Clueless , BWWM | ✎ Ongoing

XVIII. Failing Heartbeats (i.)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FAILING HEARTBEATS!
[ PART I ]

                   LYING.

I hated it. The act of lying, of spouting lies to hide a truth grated at my ears like white chalk on a chalkboard. I hated Michael and the way he lied to Fallon for months. I hated Azalea and the way she lied to me for longer.

I just didn't understand it. Why lie when you can tell the truth? There was a difference between white lies and blatantly lying just for the sake of it. To me, white lies had a form of credibility to them. It's a way to be polite; societal manners, and lying to your children for their own sake.

The first time my father lied to me was when I was five. I was going through that phase in every child's life where they truly believed that the everyday cartoons they watched were real, living people. I was majorly obsessed with Barbie and Tinkerbell, switching between the two like different pairs of shoes. I remember asking him whether they were real and if I would ever experience the same adventures as Barbie; If I could ever be like her.

"Of course you can, my love. You can be anything you want, simply trust yourself and your heart."

He wasn't lying but he wasn't telling the truth either. I could never be Barbie or Tinkerbell because they weren't real. But could I become anything I want? Yes. That was one of the only times he's ever lied to me. Excluding the times he kept secrets for the sake of a surprise or work related, my father was an honest man. He was kind and respectful and never failed to hold me to the highest regard.

He loved making dad jokes. Took whatever opportunity he had to blurt them out, whether the moment was tense or comfortable. He never hesitated to come to my defense; big or small—it didn't matter whether the argument was about my grades or my turn to wash the dishes—he was always on my side.

There was a time when I was at my lowest. A time period that left me unsatisfied with myself, thoughts circling around Azalea. They pinpointed on the humiliation I felt as I walked out of that party, heartbroken. I was able to push everyone away but him. My father stood glued to my door outside, sliding food through the crack and talking to me about his day. Sometimes I let him in and he sat at the edge of my bed, reading me one of the stories in the old fairytale book that we've had since forever. It was muted in color and some pages had rips that shrieked with every turn of the page but it was ours.

Something that Aaron and I held close; we grew up with it and so did Arianne. It was a source of comfort slowly pulling me out of my depressive state until one night I broke down in his arms, tears dripping down my cheeks and soaking his shirt. Sobs muffled by the soft crone of his voice as he ran his hand through my hair, arms a haven of home around me.