The Last Lie

by K.H. Ivywater

Written on August 17, 2006.

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The ugly blue carpet she’d been forced to look at for five years was soaking up her blood. She’d seen it do the same to dog piss and cat vomit, grape juice and barbecue sauce, so she wasn’t too terribly worried. Maybe now they’d tear it up and replace it, but it was doubtful. She wouldn’t bet on it even if she had the cash, and she certainly wouldn’t hold her breath, though at this point the damage from something like that would be negligible.

It would be a few hours before they found her. They were busy being a family; watching crime shows, no doubt, and quite oblivious to the scene playing out upstairs. Before, they wouldn’t have found her for days, but now there was someone else, someone who called her “beloved” but didn’t mean it. They shared a bed at night, the one she was leaning against, and so she’d be found eventually, but not soon.

She’d thought about going downstairs, smiling politely at everyone, and then calmly blowing her head to bits, but she doubted their ability to notice even that. They looked right through her as it was, so half the poignancy was lost right there. Then the terrific noise would probably be mistaken for part of the show, at least for awhile. Unless the dog started barking, of course, but then who knew when even she would choose to be observant.

Whatever the case, it was better upstairs, better to be alone and the only person in the room than to be alone while surrounded by people who claim to love you.

She knew what love was, and what they gave her wasn’t it. She loved that boy downstairs, the one with the beautiful dark hair and brown eyes, and a gorgeous, unnamable skin tone. The one with the most incredible smile, laugh, sense of humor. The boy could brighten her moods, but he couldn’t love her right, and so here she was, with her heart broken though she was sure it shouldn’t be, because this was probably how love was to the normal person: unimpressive, without true connection or intimacy.

She knew better than to hope for rescue, but she thought about it nevertheless, thought about how maybe the boy would suddenly miss her, and come upstairs to find her like this; call an ambulance, hold her, cry, and then sit next to her bed at the hospital until things were okay again. But it wasn’t going to happen, because she was simply off the radar; the boy hadn’t given her a second thought since sitting down.

So much for love. So much for “forever” and “always” and all of the other whispered nothings that had lived up to just that.

She felt her anger rising, her desire to scrawl the words “I hate you, _____” across the floor in blood (and oh how dramatic that would be). But she knew the feeling for what it was: a cover for her pain, something she had learned to live with after being hurt one too many times. That number had been steadily increasing since the first; her frustration mounting, growing more intense. She would be glad when it was over. She didn’t like who she’d become.

She wasn’t going to leave them a note. With any luck, the lack thereof would drive them crazier than if they’d had it explained to them outright. To be honest, she didn’t have anything left to say.

She had thought about doing a voice recording, but not for them; rather, she wanted to document the last moments, as she’d always been curious as to how they felt. But then a recording would do nothing for her own satisfaction; she was living it, in a manner of speaking, wasn’t she? And it would certainly not serve the general public; it would never make it that far. So no, no documentation, nothing to leave behind. Just a dusty old room that hadn’t much changed since she’d moved in, and a large amount of unpaid student loans. That’s what her life amounted to.

“You have to find meaning for yourself,” she used to say, but in truth, when she applied it to her own life, she meant that you have to find it with one other person. So she’d tried that, twice in her nineteen years, and always for longer than most teenagers were willing to go. The boy had been her last chance, and the girl had been her first, but neither had been enough. And now she couldn’t find meaning for herself anymore even if she tried.

It was a familiar feeling: her heart breaking. It happened all too easily, in response to a simple look, a misplaced word, a feeling. Too many feelings; she was growing tired of them. Things that no one else felt, that they couldn’t possibly conceive; she had tried to explain, only to fail every time. They didn’t care to know. They didn’t want to understand. If they did, they would have to feel something, and what kind of life was that? Not one she could sell, that’s for sure. There’s never a market for emotional pain.

She could hear them talking downstairs. Laughing. Somehow the boy fit in better than she had ever managed to. At first it felt like replacement, but then she realized that she was never really considered a part of them, anyway.

Unwanted. That’s what she was. Even though she’d tried to be good, to be perfect, she still wasn’t wanted; she was only lied to, and even then, not very well.

But it was okay. Not in the way she used to say it was okay, with an unconvincing smile that they took for genuine. No. Oblivion would make it okay. It was the only thing she had left.

Her cell phone vibrated against her leg, and she let out a weak laugh. It was them. Calling from downstairs. She let it ring. She knew they wouldn’t follow up.

She was drowsy from the pills, and blood was pouring from her arms. She was so, so tired. “Of what?” the boy used to ask. At least he knew her a little.

She managed to pull herself onto the bed and lay down. She was leaving a bit of a mess, but she couldn’t quite care. Instead, she pulled her large stuffed bear to her chest; nuzzled its soft, red fur. She thought about happier times, back when she thought it could last, when she and the boy had seemed unstoppable.

In the end, she’d managed to convince herself. Oh, it would be okay tomorrow, once she’d rested awhile, once she’d had a chance to calm down. They were familiar words, but this was the last time they’d cross her mind, the last time she would lie to herself. The damage had already been done.

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The End