The Liar's Silence (Chasing Illusions #2) | A Novel (On Hold)

Chapter 1-Breaking of Rule

Lies and truths are interchangeable but with one difference: lies can be destroyed but truths can't.

This story starts with a lie, made to keep my mind sane. Then when it didn't last, I continued with another lie—this time turning myself into an ideal person I wanted to be. Ideal is never a conception conceived by one's own mind, but by the surroundings and the minds of others. I came to regret it when I realized that this lie wasn't for me but was for the purpose of getting what I wanted and needed. Like a young child lying to get attention from her parents.

So I tried to find the real me hidden by the lies but I couldn't. No matter what I did, she was slipping through my fingers like sand. But I could hear echoes of her within me, in my actions, in my thoughts, in my memories. She beckoned, called and cried for the losses I once forgotten—losses that I hide from all my life. She was the ghost that haunts me, and I'm the dead one in this body.

I thought there was no way to bring her back until I started writing letters to everybody, letters of unspoken, silent words. She came alive to me at every stroke of the pen, at every word that came with my tears. But this is not the story about how I found her.

This is the story about how I let go of her.

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Blacking out is like having a dream—the moment you wake up, you are only left with a few puzzle pieces of memories to figure out what happened. This is how I live for many years—messy, fragmented memories of a life that I both lived in and neglected. Forgetting was the only permanent goal I had—so I opened the can and I drank, leaving myself shielded from the memories.

Last night was my breaking point, and like a crack in the bones because of weights, my will cracked the moment I drank. I've given up on something, and it's this giving up of something that led me to decide days later to kill myself. This something was what I couldn't figure out then.

I open my eyes to the light from the window, and as I rise, my head pounds like a dwarf is knocking inside my head. "Fuck." I place my head between my knees, close my eyes while I try to wait for the headache to go away. For a year of abstinence, I sure drank like I was out of water for weeks. I groan as I stand up and close the curtains, shutting the lights that are stabbing my eyes. Then I walk into the kitchen, avoiding the landfill of boxes, things, papers on the floor.

A crunch of metal reaches my ears, and I lift my foot up to see a glint of metal can squash on the ground. I look around. The cans are scattered among the landfill. Fuck. How much did I drink? I try to wreck my brain about how much I bought. I think I bought two six packs of beer. I notice that my fingers are red with clipped nails. Oh great, what the hell did I do this time? I turn my hand around. No red marks in my knuckles. So, I didn't punch anybody. Did I scratch them? That was when I find the stray pieces of cardboard lying around and the half-assed scratches on the cardboard boxes.

I reckon that I either brought a cat in to do this, or I had done it myself. And since I hated cats from young, I doubt I would do that even at my most drunken state. Nasty creatures with their claws—thinking of them just makes me shiver.

The doorbell rings. I curse. Is it some guy who wants to promote some shit to me again? I walk into the kitchen, ignoring the bell, and take some Tylenol. That is when a knock comes, and a familiar voice calls out, muffled, "Olivia, are you still alive?"

I snicker before skipping to the door. "Yes, I'm alive. I haven't seen the grim reaper yet." Before I open the door, I eye the cans on the ground. Fuck. I can't let Richard see this. I kick them aside. Then I remember the smell of alcohol. Looking around, I find an air freshener on the shoe cabinet. I am relieved to find it has not expired. I spray it around the apartment, to musk the scent of last night's folly.