Writing Piece ‘I Can See Right Through Your Lies’

in Senior School News

People talk about being able to see right through someone’s lies, but this is merely a figure of speech, correct?  Some days I wish my void of despair would just swallow me whole, spare me the pain of complete and utter honesty.

I can’t lie.  Literally.  If I so much as slip a white lie between pursed lips, a circle of daylight replaces my stomach and I become a doughnut.  A sugar-coated lie.  From the day I could talk, I have become mute.  If I had to talk, I would have to align perfect sentences, constructed hours before, to avoid the outside world being stunned with this unfortunate incredibility.  My school days consist of sitting alone, escaping all human contact, tearing myself away from secrets and lies.  Then one day, I did something that changed all of that.

A horrifying inky black liquid, as thick and poisonous as tar, covered my heart that day.  I lost all the bittersweet magic inside of my soul… and I did it.  I killed him.

The swirling magenta droplets that bore the inevitable fate of Mr Beasley, lay cunningly at the bottom of the glass, resting on my desk, just minutes away from taking a life and twisting it violently.  The giggling, fake chuckles of my mother and father drifted up the stairs to the attic.  My lair.  Little did they know, that in no more than ten ordinary minutes, it would be their guest of honour’s final few.

I scooped up the delicate beaker, my steps feeling heavier and heavier as they hit each stair.  As I approached the kitchen, my world became darker.  I became darker.  My fingers clasped around an expensive wine glass and into it I poured a long stream of the red alcohol.  One by one the drops of poison fell into the mix until they were all swallowed by the unsuspecting beverage.  Carrying it out to the living room, with no second thoughts, I gave Mr Beasley his drink along with a flicker of a smile and a dangerous wink.

There he was, sixteen minutes later, motionless on the ground, my mother in hysterics and my father ushering paramedics to his aid.  I waited silently in the corner, not daring to speak a word, just observing the scene unfold around me.  I knew I wouldn’t go under the radar, but I did not expect to be called to the police station for interrogation.

Sitting in a grey, lifeless box, with little more than a clock, bearing the deafening noise of the ticking of hour-long seconds, the detective’s stare bore into my head, his eyes were daggers.  I knew the moment he moved his lips, it would all be over.  My secret revealed.

He asked me blatantly if I killed Mr Beasley and the word just tumbled out, rolling off my tongue like a water droplet.

“No.” And nothing happened…​

 

Tilly Schier 9M