large, rough hands are still trembling with anger, and I decide that maybe it’s not so good of an idea to ask him to leave. I force a smile, setting down my pen. “Nothing.” Just writing down every bad thought so I don’t explode from anger…
“That’s nice…” He smiles back. “Do you want to come to the store with me? You seem lonely.” I examine his face; it tells me that he’s lying. I can see right through most of his lies, his emerald green eyes are very expressive. My father doesn’t think I’m lonely; he just knows that he himself is. And, he doesn’t want to leave me alone with my step mother; he knows all too well that she isn’t fond of me.
I like my dad, I don’t want to lie to him, but I do anyway. “Sure,” I murmur. But not really. I want to stay here and write, to lock myself in my room, where I have peace and quiet. Where I’m away from all the anger and questions.
He examines my face, my brown eyes, trying to determine if I’m lying. He finds nothing; my eyes aren’t as expressive as his. He brushes a strand of dirty blonde hair from my face and nods; he’s decided I’m telling the truth. If only he knew the lies that he misses. “Okay, then,” he says, “Come on” He pushes himself off my bed and starts to leave my room.
I nod to his back and stand up, pulling at my shirt; smoothing out my jeans; lining up my bracelets. I shake a loose strand of hair, fallen from my ponytail, out of my face and slip on my tennis shoes.
So, this is where I leave you, Diary, dear. Me, Lily Mellisa Richards, the compulsive liar; the awful daughter; the outcast. Take your pick.
Goodbye…