Chapter 22: Lies

Emily is told a secret.

    Emily.

You know when someone says something,

and you're not entirely sure
        if you heard them
            right so you
              ask again
                   and

apparently you did hear them
        right so you're stuck
            in that awkward
              situation and
                    you're

not sure what to say so
 you say what they
want to hear
just
to

avoid conflict. Well when
    this nurse says these
       following words
           I'm  ready to
               throw

her out a window for pla
      ying such a cruel
          joke on the p
            oor crazy
                 girl.


"Your father is waiting outside."

Now if I weren't high
at this particular

moment in time, this
stupid woman's head

"Emily?"

would've been tight
in my grip of my teeth

after being dismantled
from her body. Blood

"Emily, did you hear me?"

dripping down my lips,
flesh of the insensitive

b***h under my grimy
nails. Liam would probably

"Your father is waiting!"

say some witty comment
about getting my

hands dirty and then ask
what's wrong. Of course

"I'm not going to ask you again."

he doesn't know my father
had died on the field. I'm

never excited to share that
story with anyone. Dr.

"Emily Greene!"

Alcona has been polite
enough to keep it out of

our weekly visits in her
dimly lit office, but I

"What in God's name-"

know eventually it'll
come up. Just like this

annoying buzz in my
ears. Can't I be left-

"Em?"

His voice breaks
through the rest,

like a hard slap on
my face. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You weren't answering, Em."

"What?" The nurse
heaves a heavy sigh.

"I guess I'm really into
this book, then huh?"

"Yes well, if you could please
follow me, your father has been waiting."

Apparently mother failed to share

a
minor
detail   with
me. Stephen Greene,
the man I    had grown to love, l
ived under a roof with, pleaded with to push
me on the swings at the p      ark, taught m           e how to ride a
          bike,   would read  me bedtime stories whenever he was home fr      om his station.
   This man, this stranger I have called father all my life, wasn't even
related to me?            She'd been with h      im from the ti       me she was been pregnant, it
was 'like  he is my father.' Like? Like? How would you feel k         nowing the
man you grew up callin       g father, lost countless nights of sleep over and still grieve
over his death to this very day....how would you              feel knowing that all thi           s time his whole
'fatherly figure' role, h       as been a lie?

All these years I'd lived under a corrupted roof, shingles and cement held in place by lies. How many more cadaverous friends did my mother have hiding in the closet? How many other skeletons poked and jutted at the wooden doors in the safe haven of her brain, prodding at her guilt, pleading to run free and spill their honesty with those she has deceived?