As children, we are told that lying is wrong. Lying won't get you anywhere; Michael had heard all of his life. While lying may have been a forbidden subject to even bring up as a child, for him, it had come naturally. He lied to his mother, he lied to his friends, he lied to himself. He could never reveal his hidden truth, he wasn't okay. So on the night of his 19th birthday, he lied upon the auburn candle that had been so sloppily placed upon a homemade ginger scented cake. He'd wished he'd stop lying, and while that was untrue, fate had planned otherwise. After all, no wish on a birthday candle goes ungranted.
--
Michael, once again, was blinded by the uncontrollable reign of his imagination. He thought everything on his birthday would be perfect. Nothing ever was. "To us!" He'd heard his best friend of seven years, Louis, yell at the top of his lungs in his drunken state. Michael had always admired the way his friend knew how to party. He wanted to be that way. He wanted to look like him. His jawline, eyes, and stubble, always attracting the attention of men and women. He was perfect in Michaels eyes-- well, everyone's eyes but his own. Beautiful, Michael thought, beautiful yet flawed. What made Louis flawed was not his features, but his inability to have love for himself. Michael knew how he felt, Michael had always felt that way. That's why he started lying. He lied to feel better about himself, he lied to feel brave. Louis drunkinly stalked over to him, sitting on the bar stool beside him, mimicking his depressed stance. One arm holding up his head, one hand holding a beer. One sip... Two sips... Three sips... Enough sips to make a man think about his life. So Michael thought, and thought, and thought, until he cried. He cried about his life, he cried about getting older, and he cried over his mistakes. Leaning his head on Louis' shoulder, he began to sob. Louis softly patted his back.
"You're alright mate, yeah?" Louis asked, although drunk, he could sense the state his friend was in. Michael could not hear. He was angry, he was sad, he was jealous, he wanted out. So Michael did what he did best, he lied. Getting up slowly, he steadied himself by placing his hands on Louis' shoulders. "Fine. I'm just fine." then he ran. He ran from the profanities being shouted from behind him, he ran from the claustrophobic atmosphere of the bar. He wanted out. When he arrived home he threw the door open, the room began spinning before his eyes. He saw the distorted image of his mother step in front of him.
"What do you think you're doing? Coming home drunk so your sisters can see? What kind of a son are you?"
"A good one" Michael spat back at her. Once again, he had lied. He ran upstairs, tears threatening to spill from his eyes, grabbing clothes from his closet and throwing them down in an angry fit onto the floor. He was leaving. He knew, not because of the drunken state he was in, but because he felt suffocated. Suffocated by the lies, and the guilt he felt from telling them. Suffocated by his family, and the disgust they held in their faces when looking at him. Suffocated by the everlasting feeling of not living his life to what it could be. So he packed his bags, two, three suit cases full of clothes, two large wads of cash, and a few of his memories: a picture of him and his sisters, a phone number. He threw on his sneakers, replacing his dress shoes, and grabbed his jacket, zipping it up, almost cutting his neck. He grabbed his bags, and pulled them down the stairs, several loud clanks sounding down the steps as he dragged them. He could hear his family arguing in the rooms above him. He could make as much sound as he wanted, no one would care he was gone. He threw his bags in the trunk of his car, pulling the keys out of his jacket pocket, getting in the drivers seat and turning it on. This was it.
Deep breaths...
Deep breaths...
Deep breaths...
He pulled out the driveway, and began to drive, not knowing where he was going, or where his journey would take him. He drove.
