THE LIE

A lie is a dull pain in the chest, a never-ending buzzing that vibrates with every honest word spoken, the weight of cowardice, a shadow clinging to the soul, ready to devour inside.

I learned the hard way that there are no innocent lies or lies told for the sake of good. Above all, I have understood that managing a lie is a challenge from which one always emerges as a loser. Similar to a small stain on a piece of clothing. You try to make it disappear with a damp cloth, but the stain spreads, slow, relentless.

Even my lies started like this. Small dots that I was sure would never tarnish the perfect drawing. They did it, irreparably.

Falsehoods built like a small puzzle, easy to piece together, to avoid hurting others’ feelings, like those of a dear friend, whether about a dress that didn’t quite suit her physique or a bold haircut. Seeing her radiant with every comment of mine, even when I was feigning enthusiasm, eased my stomach pains, soothed my guilt, and gratified me. I aspired to be perceived as kind, caring, indispensable. I have always aspired to not be uncomfortable.

The great lie arrived without warning and tightened around my heart, suffocating it.

“Did you tell Margareth about the promotion?” Paul asked me, one morning at breakfast.

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, I wanted to be sure.” He replied, sipping his coffee. “Today, I ran into her with Alvin and they seemed evasive.”

“It must have been your impression.” I commented, quickly, as if wanting to close the topic swiftly.

“Yeah.” He sai. “She will have other chances, I‘m sure of it.”

It will take months, maybe a few years. She also deserved to get the promotion. Maybe even more than me.

“Let’s hope.” I whispered, not at all convinced.

“The important thing is to have informed her before she heard it from others.” Paul emphasized. He knows my dark side, that part of me capable of lying to avoid facing realities that, in my eyes, would be potentially inconvenient. “After all, she’s your best friend.”

My best friend, of course. And don’t look at me like you already know...

“Hiding such an important milestone for both of us would have been impossible, even if we had wanted to.” I replied, without lifting my gaze from the empty cup. Instead, I had done it. I hadn’t been able to control my anxiety, the fear of Margareth’s reaction. That lie had become a dense web, impossible to untangle. And in order not to untangle that web, I made up excuses to avoid it. After all, the news of the promotion had come via email and, at least at first, it was easy to pretend to wait together for the response.

Until it was her who called me on the phone. I expected it. After all, I couldn’t have hidden for weeks.

“Hi, I heard..,” she began, straightforwardly, in a subdued tone. She was always cheerful, the one who would start a phone call with a Hey, force of nature, what are you up to today? “Yes, I heard about the promotion, from..., well, it doesn’t matter.”

It was predictable. Did you really think you could get away with it? Poor deluded one.

A long silence followed, more deafening than his anger and my shame, broken only by my attempt to apologize for not sharing the news in real time. An effort that remained just that.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She whispered.

“I thought that...”

“What?” She interrupted me, her voice choked with emotion. “That I would have been envious of you? Is this the value you place on me, on our friendship?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You did it.” she said, with the strength of truth. “The silence and then the lie, when I asked you if you knew anything about the promotion, were a stab in the back.”

“I’m sorry, Margareth,” I said, my voice hoarse, finally freeing the words. “I was wrong, I’m sorry.”

“It’s late, Monica.”

“I’m willing to do anything to make amends.”

“I’m not referring to an apology.” She said, “Trust is a drop that fills the glass little by little but can empty in an instant.”

“We can fill that glass again. Together.” I whispered, not convinced of her willingness to put the pieces of a broken vase back together.

“Until the next lie.”

“I would have told you, Margareth.”

“You already speak like a stranger. Two people like us don’t tell each other things. They share them.”

The call was cut off, leaving little room for hope.

Margareth was right. The apologies were not enough. Regaining her trust would have been the most difficult task. I don’t know if I would have ever succeeded, but I would have tried. To do that, I would have had to rebuild the foundations of our friendship, knowing that I would be the only one to tear down every brick and place new ones. How it was a mystery to me.

Lying is a form of addiction, and I have always been tempted by it.

A few months later, the weight of that lie still burdens my shoulders. The relationship with Margareth is on hold. As happens with love stories. A friendship, after all, is the love story par excellence, that intersection of souls joint by trust. If the expectation is undermined, it is almost impossible to mend the tear.

Who knows, maybe one day I will be able to walk, free from the dependence on the deception with which I believed I was building social relationships, valuing the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it may be.

Veronica L. is an Italy-based writer with a PhD in Iberian and Ibero-American Languages and Literatures. She has authored several non-fiction books, some published in English by Anglo-Saxon presses, along with works of fiction. Her Micro/Flash/Short Fiction works appear in some of the most popular international literary magazines.