literature

Liar

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I run my fingers through my bleached blonde hair and smell the faint aroma of shampoo. Peach. Claire told me I looked better in blonde than black. She was right. Damn bitch. Always needs to be right. I oughta put her in her place someday…

You know what I really hate though? Those goddamned gossip magazines. The words spread like wildfire, never choosing a side. One day they’ll be picking on this celebrity, the next they’ll dedicate a whole article on why we should pity them and what horrendous trauma they’ve received and blah, blah, blah.

Honestly? I don’t give a damn about these superficial bitches and bastards with their fucking faces on the covers of the magazines.

But today… Today, her face will be on the cover—someone who got their fifteen minutes of fame a little too late. It doesn’t matter to me though. She’s just superficial like the rest of them now, right? That picture of her isn’t her anymore, because she doesn’t exist.

Despite my being quite against the whole idea of gossip magazines, I find myself studying the picture that will soon be on the cover closely, as if it might reveal things I never figured out about her—about Kathy Summers. She always was a mystery, even to me, her girlfriend. It was a pity, but at least it was honest. She was, too. Very honest—maybe a bit too honest.

The picture is very appropriate. It’s of her and I walking into a club. We liked clubbing, that I must admit. I loved the sense of wild adventure, as did Kathy. She’s wearing a skimpy outfit, as usual, and she’s giving me the peace sign as she marches proudly into the club. Her smile is plastered onto her face, as if it doesn’t belong there and was cut from a different picture. I wouldn’t be surprised if it actually was.

The woman on the other side of the table is sitting, her legs slightly crossed. She has a nice skirt. It’s vibrantly colored, and I’m tempted to ask her where she got it. But I don’t. Because who would I wear it for, anyway? This woman is enthusiastic, possibly to a fault. She is biting the end of her pen as she scribbles down some notes. Her hair is blonde too. I wonder if she’s stupid. Ah, I’m insulting myself. Well, mine’s not natural, but hers is. So there.

“OK,” she chirps. Yes, chirps. Yes, stupid. I rest my case. “Let’s get this interview started.” I clench my fists together irritably, though my features don’t betray my intended demeanor. “Your girlfriend, Kathy Summers, was murdered in a hate crime last week. Correct?” I merely nod, looking down at my own boots. They are Prada, the only piece of Prada I own. I thought they’d be worthy for this occasion, in a sick way. Kathy would snicker at that…

“All right then,” she continues merrily, in spite of what she just confirmed. Disgusting. “When did you two start dating?”

“Ummm…last September,” I say, hesitating slightly. Should I say more? I suppose so, since the woman is still looking at me expectantly. I shake my head at her with a sigh. “We met in college and hit it off right away.” There. Happy? Of course.

“I see,” she says, jotting the notes down quickly. I watch her hand run across the paper at lightning speed with feigned interest. “Did you two both know your sexuality, or did it start off as an experiment? Was both of you being female an obstacle in your relationship?” I sigh. Here come the “heavy” questions.

“We both knew what we were doing,” I assure her patiently, but I’m really trying not to lash out at her. “We were serious and knew we were very much lesbian.” She lady chuckles. I do not. Her hair is too straight, now that I think about it. And her ears are too big, and her mouth is like the gaping hole of Hell. “It wasn’t the first girl I’d gotten serious with, so I was used to all those ‘obstacles’ already. It was no big deal the fifth time. Same with her.” I failed to mention that I was her fifteenth, if Kathy counted correctly. She never was good at math though.

“Mm, no problems, I see,” she says, hinting at her shallow suspicion. She wants something juicy, but there’s nothing juicy about the beginning of our relationship. It was simple, but it was good. My knuckles are turning white, but I do not stop clenching them. The pain keeps me in check. I know how to use my nails, but I’d rather not be sued today. “Well, what do you think of her murder? It was quite brutal, wasn’t it?” She taps her pen against the wood and cocks her head. What a stupid, ignorant question.

I bet you’re curious now. Well, I’ll tell you then. She was raped, numerous times, and then had her genitals burned off. By then, I hoped she was unconscious, or dead, because afterwards, they ripped her apart. Limb by limb. Piece by piece. Yet they still couldn’t uncover her secrets, even when she was entirely exposed. How like her. How fitting. How horrible.

“It was devastating,” I say hastily, shuddering. “I didn’t think anyone was capable of such random cruelty.” I’m totaling bullshitting this whole thing. The lady smiles warmly, as if she understands. I hope she understands that I hate her guts.

“Well then, what was the late Ms. Summers like?”

Let me tell you something. Here’s another reason I hate these magazines: every victim is portrayed to be “loved by everyone, friendly, kind, generous, gentle, warm, humble, etc.” But I know that no one in the world is like that, so having people say it a bazillion times leads me to believe that they are lying through their teeth. And for what? To respect the dead?

They’re making their friend, lover, family member, whatever, into this perfect being who couldn’t have possibly deserved what they got. Their loved one became untouchable, unrecognizable. That is not respecting the dead. Since when has lying been respectful? No one is perfect, not even Kathy Summers. Especially not Kathy Summers.

Kathy Summers was always hiding from the world. She hated being vulnerable, though she loved to strut around our rented apartment naked whenever she wanted something from me. She hated being figured out, because then she wasn’t a mystery anymore. Then people could get close. Maybe she stayed a mystery through death so I’d always be chasing after who she really is—was—until the very bitter end. I know exactly what she is now—a corpse.

She was not loved by everyone. Her way of parting told that clearly. She had more enemies than I could count. Kathy just loved making people mad, including myself. She enjoyed their resentment to the fullest and she savored each infuriated scream. Always looking to say something controversial, I was constantly worried to take her out to meet my friends. I knew at least one of them would end up despising her by the end of the visit.

She was not friendly. She snapped easily, always making it clear that I was wrong and she was right. When people asked her questions, she merely asked them sarcastic questions back. If an opportunity arose where she could help someone without much inconvenience, she wouldn’t.

She was not generous. She was always asking people for money, even when she had plenty. She never gave anything away ever since eBay was invented, not even a damn paperclip. She was always asking favors but never returning them. Not that she promised she would or anything, mind you.

She was not gentle or warm. Sometimes, during our more heated arguments, she would resort to violence. Nothing extreme, mind you, but enough to bitch about. She was not warm. If anything, she was a cold demon who preyed upon the weak. Her touch always made me shiver, perhaps from pleasure or perhaps from her chilly demeanor. I prefer the latter.

Kathy was a horrible person. But…she loved me and I loved her, and she never lied to me. Ever. She was always honest, even when it would screw things up for her. She wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t warm, gentle, generous, humble, kind or friendly. She was a bitch, to put it in more current, down-to-earth terms, but we were in love.

I want to tell that lady everything about her, about how cruel and obnoxious she was, and how I was sure she had venom running through her veins, and how I loved her anyway, goddammit. Then I would break the stereotype and maybe I’d hear reasonable explanations about “the victim” after this fiasco.

And then I could get all this hatred off my chest, and Kathy would get what she deserved. Finally.

I open my mouth to speak and tell this woman every juicy detail about Kathy. She is going to have a field day, I know it. This will be groundbreaking event, and she’ll be rich because of it. This will be the only good thing Kathy has ever done for someone else. Even indirectly. Hah! The irony is going to kill me, I know it! What a great way to die.

But, as I open my mouth to speak, I find myself lying to this woman, telling her how gorgeous Kathy was, inside and out, and how she was the best girlfriend a woman could have.

I’m just like all the rest. I don’t have the heart to say who Kathy really was. But she deserves it. She deserved to be seen as something she isn’t. From Hell, she’ll know she’s no longer honest, the one good quality she had and she knew it. And she’ll suffer. How she’ll suffer.

Because she’s a perfect liar now.
This? My favorite thing I've written. Period.
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ro-M-an's avatar
Wow, its so honest. I feel like this could be a real thing, and I totally agree that people should portray people more realistically.