Until I Found You

eleven

~ ABBY ~

My father is the most honest man I've ever met. For as long as I can remember, he's been preaching the importance of upholding the truth. He doesn't care about what the truth will do to him, he just owns his mistakes whole-heartedly. On more than one occasion, he'd told me that the world's not divided between the good and the bad, just the honest and the dishonest. 

I've lied to him more times than I can count.

Apparently, honesty is not a trait that can be passed down from generation to generation.

It's not like I like lying to him. I think I might even hate lying to him. The problem is that I clearly don't hate it enough, otherwise I wouldn't still be doing it. You could say that I'm doing this for his benefit, his protection, but the truth is, no lie is ever told purely for the right reasons. Every lie has some element of selfishness that can't be erased from its existence.

My lies may have started with good intentions. My lies may have originated from wanting to protect my father from the truth, but every lie I continue to tell has me questioning who I'm actually lying for. Am I lying because I don't want to give the men who might be after me any ideas about going after my father? Yes. Am I lying because I couldn't stand to see the look of disappointment on his face if he found out how I'd been supporting us the past the few years? Also, yes.

I think the sad truth is, that once you lie for long enough, it becomes second nature, a habit that's impossible to break. There's no nail polish you can put on your lies to make yourself stop biting them. At some point I think I've just grown numb, frozen over by the bitter chill of guilt and pride.

That's how I'm able to lie to him for the third time this week. It's how I'm able to look him the eye, well, in the eye over facetime, and tell him I'm too busy with school to come visit. Of course that's not the reality. School is school and I'll always be busy with it, but it's not the whole truth. I think those might be the easiest lies to tell, the ones in which you're also telling the truth. I'd much rather tell him I'm busy working towards finishing up my degree then tell him about the casino, or about meeting my soulmate, or being interrogated by a group of privatized super-heroes.

"It's okay shortcake, I understand." He tells me, sincerely. "You just keep focusing on your studies, that's your number one priority."

"Thanks, Dad." I swallow, uncomfortably hard.

"I'm so proud of you, Abby." He beams, sentimentally. "I don't think you could find another father who's more proud of their daughter."

It shouldn't be possible for words as kind as those to cause any sort of pain, but they do. His praise is unfounded, his love unconditional, and I feel nothing but undeserving.

"I love you, Dad." I say, forcing a smile. "I'll call you tomorrow?"

"I'll be here waiting!" He grins. "Love you!"

I end the call, wishing I had the kind of money where I could throw my phone against the wall and not care about whether or not the screen cracks. Instead I settle for my throw pillow, chucking it across the length of my studio apartment where it collided into the wall silently and extremely unsatisfyingly.

I've never considered myself much of a people person. I wouldn't go as far as to say I'm introverted, I've just always valued the quality over the quantity of my friends. I'd much rather have a handful extremely close friends, then a large group of friends that were more like acquaintances then anything else. Even so, I've been holed-up in this studio on my own for an entire week and I would do pretty much anything to see the face of another human being.