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can never let the real me show. If I do, they’ll all realize that I’m far worse a woman than they imagine me to be.
No one knows that underneath my beautiful dresses I hide a body that is scarred and cut and bruised.
I tear the war hammer out of its grasp. It’s heavy and dragging in my grip, but I don’t care. I look over at Kiaran and smile. “This is me saving myself.” I swing the hammer back and slam it into the redcap’s temple. Blood bursts at me, splatters warm across my face. And a single thought echoes in my mind: More.
“You underestimate me,” I whisper. “And that is a mistake.”
“I was twelve. You were girls, and therefore an entirely different species.”
“Your ability to communicate is atrocious, did you know that?”
Time won’t fix me. Time allows me to become more skillful at hiding how much I hurt inside. Time makes me a great liar. Because when it comes to grief, we all like to pretend.
lie is best told with a single grain of truth, a factual hook on which to hang the falsehood. That’s what makes them so easy to maintain.
