Three lies, that was all anyone was granted in their whole life. How many had I used at this point? I couldn’t be sure. I wasn’t blameless; I had earned my fair share of punishment from dodging truths more dangerous than bullets. But those weren’t lies. I hoped they weren’t lies.

_“You still love me don’t you? I don’t annoy you at all? I feel like you don’t like me anymore.” _

_ _There was no way to avoid that without sounding cruel. The mere thought of disappointing anyone made me want to scream as much as I wanted to sob. But how could I maintain anything near innocence when every second that I sat speechless I could feel the faith of someone I used to care about drain out of them?

“No, of course you’re not annoying, of course I still care about you.” I replied, cramming sincerity into my voice and shoving down the knot of guilt that consumed me.

I decided I didn’t like lying very much.

The dictionary definition of a lie (noun), as I had later read and memorized, was an intentionally false statement, used with reference to a situation involving deception or founded on a mistaken impression.

My definition of a lie, and the one that I assumed most people believed, is similar. A lie was a statement that explicitly contradicts what the liar knows as the truth. This definition made it more clear to my younger, considerably more naive self that vague statements that hint at an answer are not lies.

I thought about lies too much for my own good. It’s possible that if I didn’t have a restriction on my ability to deceive I wouldn’t have felt the need to lie as strongly. Possible that I wouldn’t have feared the truth like the devil. Or perhaps that’s too optimistic to believe that I, out of all people, could be a good person.

I often pondered what would happen if I tried to lie for a fourth time. Would I die on the spot? Would I be sent to jail for life? Would I even be able to get the words out, or would they cling like ticks to the insides of my throat?

My second lie was stupidly impulsive.

Many know that as we grew older and more mature (kind words for being less protected from the outside world), we had to harden our hearts to survive. We couldn’t just waste a lie on sparing someone’s feelings, and it hardly occured to people that some things are better left unsaid.

We were all vulnerable, tied to truthfulness like marionettes dancing foolishly for all to see. Emotions had to be suppressed for our own safety; weakness was the last thing teenagers wanted to see in a person.

I was not foolish. I was fully aware of all of this. Yet it was difficult to cling to logic when someone shoved you and made horrible biting remarks about a wide range of things and you were forced to know that to an extent, they must be right.

It was not my fault for crying. A person must be entirely repulsive to blame a young person for something so humane as crying. What was my fault was breaking down in ugly, gasping breaths as my chest heaved and warm trails of tears spun down my cheeks in the middle of a filthy bathroom. It was my fault for not hiding what I felt at least until I could be hidden safely myself.

Instead, a girl glanced at me, concerned and sympathetic, and asked if I was okay.

I was very much _not _okay.

I was very much _aware_ that I was not okay.

But I was shivering and my cheeks were on fire and my voice shook when I tried to simply speak. My thoughts were cobwebs that spun in a million directions at once but nothing was comprehensible, and if my legs were stronger than gelatin I would have run and hid, but I couldn’t even muster the energy to breathe properly.

“Yes, I’m fine. It’s nothing.” Idiot. It was painstakingly obvious it was something. That was one of my only lies wasted, and for what? Some half-assed attempt to preserve my dignity? I had thought I was better than this. I knew I was better than this.

The one thing I was good at was duping myself. If that counted as a lie, I was done for.

Lying should not feel so natural. It shouldn’t feel so protecting and defensive. Lying shouldn’t make me feel better about myself, and even if it did I couldn’t afford to lie anymore.

I still hung out with the person who I used my first lie on. That’s all they are to me now, not a friend, just a reminder of my own mistakes. It was because of them that I am where I am now.

“So…I know this is awkward, but how many lies do all of you have left? I still have two.”

The person who claimed to have all three was picked on for being so soft. I hated that, because someone who didn’t lie at all in all of their years of living thus far had to be on a pedestal of morality above me.

The person with one left, like me at the time, was jokingly told that they were on thin ice, but I couldn’t help but notice how everyone averted their gaze.

“I don’t have any left.” My head jerked up. The name of the girl who mumbled the shocking news escaped me, which I felt terrible about. She became suddenly fascinated by the patterns on the floor and refused to give anyone the satisfaction of explaining further.

My face flushed when she was laughed at and told to leave the group. If I wasn’t a coward I would have gone with her. If I had known what was good for me I would have gone with her. But no one wanted to associate with someone who was out of lies, since no one knew what would happen if you attempted to lie a fourth time.

Everyone looked at me expectantly, eyes sparking with interest. What else could I have said? I didn’t have much of a choice, it seemed.

“I have two lies left.”

What was that meant to accomplish? Why on earth did I try to conform to a perfectionist’s standards at my own cost? I may as well kick myself out since I apparently felt like being ostracized when I woke up that morning. That’s it. I had no more lies. I had used my third. I was in mourning for a life I never had since I tried my hand at dishonesty for the first time.

Just my luck, that was when the First Lie Stealer opened their mouth. “Oh my goodness, lie twins! That’s awesome! Who did you use your lie on?” They grabbed my arm in excitement.

_You. I used my lie on you. I used it on you and I regret it, but not for the reasons I should. _

I was not mentally prepared for what would happen if my best friend found out that I did not trust them with the truth and that I lied about caring about them. It would be more merciful to kill them, and easier on me, too, if I didn’t have to deal with the consequences of my own actions.

Sometimes lies just slipped out, and it seemed like it was for the best. Honesty above all else was surely impossible.

But I knew when I looked into their eyes that it was not for the best.

_I lied to you. _

_ I lied to you. _

_ I lied to you. _

_ I was not brave enough to tell you the truth. I never was, and I likely never will be. _

_ I lied to you_.

“I lied to my mother.”

Note: feel free to give feedback! This is my first time writing in a while and I’m looking to improve! Hopefully this wasn’t too painful to read, and thanks!