Beautiful Lies
Desperation and dejection inundated her.
Leah hysterically wailed and keened and squalled with despair when the convulsions she had been suppressing suddenly assailed her.
While bemoaning and floundering, she beseeched and supplicated with a higher force to alleviate the misery circulating her chest; she whined, but, with a final string of laments, she ascended and cleansed herself of her gloom.
Reluctantly, she faced Sam—her friend since birth, her first confidant, her first boyfriend, her first kiss, her first love—and mutely complied and accepted his lies even as he withered under her stare, even as he rubbed the nape of his neck—a nervous tendency she had found adorable, had cherished and teased him for but now loathed—and lied with remorse marring his features.
Heart-broken, with her throat constricting and cramping and containing her, she regarded him as he instinctively eyed Emily, as he admired her high cheekbones, the natural glisten and liveliness of her eyes, her long, straight locks and stunning smile; she simply smiled, battling with her nerves, with her wretched heart, with the familiar sorrow, which dispersed to the very tips of her fingers, and accepted his beautiful lies.
His lies—mesmerizing and loving and oh so promising—no longer enlivened her; they invaded her, bombarded her, killed her.
She beamed, restraining herself from sniveling, from weeping, from confronting him. Instead, she chose to deteriorate spiritually—silently.
They were such beautiful lies after all.