Rising Above

You're a pathological liar.

You weave exuberant tales of lost love and life beyond what you actually have. You speak of a past where you rose above tormentors and a future where you're looking back at them, extending your hand and saying, "I rose above. And now I'm going to show you how." You've been so many people that you're not even sure who you are anymore. Certainly not yourself – that would be boring.

You do this because every single day, you trudge into your bathroom to get ready; washing your face, brushing your teeth, putting on your newest mask. And then you look up and, for a split second, you see yourself. And you see all of the stories, all of the lies, battling for dominance in your reflection. And for that second, you know you're not good enough. That no matter how hard you try, you will never be enough. So you need to be someone else, because if you do that then maybe you won't be forgotten. Maybe, just maybe, people will glance at you with recognition, their eyes widening and their mouth's agape. Maybe, long after you've passed on, people will recount to their grandkids about that one time they met you and how their lives were changed forever. So you blink, purse your lips, and begin a new day.

Maybe today you'll be lawyer. Or a doctor. Maybe even a special operative, on their way to their first mission straight out of training. Yes, an agent. That will do. Today you will be an agent.

Of course, that would mean you need a back story. An identity. Because what if someone asks a question about yourself and you don't know how to answer? A back story. Of course. What shall it be today? Perhaps a rich kid brought up in the upper east side of Manhattan, born to elites parents with their stuffy way of speaking and stigma for decorum. Or possibly a lonely child, filtered through the foster system only to be stolen in the dead of night from their bed, with promises of 'a new, better life' and a purpose beyond what they were destined to have.

You need a back story, because what is a mask without a tale?

Some days you forget that your lies are simply that: lies. Untruths. Terminological inexactitudes. Which, mind you, is just a fancy, circumlocutious way of saying lies, but it sounds more pleasant. And you like pleasant things.

You remember that when you were eight years old, your parents dropped you off at a new school. You were scared, but you were never one to show such a pointless emotion. Even then, you knew the power that a mask holds. If someone didn't really know what you were thinking, then it was easier to get away with more lies. And lying was fun.

When you stepped onto the playground, you remember surveying the crowd. It was still too early for cliques to have been formed. Everyone associated with everyone else, all running and laughing and doing what all young kids did at that age. So you joined them.

Back then, it was called playing pretend. Not lying. Because that was an ugly word, and your mom always told you that you shouldn't use ugly words. It was wrong.

When you grew up, you learned that not everything was black and white. The words 'right' and 'wrong' took on many forms, each relative to the situation. That's how you justified lying. It wasn't hurting anyone. Not really.

When you were twenty two, you graduated from college, a degree under your arm and your hair falling into your face. It was windy that day – but not the cold wind, the one that blew stale, hot air into your face. You sighed, looking down at the piece of paper that you worked four long years for. A piece of paper. You sighed again, brushing the hair out of your face and wondering when it was appropriate for you to leave. Wasn't this supposed to be a happy occasion? Why did you feel so empty?

You were then engulfed in a hug, the force nearly knocking you backwards. You laughed – so hollow – and wrapped your arms around your best friend.

"We did it!" She shouted, her smile overtaking her face and her eyes twinkling. You smiled back, shaking your head in disbelief. Then you wrapped your arms around her shoulders and went to find your parents.

That degree now hangs above your desk, framed and displayed like a trophy. It was a piece of paper. Another mask. You sit back in your chair, closing your eyes and picturing your latest facade. You've decided to go with the idea of a foster child turned special agent. That sounded pleasant. From rags to riches. Only the riches were a metaphor. Not actual riches. Just a sense of doing what is right. People ate that sort of thing up.

When people ask you what you're doing with your life, you always pause for a few seconds, debating what to say. I'm a liar. I lie. Not because you want the attention, but because it's fun. You like to lie. But then you shake your head, and laugh that hollow laugh you've had since you were fifteen and found out how easy it was to die and how hard it was to live. "I'm a writer," you say, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. And it is.

You're a writer. And maybe, just maybe, one day you'll finally get your happily ever after, too. But you don't count on it. So you keep lying.

a/n: First story! I hope you liked it, and, even if you didn't, please review. It would make my day :)