Things that are true:

●       Your sister is dead.

●       It was, mostly, not my fault.

Or maybe it was. The line’s foggy.

I will not lie to you. It’s an old promise, outdated for many reasons and created for a one-use trick, but double-sworn on both of our names, and so a vow even I would never break. I will not lie to you. In this, we must trust.

You’ve nearly forgotten the details of the Tunnel, undoubtedly of your own choosing. I’m surprised to realize it was beautiful. Think! And remember the summers, when as soon as the sun begins to fade, its little pieces flow up from the grass and push through the Barrier’s membrane, filling the Tunnel. Autumn, when the musty air takes a crispness but the ground surrounding you is still warm. Springtime, when you watch the roots seek the edges of the Earth above your heads, tinted orange and delicate.

Winter was very beautiful and bitterly cold. But you both liked Christmas, with the magical lights, laughter, and homemade gifts. There was never a real fire, never enough branches blew across the Barrier to start one. Those colored strips of paper, waxy with red and orange scribbles, made a worthy substitute, with the companionship providing warmth. Crumple one, throw it against the Barrier–don’t blink or you’ll miss the flame, gone—and a new year is ushered in.

And then there was one. Left alone, grieving, just a child–you had given her quite a good tragic backstory. Thank you.

She’s dead because of it, but I’m egotistic enough to point out it wasn’t all your fault. I am, after all, the murderer. Or not. As I said, the lines are kind of foggy.

The Barrier looks very pretty. Why didn’t I leave earlier?

On blood:

●       It makes surprisingly good nail polish.

●       It does not burn.

Cauterization burns the actual flesh and skin of the victim. Contrary to popular belief, it invites infection by creating a more habitable environment for parasites. And I was quite warmly received. Much too warmly.

Blood does not burn; doesn’t burn, incombustible, nonflammable, huh? Perhaps some part of her isn’t dead, after all. How are we splicing it, again? Let’s not bother with anything legal; medically? No, and take that answer for whatever question you thought I was asking. I’m so sorry–I’m hardly making any sense. You must think I’m doing this on purpose.

There was once a boy who thought he only loved one thing, and a girl whose brother was her entire world. They lived the days with the ground surrounding them and watched the outside through a gold-tinted film. And one summer afternoon she had grabbed at nothing and nudged the flap of her pocket when all that surrounded them was darkness. They pulse synchronously, those little bugs, so she released them and watched them caught and crushed with methodical precision. The complex made of crumbling beams and swollen roots, the earthy Tunnel, the friendship: that was home, enclosed in sorrel, with the golden Barrier to peer out of.

There was a woman, me, born seventeen, with only a stolen body to prove her existence and now lives the consequences. Even now, safely over the legal limit, I drink at a bar right at the edge of the city, which is where its heart is anyway, that wouldn't mind if a twelve-year-old asked for brandy as long as he had sufficient change. Although, I pay not with my own money, but with my stories. The rounds came complimentary to the seediest company, who nevertheless listened in: a tattooed woman who claimed to see through all lies but never called out my truths; the twelve-year-old, all grown-up and now favoring rum; the scarred bartender always wearing a suspiciously empty holster on the hip. It took one conversation to realize no matter how much they enjoyed hearing my stories, no one will believe me. Is it so far-fetched?

Why can’t they believe me when I tell them the truth? Too hard to believe in golden gateways; of leaning in, unsure of whether pressing into death or escapade, but so sick of survival; of eternal burning? Of waiting for senselessness, but instead stumbling into a pile of red-streaked paper crumples? It seems to be, for them. And you, forgive me, will never, either, because in your insistence to love you’ve bought a pedestal. But I have no life left in me to try to lie, and I’ve survived too long to break the habit of survival. So I tell them the truth. So simple. Easy. I will not lie anymore, that’s my vow. Would you like to hear the stories I tell them?

There was once a girl who liked looking at the sky, who thought it mesmerizing, and a boy who knew better. The sky doesn’t move, monsters do.

One day, the boy stepped out and left. The girl did, too, many years later, and I’m here instead, a little ghost animating her corpse. Sorry(?)

There was once a book filled with stories that were all true. Truth is subjective. I’m the writer of this one.