A/N: A look at metaphors reversed.

You knew that it would boil down to this, right? Well... you were right. So, here I am. Typing. It is, at first glance, a provocative piece of linguistic beauty, but as you strip away the layers like so much discarded wrapping paper, you will start to see inside. The wrapping paper, ripped away, is no longer the gaudy cheerfulness you had first trained your eyes on. Its subjugated message of 'Happy Birthday!' now seems bitterly ironic as it is littered across the floor. Your hands tremble as the layers are torn away, and the innermost layers, you realise, are black and decaying.

Perhaps it draws parallels to rotted flesh in your mind? I would not be surprised, for you are getting closer to the Truth. Delve deeper.

The Truth rears its ugly head as you struggle with the last layer. It is stubborn, the last, and determined not to relinquish its hold on what could be the Truth's only remaining disguise. But your hands are determined, and with a mighty 'rip', the layer is torn off.

Be warned; what you now see is nothing but the Truth, and the Truth has pointy teeth and a great appetite for agony and destruction.

You take a shocked step back from the Truth, eyes wide as you struggle to comprehend it.

"What is this?" you ask me, and perhaps the tone you use is not one of terror, but of wary confusion and alarm. I can only frown as I hear these words, noting, much to my chagrin, that I had perhaps underestimated you.

No matter... it will not happen again. I train my eyes on the Truth, and I watch it squirm. "That is the Truth." I inform you, and you look back at me in annoyance, but your eyes easily slip to the Truth again.

The Truth twists its ugly head and trills thoughtfully into the air, and my expression cannot help but soften. The Truth is a fragile thing, and as it lies so innocently before me I can only confess that I care for it deeply, despite my knowledge of the destruction it can bring. It looks about itself in confusion, and settles on a high-pitched note of annoyance as it twists its head at the both of us.

"This is not the truth." you inform me.

"This is the Truth." I disagree.

"No. The truth cannot be contained within a box. It is purely metaphysical." You pause, taking in my confused expression for a second with some annoyance. "The truth is a concept! This is not a culmination of reality and accuracy. This is not the name for facts or actuality. This is a creature!"

"Yes." I agree, confused expression still not having left my face. "What of it?"

Now you look at me as if I am insane. Perhaps I am, but I cannot see how that would affect this matter.

"The truth is a concept. Not some wretched creature that stares at the world with new eyes."

"The Truth is new to this world. The Truth is not a concept." Between us, the Truth looks at me again with an innocent expression, and wriggles a little in the box. I watch it, affection crossing my face for a second, as the box tips and the small black creature is splayed across the ground. It looks up with such emotion in its eyes that I chuckle aloud at the antics, and it wriggles out of the tipped box. You regard it with suspicion.

"The truth is ancient, and permanent, even if it is strangled by lies. The truth is not physical, as this creature is."

"The Truth is in no way old at all, or else you would be running for your life!" I protest, and you raise an eyebrow. "Plus, Lies would never strangle the Truth. They get on too well for any rough-housing."

The black blob had, by now, scrambled to its feet and was cautiously poking about the room. The stone floors and musty smell didn't, apparently, hold much for it, as it soon collapsed into a corner with an indignant snort. I keep half an eye upon it, still somewhat weary. If it was bored again, it might-

It was too late. It had inhaled in that way. I knew I was in trouble.

Eyes wide, I rushed towards it just in time to be engulfed by the smoke pouring out of its nostrils. The creature had a look of utmost concentration upon its face as it spewed the foul stuff into the room. Sighing, I pick the Truth up and shake it a little until the smoke stops.

Then suddenly, realisation dawns upon you, or so it appears because your face takes upon the expression of one who has been struck by an epiphany.

"This is a dragon!" you exclaim, and I raise an eyebrow to the fact you had only just worked this out.

"The Truth is a dragon." I confirm. Your eye twitches, minutely.

Temper flaring, you ask; "You named your dragon 'the Truth'?"

I nod and smile politely, confused at your aggravation.

"You idiot!"

And now I can only laugh at your expression. Your lips curl upwards, and soon you can only laugh too. In my arms, the Truth decides it is fed up of the loud humans, and bites me.

This is a good enough prompt as any to quickly stop laughing, but do I perhaps hear your laughter increasing in volume?

How cruel of you.

The Truth has bitten me yet again.