Everyone lies
Everyone has been lied to. It's something we've all done, and something that's been done to us more times than we can count. Some do it out of fear. Some lie to protect their loved ones. Some lie because of habit–even if its not needed. Some do to make their close ones happy but most? Most of them, they lie to protect themselves.
We have been taught not to trust strangers, no to go after them even if they lure you with sweets and lollies, not to talk to them. Why? because they can be dangerous but nobody ever teaches us how to prepare for the moment you realize that the real danger was never the strangers—it was the ones you knew, your own blood– Your family, friends, the one you believe they'll never hurt you,the one who kissed your forehead, the one who tucked you in bed.
No one warns you that family can be poison.
What would you do if someone walked up to you one day and told you that your entire life was a lie? That everything you believed, everything you were told growing up, was false? That's what happened to me. I didn't believe it at first. How could I? I was a child–too naive and innocent for this world.
But sometimes it only takes one moment to destroy everything. One truth to rip through the lies like wildfire.
Growing up everything started to make sense but I still can't forget the way something changed in their expression flickered in their eyes—something else I couldn't name then, but I know now was fear when they heard my father's name.
I still remember those sirens. My father in handcuffs. Those questions they asked. The cold floor.
The worst part? My mother. Her body hanging from the ceiling fan, swinging gently like she was still alive. But she wasn't. Her eyes were open, but there was nothing behind them anymore. Nothing left. Just silence.
I just stood outside that partially open door, frozen. My eyes not believing what they just saw—my mom, they only person who loved me, the one I trusted the most in the world, her legs swinging and that's when grandma started dragging me away.
Then came the questions. So many of them. Cold rooms and colder faces. My feet swinging from the metal chair, not touching the ground. A clipboard with my name scribbled on it in red ink. I didn't understand half of what they were asking, and the other half—I didn't want to answer. Because deep down, I already knew.
My father— his white shirt covered in blood, his hands from which he...
He didn't cry. He didn't scream. He just looked at me like he wanted to say something but couldn't. Or wouldn't.
They say time heals. No. They lie. It just makes you hollow.
It eats you, bit by bit.