…tell me the lie


It’s not the truth that she wants to hear – no. It is the lie.

The lie that he loves her; that she is the one he wants to be with; that the other woman was just “a mistake”.

Yes, the lie will do. It will cushion her in the long lonely nights, offer her comfort as she curls up on her side of the bed and help her ignore the empty space besides her.

It is the lie that will see her through one more day, helping her to soldier on amid the misgivings and doubts.

All she needs is that lie. And she will clutch on to it for dear life; defend it against all evidence that contradicts it.

She will defend the lie even as she chokes on the musky fumes of the other woman’s perfume, the cloying sweet stench clinging to his shirt.

It is the lie she needs. She needs it to validate herself, to be able to face her reflection in the mirror and dare her eyes to betray the pain she feels.

The lie is all she needs to plug her ears so she can pretend to not hear the whispered conversations made with the mystery midnight caller.

In the yawning silence stretching between them, she makes the silent plea in her heart, “tell me the lie. Tell me because I will believe it, because I want to believe it”.

Perhaps it’s a rare moment of telepathy or just the instinct of a player, he reads the desperation in her tear-filled eyes, can feel the hope barely suppressed within her and… he tells the lie.

“I love you,” he says, “You know I love you,” he insists.

And the hope, a little flame that bursts into conflagration, the hope threatens to choke her as the tears scald her face – oh, she wants to believe him.

She wants to believe because, because it’s not the truth she wants to hear – no. It is the lie.

Yes, the lie will do just fine. She will tell it to her friends, garnishing the facts with fiction as she goes along and tell of a romantic candlelit dinner and even how he said it with a tear running down his cheek.

The lie is better; it will cover the nudity of the truth, spare her the pain of rejection and assuage her wounded pride. The lie is good because it will come in handy when she tells her friends, “He said it, oh, I just know he meant it”.

It is the lie she needs, to ignore the reality staring her in the face – long and frequent business trips and late night meetings too. Oh, but she must understand he’s doing all this for her, so he can build a future for them.

In another place in another time… the same voice and the same face holds another woman tight and whispers her fears away, “oh, I’m leaving her you know I am. It’s you I want.”

And she sags against him, the sheer relief seeping the strength out of her knees, all she needed was to hear him say it again.

Another dosage of that lie, it’s been close to five years now and their second one is on the way but she’s been holding on to him because he told her and she believed him.

Told her the lie.

That he married the “wrong” woman; that she was the one for him and he could not possibly live without her.

Oh, but she had called his bluff once, yes she had. Packed her things and dared to leave but her heart wouldn’t let her get far… the lie pulled her back again.

In the storm of a quarrel, she had shouted while he begged, screamed while he pleaded and slapped him while he reasoned, “you can’t leave me. I need you.” There he had said it.

The beautiful sound of it, sapping her anger away and replacing it with a surge of triumphant pride, he had said it – the beautiful lie.

He needed her, yes he did. Couldn’t live without her, yes indeed!

It was the lie she needed, to fortify herself from the accusation of her mirrored reflection – resolutely ignoring the age in her eyes – a youth wasted away by a lie.

And as he glances at the clock once again, he grabs his clothes to leave – to go back to that other one, the one he promised to leave; but she won’t let him go, can’t give him up and won’t let him go.

She will cry, let him see what he’s doing to her, “I can’t take this anymore,” she tells him.

Hoping that he knows his cue, that he remembers the lines for this script – the same storyline repeated every time they part.

She holds her breathe and hopes he’ll say it because she can’t face the night alone without those words to comfort her.

Perhaps he is psychic but more likely it is his predatory instincts that make him sense the acuteness of her need.

And as he turns to leave, he looks her in the eye and tells the lie.

“I wish I didn’t have to go. Because it’s you I need you,” he says.

And like a rainbow exploding with blinding splashes of color, the happiness envelops her and she allows the lie to echo in her mind and shield her against the lonely space where his body lay.

It’s not the truth that she wants to hear – no. It is the lie.

The lie that he will come back a ‘free’ man; that they will build a future together and that she will very soon become the new “Mrs”.

the friends who know where the bodies are buried…


...we all know where our skeletoons are buried...question is who else does?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I think it’s safe to assume that you have at one time or another watched a movie where one character goes out on a limb and does someone a huge favor at great personal risk.

Then as the movie progresses you find that character gets killed by the very same person/people they were helping because ‘they just know too much’.

I used to find it very ironic but of late I have come to understand the rationale behind that brutal act of ingratitude – fear.

I think there is nothing as frightening as having someone knowing your deep dark secrets and having the potential to expose them!

The question is who knows your ‘deep dark secrets’ better than your friends and who helped you bury them – if not your nearest and dearest?

We all have a friend (or two) who knows where the skeletons are hidden, they know our ‘past’ and they were there when we were covering up our tracks so no matter where we go, who we later become – these people have certain information about us that could be damaging.

Every person who has had to ask a friend to lie for them knows what I’m talking about.

To borrow from DJ Sbu’s tagline on the show ‘Friends Like These’; Ladies and gentlemen, how many of you have ever put your faith in a friend?

I would bet at one point in time you all put your faith in a friend, confided in them and sought their help in order to save your own skin.

Many people get to maturity after going through the rigors of a riotous, wild and rebellious youth were they do things that they live to regret and would rather bury in their past.

With age comes maturity and a sharp clarity that ruthlessly allows us to see how stupid our actions were; what fools we made of ourselves and with that insight – comes the faint hint of shame.

We are ashamed of our past, we hate it and want it to be forgotten, erased from our memories but how do you erase it from the memories of those who helped you bury it?

Some of them may not even be friends, just people who know stuff about you that you wish you could keep secret for ever – they know where your bodies are buried.

These are the people who went to college with you – who know the number of sugar daddies you had, trying to pass them off as your ‘uncles’. They were there when you fell pregnant, far from home and scared to death: they also know that you never had that baby.

These are the people who went to college with you – who know you got a high school child pregnant, got charged with statutory rape, spent a few nights in a cell and managed to settle with the girl’s family out of court before the news reached your family.

They know your scandals, but luckily for you – you know where their skeletons are hidden too.

How do you face the friends who know where the bodies are buried?

I know for most people they don’t worry too much about having a friend ‘sell them out’ because they also know stuff about their friends so they have some kind of insurance policy.

It goes something like, ‘rat me out’ and I’ll ‘rat you out’ but of course we never say these things out loud; its just an understanding that is communicated silently – it’s a pact between friends.

I’ll never tell because they’ll never tell – or will they?

Every man who has ever asked his pals to give him an alibi after he got home late, slept out all night, or impregnated some whore, will probably relate to this phenomenon of having someone who has info on you that can sink your marriage or ruin your life.

The same goes for any woman who has ever asked her girlfriends to cover up for her when she went off to some rendezvous in the process of having a steamy affair with her boss (or whoever).

She’ll get home and be like, ‘I was with so and so; she was really in a bad state, I couldn’t leave her like that, call her if you don’t believe me’ – or some nonsense like that.

And the friends will vouch for the lying cow and go so far as to swear by all that is holy that they were indeed together on the night/day/time in question.

These are the friends I’m talking about.

I mean the friend who knows every last one of your illegitimate children because you made arrangements for them to go to his office to collect their fees so that your wife never finds out that you sprouted children all over the place like some mushroom farmer.

That will be the same friend who, when you are dead, and these women start appearing out of the yellow to claim from the estate will admit (sheepishly) that they knew all along that you had kids stashed somewhere.

Then of course your now widowed wife will wish she had laced every meal she served your friend with poison – the snake!

I mean the friend who knows that you lied and that your firstborn isn’t your hubby’s kid because you had that one night stand to get back at him.

You were never really sure whose it was until the baby came out looking just like the fellow at the club but the ‘girls’ knew because they were there that night egging you on to go ahead and ‘drown your sorrows’ when they knew that you couldn’t handle your liquor.

So when you found out you were pregnant you called an emergency meeting and everyone unanimously agreed that you pretend that night never happened.

Those are the friends I’m talking about – the friends who help you bury the truth beneath layers of lies, deceit, pretense and half-truths.

The friends who know where the bodies are buried.

Parting shot: “Then you should have died! Died, rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you! – Johanne Kathleen (JK) Rowland author of ‘Harry Potter’