There Will Be Lies: A Writing Competition


1. 1

Stone cold, I shivered heavily as the wind broke through the window frames and curtains, straight into the room. That same dark and dingy room we'd been lounging in for the past three weeks. Mom wrapped a carpet like blanket around my shoulders before going back to lounging herself against the battered couch; she vigorously peeled the wrapper of a chocolate bar back and dropped it towards the ground. I felt sick. For three weeks straight the pattern had been the same as she fought between greasy food and alcoholic liquor. I gasped for air as the chill of the wind wound it's way down my spine and back up again. Mom had sworn that the longest we'd be camping out in this dark and dingy room would be a maximum of 4 nights and if we were lucky, 3. Before that, it had been two weeks of being stuck in a static caravan in the middle of a field, surrounding by rotting wood and overgrown weeds. Mom had always been overly paranoid about protecting me from the outside world for as long as I could remember, though this time it felt different. Inexplicably different. Only in the dead of night would she make tracks. Food shopping was done at 3am, when the clubs were at their height of volume, slowly decreasing as their customers stumbled home in dribs and drabs up until about 5am. The way she scrambled away had become a concern too; like a rat fearing for its life. As though she'd found a warped sensation of feeling the thrill of being so secretive.

The previous night had been no different to the other 239 nights - not an accurate estimation as to how long we'd been away from Scottsville, but close enough, I'd guessed.

Darkness ensued the small room that we'd been sharing for the past 18 nights and I guessed the 19th night would be no different. I hugged my knees tightly as I sketched a picture of the outside world, the world as I'd known it in Scottsville. Wild flowers dancing against the breeze and the sun creeping its way between two cracks of gaps resting either side of it. With her fingers wrapped in a pair of gloves I observed Mom as she read the passages of an old and torn novel. Reading and writing had always been her life. Like her baby. She must've felt my eyes on her, she looked up as she chewed the final bite of the chocolate bar.

"We'll get the fire going tonight" she whispered lowly. My mom loved me, but she couldn't fool me. Ever. The fire wasn't to keep us from catching our death or to provide us with toasty surroundings, it was only to burn the things we'd touched that week.

I kept myself silent and gave her a single nod in response.

It had all been about removing the evidence. My whole life was about removing the evidence. The evidence of my existence.

I was being mute, for the time being. If Mom wasn't capable of giving me answers then I'd only punish her back; except the guilt would only hang over me and within time probably a matter of hours, I'd give in and profess my undying daughterly love for her, the way a child should always respect his or her parents.

'Honor Your Mother and Father' - Exodus 20:1-17.

Aside from my Father, his morals had always been warped and Mom had never allowed me to become overshadowed with some sort of mighty persona. His vision of parenthood was obtruse, the way it would offend a person who couldn't have children. I had no interest in meeting my Father, never had; unless you count the six months where I screamed for him, though in my perception those days had been cancelled out. Ever since...

I continued to etch a faint drawing of the outside world. The pretty scenes, none of that ugly war or outcasting I'd previously seen. I had plans for this page, but they were worthless. It was meaningless. By the end of the week the most value it'd be would be ashes blowing in the wind, possibly flying into someone's breathing space, but the most it would be was ash. Eaten by blazing flames of fire.

"Shame" mom hovered over me "You've got such a talent. It's a shame".

Did she blame herself? Did she blame me? I became wrapped in paranoia like never ending sellophane. The kind you could only twist further and further, deepening the creases within.

I inwardly sighed, I wasn't sure whether she cared or not anymore. It felt as though this was the life she'd desired for a long time. To be nothing but a fading shadow of her former self. Not leaving even a mere trace for anyone who might've cared.














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