Lies (A Short Story)

Lies

It was a horrific crash. She could remember her final moments. The dread filling her when she realised they couldn't stop. The screams from the back seat. The way her husband through his arm out in front of her before the collision. And the pain. Oh god she remembered the pain. It was the worst thing she'd ever felt. Worse than the time she'd fallen off the roof. Worse than child birth. And it went on for hours.

Then, suddenly, it stopped. There was no more pain. And she was no longer surrounded be darkness. Instead, everything was flooded in light. And there he was, her husband, leaning against the most magnificent gate she had ever seen. And he looked completely unharmed. Not a single scratch on him. How could that be? She looks down at herself, expecting to see her horrific injuries, but there was nothing. Not a single bruise or scrape. What was happening?

She looked back up at him and he gave her a sad smile.

"Nice of you to join me," He said.
"Where are we?" She asked.
"The Pearly Gates, of course," He said, "Looks like we were good enough to make it to Heaven."

So they'd died. She felt grief fill her heart. But not for herself. It was for her children, who weren't there with her. Not that she wanted them to be. But she dreaded the thought of them growing up without parents. They were still so young.

"You haven't made it yet," A voice said and they turned to see a man standing there.
"Who are you?" Her husband asked, "What do you mean?"
"I'm Saint Peter," The man explained, "And it's come to our attention that you've both lied to each other. All you have to do is read them aloud. And you're in."

He handed her husband a stack of three large books and you're heart dropped. She'd thought they'd always been honest with each other. Then she were handed a tiny scrap of paper with four words on it and her heart dropped even more. She knew exactly what it said.

"I'll go first," Her husband said and she nodded, a lump forming in her throat.

"It's okay if you don't love me back," He started. The words he'd said when she had no response after the first time he told her he loved her.

He continued on, several pages reassuring her that he wasn't upset that she couldn't say she loved him.

"I'd like a family but I'd still be happy without one," The conversation they'd had a few months after getting married, when she'd confessed to never wanting children.

Almost a whole book reassuring her he wouldn't be upset about not having a family.

"I'll be fine without you," The words he'd said after she told him he was leaving.

"I knew you'd come back," The words he'd said when she returned.

A lot of "you've never looked better," said at times when they both knew she looked like crap, and "those jeans don't make your butt look big, I promise."

"If you don't want to, it's fine by me," The words he'd said when she asked how badly he wanted to have a baby.

"It's okay, I don't blame you," The words he'd said when she miscarried. He knew she'd been drinking.

Page after page, book after book of words that he'd said to comfort her, reassure her that he wanted exactly what she wanted, to protect her from all the bad things going on around them.

You'd think those lies, the ones told with her best interests at heart, would help to calm her. But they only made it worse. Because she knew exactly what her paper said.

"Go, see if I care," The words he said when she packed up her stuff and buckled their daughter in the car, saying she wasn't planning on coming back this time.

"Back already? I hardly had time to miss you," The words he'd said when she'd stormed back into the house seventeen months, two weeks, three days and thirteen hours later.

"One's fine by me, if you don't want more," The words he said when she asked him how many more kids he wanted.

"You're not that big," He'd reassured her constantly while she was carrying the twins. All three of them chuckled as he stood there, reading the same line over and over and over again.

"I'm not tired. You sleep. I'll stay up with her," The words he'd said when their daughter was deathly ill. He'd been awake for over two days at that point.

"I always knew she'd make it," The words he'd said when their daughter pulled through.

More and more words of comfort, covering the truth but never meant to hurt her. Showing how much he loved her - always had and always will - through lies alone.

And then he got to his last one.

"Nice of you to join me."

He'd hoped she'd pull through. Live a long and happy life. Watch their children grow up. Meet their grandchildren. For once he didn't want her by his side. He wanted her alive but here she was.

She looked down, tears filling her eyes. It was obvious how much he loved her. Even his lies showed that he loved her with all her heart.

"Well, go on," Saint Peter prompted.

She sighed and scrunched up the paper. She didn't need it. She knew the words by heart.

And with that, she proceeded to mutter the words she'd only spoken once before. On their wedding day to be exact. The only lie she'd ever told him.

"I love you, Ben."