Trust Me. I'm Lying - (SLOWLY EDITING)

That Master Of Poker Face: Chapter 14

"But I have seen the best of you and the worst of you, and I choose both."

—Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye, "An Origin Story"

__________________________________________________________

CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

That Master Of Poker Face.

"What do you want?" I repeated. Part of me wanted to make a run for it—to call the cops or the firefighters or Chris, for my best friend was a combination of both when she's pissed off. But alas, I stayed rooted to the spot. "I swear to god that if you don't get out of my property, I'm going to—"

"I thought you were the one that wanted to talk to me a few weeks ago?" he asked sarcastically, raising his eyebrows. Carson stood up, and I took another step back. Something flashed in his eyes as I did so, though I wasn't sure what it could be.

"That was before you proved to be a bigger coward than I already thought you were," I told him, phrasing it the way I saw it, not letting my mouth edit anything of the way I thought. "Get the fuck away from my house."

I was sure what passed through his eyes at the moment: anger. But I didn't care right now. I felt white-hot adrenaline burning through my veins, though I wasn't exactly sure why. But I also knew that when this rush passed, it'd end badly for me.

But he didn't do as I told him. Instead, he smirked, that old smirk that had always put me on edge and made me want to punch him, and sat back down on the steps leading to my house. I stared at him in disbelief, trying to control my breathing before I murdered him.

Sadly I couldn't do it in the front garden of my house. There was the neighbors' aspect and the fact that someone would see me carrying a body towards the back yard. I could imagine how that talk with the police would be.

"So you killed him?" A police officer would ask.

"Yes." I would answer.

"Why?"

"He was annoying me."

Ah, yes. That would be pretty funny to explain.

I stole a glance at Carson once again. He was staring at me with a poker face a professional poker player would envy. I hesitated at the front of my house, breaking eye contact with him. I looked around for options. I did have possibilities in this case. Whether to flee or fight—the eternal dilemma.

I evaluated the said circumstances as best as I could. I could go around the house and enter through the back door, but that involved climbing over a fence and then waiting a good six hours before Mom arrived since I didn't have the keys to the back door. I could climb the tree that's rooted a couple of meters away from my window. But that be stupid and dangerous.

I needed to scream. Or punch the stupid boy sitting down a couple of feet away from me. Whichever one I had the opportunity to do first. I wanted to scream and yell and kick something at the same time. I wanted to shout at him and call him a liar and a coward for turning away. I wanted to hurt him as bad as I had. I wanted to shriek at him for being such a bully all those years.

But most of all, I wanted to hurt Carson for the thing I'd been trying to hide away these past weeks. That particular thing that I promised and failed to forget. I wanted to scream at him in anger for making me like this in the first place— for making me feel something for him.

I despised him. Dear Lord Jesus Christ, I loathed the guy sitting there. I hate his stupid little smirk and the way Carson's posed as a snake watching its prey. I hated that he was the person who had answered the letter. I hated that he had to be the one making me feel like this.