AU where every lie told leaves a scar on the liar's body.
The bigger the lie, the deeper the scar.
Chris was an amazing guy. He was a respectful man and a confident leader. He was just pure and good, through and through. I’ve never met anyone like him before, and I don’t think I ever will again. People like Chris aren’t found often. They’re one in a billion.
Everyone I have ever met has had silvery papercuts crossing their palms and wrapping around their fingers. It’s the white lies that leave the tiniest marks and cause the least amount of pain, such as, “My room is clean.” “It was on sale.” “I love your shoes!” Once you rack up a few dozen, the smaller scars become a camouflage of sorts, paving the way for older marks to be reopened and new cuts to form undetected.Â
Almost everyone has a few larger scars, trailing down forearms and around necks. Deeper gashes mean deeper lies, and if you’re lucky, the worst marks can be hidden with your clothes, which aid in fending off the inevitable distrust. The fact is, people lie, and whether they care to admit it or not is no longer their choice.
Sometimes, deception is worth the physical pain it causes, but most people weigh their options carefully before speaking.
I joined the Marines because I wanted to.
That’s a lie I tell myself everyday. It’s an unconscious thing, really. It’s a lie that criss crosses my right shoulder blade in a deceitful pattern that’s constantly burning. It’s never deep, never spoken aloud. But it’s never healed, either.Â
In actuality, I joined the Marines because otherwise, I had no chance at life. Three bad decisions and a mental illness got me kicked out of my dad’s house when I was nineteen. I blew my savings account on cigarettes and lottery tickets, pushing my luck until my girlfriend dumped me. Her rejection was a slap in the face, the kind of slap that causes you to question what you’re doing with your life. I’ve been off my antidepressants for two years, so I qualified for the military. But when I am surrounded by all of the brave, sacrificial men and women that make up the United States Marines, I feel like a failure. I try to just keep my head down, silently and obediently going about my training. It never helped matters that I have more scars than most - no one trusted me, and rightfully so. But if everyone was politely distant with me, they were absolutely frigid with Instructor Chris.
You see, he didn’t have the expected thin, white scars crossing over his fingers. He didn’t have cuts and nicks trailing around his arms and neck. His skin was as flawless as a newborn’s. At first, he stuck out, but in a good way. At first, everyone thought he must be the most honest man on the face of the earth. At first, everyone liked Chris and wanted to be on good terms with him, which made sense - in a world full of liars, they had finally found one person they could trust, 100%. At first.
A few weeks passed before we saw Chris take off his shirt in the locker room, the day I caught sight of the most gruesome mark in my entire life. It was only one lie, but it started at the bottom of his neck and trailed down his entire back. Parts of it had tried to heal and scab over only to be ripped open once again. Dots of fresh blood sprung from the wound and stained his skin. A horrific twist of red and silver and black that almost seemed to be pulsating. It was all the same lie. You could just tell. But whatever he had said, however many times he had said it, I couldn’t begin to fathom.
Chris was a man of few words - but when he did speak, it was always with a smile. It was always positive, encouraging, and truthful. He was an amazing instructor and a phenomenal teacher. But that deep, stabbing mark was on the forefront of everyone’s mind. Anyone who could tell a lie that caused pain like that was someone to watch out for. But it was one crisp morning that we learned the truth.
We were instructed to perform live fire exercises, which was nothing out of the ordinary. We had practiced these drills a million times. We knew our weapons like the backs of our hands...except, it seems that day that someone was distracted. Maybe they were focusing a little too hard. Maybe they were feeling sick. Maybe their hand had a twitch. Maybe they were just careless. But that day, a shot fired when it shouldn’t have. Steel spit fire, air swallowed metal, and lead took its first taste of flesh, then blood, then dirt.
I froze, watching helplessly as that kid crumpled to the ground in slow motion. He didn’t look frightened; he looked shocked, holding his blood-soaked hand in front of his face. The scarlet stain quickly spread through his clothes, making the tiny hole in his torso seem much larger than it was. He dropped to his knees, sucking in a ragged breath, still not quite processing what had just happened.
That’s when Chris appeared out of nowhere, cradling the boy in his arms. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen years old. Panic ensued around them; shouts for the medic and cries for “the kit” were almost indecipherable. Our neat rows scattered as everyone ran for help. I was close enough to realize “help” wouldn’t make a difference. We were trained to shoot for the kill - eliminate the target and move on.Â
I just watched as Chris held this kid. Warm, slippery blood poured over both of them and made crimson mud out of the dirt. I listened to Chris repeat words that cut deep, over and over again.
“Hey, look at me. It’s gonna be okay.”
“You’re gonna be okay.”
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