Rating: White Cortina - G
Word Count: 270 words
Notes: A very short piece from the Gene-perspective. (As an aside, longer fiction is very much encouraged, it's just that this hit me over the head.)
I lied when I was twenty-one. Over something as trivial as a pair of shoes. Oh, it was vital evidence. I was just doing my duty. And maybe it was worth it, perhaps it was always supposed to be that way. We put the no-good bastards away, didn’t we? But there are those times when I frown at the dashboard, hand resting on the wheel, thinking I should have found another method in the quest. How can you get to the truth by lying?
I lied when I was thirty-one. Made her think I was someone else. I think about it when I'm lying in bed and the streetlight shines through the crack of the curtains, hits the wall and illuminates the objects on our table. These shining items know my secret and it's dark everywhere else. In the corners, on the bed, by her chest softly heaving.
I lied when I was forty-one. Didn’t mean to this time, of course, but we often lie and don’t know it. I said that I’d protect him. He’d never come to harm, as long as I was there. Well, now he doesn’t exist. He’s just a name on a piece of paper, a few scattered memories I’d prefer to forget. There isn’t a specific time I think about this final lie I’ve told. It comes to me at every waking moment. Many sleeping moments too.
I lie all the time. I have to. It’s dealing with the consequences which takes its toll. Because it might be shoes, or a relationship, or death. It might be the fundamental element of who you are.