Delilah's web of lies

She was a liar. 60% of people lie at least once in ten-minute conversations, yet all of her 'truths' were deceit. Sprouting and swallowing dishonesty was her favourite past-time; a few would call it her life- her utopia. For each conversation she had, she willfully delivered at least three lies to each person. A form of entertainment to her. She practised lying as thorough as an alchemist studying magic. Day to night, she rehearsed plentifully, waiting for her next immolation to succumb to her fiction. Lying is certainly for the brave, yet stupid, but she was confident. No doubt reckless. Now, this is no encouragement to lie; this is a cautionary tale for a reason. However prickly or sweet your lie is the truth will always be divulged. Being acute will only get you so far. Unfortunately for the liar, her skill and head stay hung up in the town square, rotting with the rest of the filth. Enough proof to the town that white lies lead a bloody path to your demise. But for this to be an exemplary example for liars, this tale needs to be reversed.

New Orleans, October 26, 1927

Delilah could dance until she bled, and sing to her throat's sorest moments. The epicurean era of the roaring 20's revealed only the worst in animals, scouring for their next dance partner. The French Quarter was excelling in trouble and mischief, some of Delilah's favourite desires. Right now, she was twisting, turning, prancing around the stage with two sisters. Both married, of course. Yet never hesitant to reject a favourable dance. Both husbands' dwelling deeply on their wives' carelessness. But it was the roaring 20's; A woman could only do two things- to dance and to sing. Yet Delilah liked to lie, and lie she did. It was clear of the husbands' jealousy and delusions. Delilah met the husbands' that day. Scornful and scorning was the only thing they did, drowning in their sweet resentment with bitter whiskey. To Delilah, it was humorous to watch. But she wanted more. More mischief; A melodramatic tragedy would burn the streets of New Orleans just from her lies. For when one of the husbands was alone, she whispered and drained her duplicitous tales into his unforgiving ears. His heart soaking up the deceitful slanders of his wives infidelity, anger pooling and combing through his mind. Delilah considered that a success, believing that only divorce would be the final consequence. However, his rage could never be satisfied with that outcome.

New Orleans, October 27, 1927

Despite the burning rays of the sun, Delilah walked the streets alone that day, boastful of her recent lies. It wasn't her best lie, but it flourished the most horror New Orleans had seen in years. Two sisters dead. Their corpses butchered into two small travelling trunks, murdered by their husbands. Now Delilah felt guilt; she wasn't a barbarian. But this lie fed her exquisite mischief that she craved more of. That night, she wandered deliriously around the French Quarter, scavenging for the next casualty. White lies ripping into pain and misery; deception and mistrust infecting surrounding preys. The French Quarter was her cartref- calamity boiling down the streets of New Orleans. It's astonishing to see how far a lie can travel. But this was only the beginning for Delilah. Her lies knew no bounds and her greed for devilry tormented her caving heart. Delilah knew her lies murdered. But a murderer mustn't need courage but rather the severe lack of moral stamina. Regrettably for New Orleans, Delilah indeed lacked that. And so forth, she awoke each morning with a lie and ended each night with tragedy. A suicide from unrequited love in the papers one morning. A pointless murder the next night from fruitless disinformation. Delilah's reign of deceit knew no ends, every newspaper plagued with despairing deaths. But it was not enough for Delilah. Nothing ever would be. Well, not until October 30, 1927.

New Orleans, October 30, 1927

Rumours spread of a thieving liar in the French Quarter. Not a thief of gold or jewellery. But a thief of your heart; the massacre of joy and the chase of love, poisoned with the lies of Delilah. From this point, Delilah became the antagonist of her own story. Hereafter, Delilah would always lie, too deep and desperate to cover her tracks. Delilah would repeat the same lies to different people; the same reactions and the same misery played over again on the same vinyl record. She grew tedious of the unchanging heartache. Delilah wanted more. She deserved more. Craving the power she ingested from her first lie, Delilah one night visited the same club with hopes of the same torment. Each lie sprouting out of her lips became hungrier for destruction, for the pain to swallow the French Quarter. Every lie was more extravagant than the last. From devilish affairs to animalistic homicides scourging the streets. Her lies becoming cluttered pieces of a jigsaw, which soon the foolish commoners began to combine. Her continuous tales overflowing the Bayou St. John river, bleeding into the minds of the residents of the French Quarter. The ultimate master of deception restrained due to being eternally bored; gleefully dishonest, Delilah's web of lies hooking fruitless flies to her empty soul. 

Delilah danced until she bled, and sung until some pride consumed her emptiness. The natives scrutinizing every word that left her mouth, awaiting karma's entrance. And as she twirled, twisted and pranced around, she still felt empty. Through all the heartache, the suicides, and the murders she caused, she still felt empty. Delilah lied and beguiled others to not cause destruction but to fill the gaping hole in her sanity. For years to come, Delilah lied. She was a liar, delivering at least three lies to every person. However, with every lie, scraps of her stability peeled away from her skin, Delilah's sanity hanging from every corner of the town square. Thus, every year Delilah's fragmented mind was taken as an example of the madness of lies, leaving a trail of bloody deceit to her own demise.