L I A R

You're a liar, you know that? You lie, to yourself and others and him and the people who ask questions and the ones who really care. You lie to all of them.

You love him. It's plain in your eyes when you look at him, except when you're angry or too tired to see properly. But you do, you love him more than you let yourself accept. You treat it like a game. Some kind of sick, hurtful game. You tell yourself that letting him see anything, letting him know anything, that's the loss of a point. And that for every day you keep him from learning something, you win a point. You'd like to think you're winning so far, but you have to keep playing hard every day, because he's devious and tricky and he just might find out if you let your guard down even the slightest.

People around you speculate and wonder, but you brush them aside or ignore them. You don't think it's worth them knowing; don't think it's any of their business, that they're just lying when they express concern about the marks you try so hard to conceal. You've gotten good at it, yes, but you can never hide the hickeys that ride just a little too high on your neck or the bruises from when you've been struck in the face by an infuriated fist. It's your own fault people have started to worry. You know what will happen when you refuse and fight and argue and push and push and push. You know he never takes 'no' for an answer.

He asks you questions that you never, ever answer honestly. When he's reasonable, you could be too, but you won't. He asks if you want him to leave, to be nicer, to stop talking, to do what you want… he tries, and you ignore him or challenge him. You provoke him. When you'd really rather for him to keep going, you tell him that you want him to stop. When he asks why you took so long, you reply with sarcastic nothings, never just that you had extra work to do or something simple and honest. When he asks if you remember him, you say no. When he asks if you love him, you refuse to answer. That's a lie in itself, the silence. Silence in blank and cool and unfriendly, but what you feel is hot and rushing and needy. You need the affection, and when he offers, you push it away.

You're such a liar.

You get phone calls sometimes, from people who've heard this rumour or that story, and you tell them things that work best for you. No, you've never heard of that name, but yes you've seen someone of that description before. Maybe he's a stalker or an assassin or a spy – maybe the police should be involved. Of course you've never that obvious with what you imply, you always leave it to them to decide what the best course of action is. And it gets you publicity, which you accept, positive or negative. But when it gets going too far you have to step in and declare it slanderous, and then they back off for a while until there's a new rumour to spread.

You know there's someone who's dieing to know all of this. That's all he really wants to know; why you keep waking up late and taking such long showers and wearing only long sleeves and talking even less than always but smiling to yourself when you think he's not looking and leaving work earlier than you used to or staying out so late that you couldn't possibly still be working. He wants to know because he cares, because he's worried, because he wants to share in your happiness in what little way he can (by seeing you happy), but you won't let him in. You won't let him glimpse your precious treasure trove of happy things. You're like a miser, treating each memory and event like a rare gold coin and stuffing it away out of his sight so you're the only one who can enjoy it. You say you don't want him involved because it'll get him hurt, because it will end up being unfair in some way.

It's a lie.

You keep people out because you want him all to yourself. Even if you push him away, it's a different direction, so that he just comes flying back. You're selfish, greedy, wanting, craving, needing…

You're a liar.