This Is Me Lying


There has been a lot of studies conducted about lying, and the effect it has on a person's life. Some claim that men lie almost twice as much than women, while others argue the exact opposite. In one such study, it was found that children start telling falsehoods by the age of two or three, and the frequency in which they do increases with age. One even states that within a span of ten minutes, the average human will lie 2.92 times

But what if a person's life, their whole existence is a lie? What then? Is it considered one big lie, or a mess of little ones?

I reach up to itch my head, because the newly bleached hair is still burning my scalp. It feels like poison because I know it's fake.


I realize that the woman in front of me is trying to grab my attention, and she appears concerned. I wonder how long she was calling me.

"I'm going to need see a form of identification," she says slowly, and then smiles, but it's forced and grates on my nerves. Her teeth are yellow around the edges, and I can smell the cigarette smoke coming off her clothes.

I pull my wallet out of the bag hanging on my shoulder and dig through it for my I.D. card. The stack of previous ones almost falls onto the ground but I catch them.

Paige Hamilton, no. Katelyn Murphy, no. Brooke Johnson, no. I find the right one and pass it over to her. Christine Fultz, 22. She looks it over, glancing between the picture on it and my face.

This woman's obviously not very bright if she can't tell I had made the card just last night.

"Christine?" she asks, just to be sure.

Another lie. I nod, flashing my teeth in a small smile. They feel filmy, slick, like the whitening paste is still on them.

She taps some keys on her computer, shuffles some papers around for a minute, then hands me a stack of thick papers; my boarding pass, receipt, and some brochures, along with my I.D. back.

"Enjoy your trip to California," she chirps.

I move out of the line, pulling the suitcases behind me. I had managed to squish my meager belongings into only two, and a carry-on bag. I check the first two into baggage claim, and hoist the other onto my shoulder.

The security line is slow-moving, but I pass through without incident. They once again check my I.D. and my ticket before letting me by and I'm astounded by how slow they are.

The airport terminal is noisy and crammed and everything hurts my ears. Kids are running around screaming, chasing other kids that seem to have no parents. One runs by me, a clear, sticky substance dribbling from it's mouth and nose. I shrink out of the way, terrifed. Maybe it's infected.

I find a seat away from the rest to wait for my flight to be called and pass the time by picking at my nails.

They're painted a glittery blue.

I hate nail polish, but I know that Christine Fultz would like it. It goes along with her perfectly white teeth, and beachy blonde hair. I mentally go through the list of things she likes in my head, trying to remember it all.

She I like to surf. I like dogs, preferabbly small, fluffy ones. And organic tea. I grimace as I realize that once I get to California I'm going to have to learn how to surf. I can't even stand on a skateboard, and that's on the ground. How am I supposed to do it on water?

Now Boarding Flight I-88 to Los Angeles, California

I stand up, smooth the skirt of my black and white dress down, and gather up my bag.

There is a flood of people by the door, a perky looking brunette stationed outside of it. She asks to see my ticket and I pass it over wordlessly. Her dull gray eyes scan it before handing it back over.

"Have a nice flight," she says cheerily.

The plane is stuffy when I cimb on, and smells like anticipation and sweat. I check my ticket again. Seat 21A. The small amount of happiness I get from seeing it's a window seat and is crushed by the woman sitting next to it. She's already chewing on peanuts loudly, the shells falling onto the floor. Her frizzy, dirty hair is sticking out in odd directions, and there's a pulsing heat coming off her body.

"Um, excuse me," I manage to grit out.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she booms out. "Didn't mean to be in your way, sweetheart. Thought this seat was empty, you see."

She stands up to let me by. There's a split second where her body is against mine and she smells vaguely like lunch meat.

"So, headed to great ol' California, huh?" she asks once I settle down. "First time going there myself. Gonna see my son, Calvin. He's a big producer up on one of those fancy movie sets with all the stars. Our family is real proud of him, my Calvin."

I pull my shoulder bag up onto my lap and hug it to my chest, trying to block her out. But her voice is blasting in my ear, the tone loud and grating. She leans over me to look out the window and I recoil back into my seat.

"This little state here, New Mexico, doesn't seem like much. All that red. Nothing like my homestate of North Carolina. Now there is a sight to see. My family has been on the same plot of land since the Civil War, and it is just something beautiul."

My eyes are boring holes into the side of her head so hard, I'm surprised her hair hasn't erupted into flames. Flakes of peanuts are spraying from her mouth now, hitting the man in the seat in front of her.

"People don't think it's much, but-"

"Listen," I bite out. "Let's do this the easy way, where I don't snap and break your nose, and you stop annoying me. Okay? Think you can do that for the next couple hours?"

Her fat lips gape open, opening and closing like a fish. It's comical in a way that's nauseating, because there's peanuts everywhere.

I turn back to the window and stare out onto the dusty, red horizon. Anger and annoyance is frothing in my veins, and I let out a breath. It's only a matter of minutes before I hear the women striking up a conversation with a different person, and I'm grateful.

I did not need to get arrested for another fight. Too many and the wrong people were going to catch up with me.

The flight attendant's voice drifts over the speakers, informing us of seatbelts and the exits. The plane takes off, and the the thrill of leaving is almost overshadowed by the sadness.

Dread sinks to the bottom of my stomach, because I know this isn't the last time I'd be leaving a place that I had started to call home.

I glance down at my painted nails. The glitter is flaking off onto my dress already and I grimace before starting to pick at it.


This is me lying.
♠ ♠ ♠
I liked this. I think.


PS Got the lying info from here.