The Final Lie

Goodbye.

It rolls off the tip of my tongue, the familiarity of it burning my lips. I’ve said goodbye a million times over, but the pain has never gone both ways. I’ve always been the one to leave. I’ve always been the one to run, leaving pieces of myself behind wherever I went.

And so, even though the word is familiar, the pain is not. It throbs in my chest, a dull, aching feeling that makes it hard to breathe. Part of me hurts for all of the people that I did this to, yet another part of me is grateful that when I ran, I often left this feeling behind, too.

She looks at me with the same fear in her eyes. I can see myself in her so clearly, see that she’s trying to delay the pain I’m feeling right now. I’ve never had someone leave me before, not like this, and with every breath, I can tell that she’s never been the one to leave, either.

The trees hedging her driveway appear to curl inward, trapping her. Her house looms against the moonless sky, menacing in all its grandiosity, and my car seems out of place for such an unsettling scene. The night is heavy, the tension thick, like a wall of glass separating us. I would give anything to shatter it, to feel her lips against mine one last time, but I know that that would only make it harder for us both. I’ve been in her place too many times over to deny her the right to leave the regret behind.

I run her through my head over and over again. What made her different? Nothing should have, we were the same—two girls who found comfort in the other’s body. But I craved the way she curled her lips as she spoke and the way she pressed her thumb into my palm when she took my hand. I needed more than just the idea of someone by my side—I needed her, and it destroyed us both.

She breathes in sharply, and the small specks of blue in her gray eyes sparkle softly in the faint starlight, sharp against the dark. I can see the fear—I see her mind running away while her heart drags her back. Here’s this picture-perfect girl, with a long frame and blonde hair. I never thought she would run, but people get desperate, and as much as I want to tell her that leaving me behind isn’t fair, to convince her to stay with me, that we’d be safe here together, I know more than anything that that’s a lie. I’ve told too many of those in this lifetime.

I could feel the change in her. Her touch became distant, her eyes shifty, her body a million miles away despite the constant proximity. I would kiss her, trying to bring her back to me before something else could take her away. I never thought that in the end, she would be that something.

I knew she had to leave before she did; I knew something had to change before it happened. Her limits shattered and I was the first to cut myself on their pieces. I never thought she’d let it go this far. I should have questioned why she was still tied down to her father, I should have said something when I realized that things weren’t right. There are a million reasons why this is my fault, a million different things that I could have done to stop her from reaching this point. But I was selfish; I wanted to pretend that she was something I would never let go of. She was something I couldn’t run away from, something that couldn’t be taken away from me.

But in the end, she was never something. She was someone, and that was my mistake. I’m usually better than this. Cold. Calculative. Manipulative. Precise. But not with her. I made all the right mistakes—I should have left when I had the chance. 

But I didn’t, and so I commit every detail in front of me to memory. I don’t blame her for breaking this off. It could never work, really. It was never supposed to work, even in the way that it did. It was never supposed to end like this, but it was never supposed to start, either.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. Her face contorts into one of indecision, her hands pulling at her shirt in a silent war against herself. “I’m sorry, Madeline, I’m sorry.” Selfishly, I let her repeat my name over and over again, just to hear it spill from her lips one last time. Madeline. I never really liked my name until I heard her say it.

“Don’t be,” I finally breathe. Her gaze snaps up to mine, her jaw relaxing as her hands fall back to her sides. I can see the movie of expressions playing out across her face and can recognize them as my own. “You have to go. You have to leave.”

“I know.” She lets her gaze fall, the intensity of the moment lost as a couple of stray strands of hair escape her messy bun and fall into her face.

I can’t imagine her like this. I can’t imagine what must have happened to cause her to snap. I don’t want to think about it, the silent girl with faded scars up her arms and an unspoken resolution to destroy herself. I thought I might have changed that, but I know now how wrong I really was.

“You have to go now,” I whisper, still staring at her. All I want to do is draw her into my arms, tell her that what she did was somehow justifiable, that it was not her fault. If I did that, I’d be right, but It wouldn't be an explanation for what happened; it would only make it harder for her to leave.

“How?” She glances back up at me, her eyes darkening. “I won’t get far. We both know that.” 

Of course I know that. I know how hard it is to disappear, to fall off the grid entirely. I know that it’s even harder to bury the secrets that lie between the both of us. Only we know the truth, and it has to stay that way. She doesn’t deserve this, she never did. Her hands are shaking violently, and a certain anger burns through my chest. She never wanted to do this, she had to.

I want her to stay more than anything. I want to feel her body against mine. I want to hear her laugh. I want to see her smile. But she made a mistake, and I can tell that all she wants to do is bury it in her past. Maybe she wants to reach out and touch me just as much as I do her, but there’s a part of me that recognizes she might not. In this moment, the only thing that matters to her is erasing everything and everyone from her past. Starting over, where no one can recognize her or the mistakes she’s made.

My mind spins with possibilities, because I know that when she leaves, I will be left with nothing.

And it’s stupid to say that she was my everything, that I can’t live without her. She’s not my everything. She’s just… a lot of it. The only stability I’ve allowed myself in a long time is her. A certain dizziness settles in my stomach, and I hold eye contact with her as I reach for the item in her hand.

“You go, I’ll stay. Let me cover for you. I have nothing left here, but you… you have the world.” It takes a moment for my words to register, but as soon as they do, something shifts in her gaze. The tension only builds as I wait for her response.

I wish I could say that she pulls away, that she takes on her regret and doesn’t leave me behind. But that’s not what happens, and I’m tired of lying.

I watch as her hands fall limp, and a flash of gratitude crosses her face as she mouths thank you, but I could have imagined that part. And then, she’s gone.

Her figure disappears into the darkness, and I can hear the engine of my car starting.

She leaves me alone in the night, and I take a deep, shaky breath before glancing down at the object she left me with. Running my hand across it, I seal my fate, my fingers coming away from the knife sticky with blood. 

A certain metallic smell tinges the air around me, and I press the crimson substance into the palm of my hand. If I had known that giving her a taste of freedom would take away my own, I would have left before she could kill her father. I sigh, resigning myself to the fact that I have one final lie to tell, and head into her house to say goodbye.