Lies. Images. Reputations.

These are the things I have to live by.

No one needs to know the truth in my stories, of course, no one can. There isn't any truth in it. Who I am, what I'm like- it's all a lie. My friends, my family, my story, my life; it's far from what they all know.

I was raised to protect the family's reputation. I was raised to fabricate who I really am. I was raised to tell stories about things that never really happened. I was raised to make sure everything looked perfect. A fairy tale life that anybody would kill for. At a very young age, I realized the reason why fairy tales were best read on books, living in one, you'd get to see the ugliness of it. Every single part of it.

Lying is never a problem to me. I have gotten so good at it; there are times when I almost believe it, almost.

It doesn't bother me, people lie all the time.

You don't?

Then tell me about the event in your life that you would rather not talk about, you'd rather forget.

Don't believe you have one?

You're a better liar than me.

The only problem here is the truth.

It's always there, haunting me. Haunting each and every one of us, always urging us to tell it, but I can't, I couldn't.

I was raised to lie, taught to make illusions. Never to tell the truth.

And that's just the way I want it. Just the way it should be.

Truthfully speaking, I have no idea where this story should be going. Inspiration came up a few nights ago on my class' retreat when I saw all of then crying or trying hard not to cry when the facilitators told us to remember something in our life that still haunts us. Even the happy people who looked care free cried.

A lightbulb went on.