Split (1)

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	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	The subway rattled it's syncopated song, barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum. About twenty lonely people swayed back and forth in harmony within the car. There are usually a few homeless people at this hour. One typically sat in the far back corner, asleep. But tonight there was just a guy with puffy eyes in a white tee shirt with sleeves that came to around the middle of his bicep. He was thin, but not sickeningly so, moderately handsome, and utterly defeated judging by his posture. His most striking feature of all was a newly formed slash down his forearm. The largest I've ever seen, by far. Still wet, they would say. His second most striking feature was the absence of any other scars. Now usually, you get at least a few scars growing up. It's kind of like touching a burner as a kid. You just have to learn from experience. You might tell a fib at school about homework, and pets that have suddenly acquired an appetite for homework, and you collect a few scars along the way. I sure as hell did at least. But this guy had to have made it all the way here, in New York City of all places, without telling a single lie. Well, until today. I was intrigued. I mean, how could you not be? He was Mother-freaking-Teresa, but even she probably failed to disclose the secret location of her breadbasket base every now and then. "Dantooine...they're all on Dantooine," she might have said. I approached, with caution. I recognize this was selfish of me, but maybe the guy needed someone to talk to. "Hey, man. You doing ok?" I said, conveying empathy the best my socially awkward self could manage. "Yeah," the kid, who I just realized was only about 26, if that, said with such brevity that he may as well said nothing at all. "Look, I don't usually intrude on people's private affairs. It's just, usually a homeless guy who goes by Squirrel sits where you are now and I don't think the strongest constitution in the bowel department, if you get my meaning." The kid smiled at least, wiping his right eye with his scarless forearm, and moved to the bench seat next to where I was standing. "I'm John," he said. "Hi John, it's a pleasure. I'm Matt." I sat down next to him. "Maybe if you tell me about your day, you will be distracted enough to forget it." "I guess we aren't really going anywhere, are we." The doors to the subway car opened to dump out about half its contents. Those left in the car were otherwise enthralled in their phones or their headphones. "How many more stops do you have?" "Twelve." "Me too." He looked around the car, as the doors closed and the car lurched forward with the same barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum. I guess he adjudged the car private enough, so he began his story. It all started with a girl. Imagine that. "Ah, to be young again," I thought. Brown hair, decent looks, and smart, he said. He had dated her for four years. They had graduated college together, fallen in love, and moved in to a too-small-but-hey-we-are-achieving-our-dreams-and-living-in-the-big-city-oh-look-a-dead-rat-its-nothing-we-will-get-used-to-it apartment. They even got one of those stupid plant holders that hang out of window sills. You know the ones that kill about eight people a year in a city like the Big Apple. John had been the perfect boyfriend to Sally. He got her cute gifts that were within his budget, but not too within his budget, and he was nice to all of her friends. He even took her to a Giants game or two. Hell, he even ended up on the big screen for a kiss that ended up being televised on WFAN because of the quirky way he tossed the popcorn aside and did one of those "back from the war" kisses. They even got engaged. But last year, Sally was diagnosed with a cognitive disorder that changed her behavior. Sally was never the same again. She had flashes of anger, where she would insult John and his family. She would talk of other guys she had been with in the past, when she never did that before. She would even compare John to other guys that they had been around, telling him why they were better than him. This went on for a year. She demeaned him to the point of no return, yet he remained there with her. John kept her medication in order and cooked for her, because processes were lost at that point. After Sally lost control of her colon he cleaned their Murphy Bed in their too-small-but-hey-we-are-achieving-our-dreams-and-living-in-the-big-city-oh-look-a-dead-rat-its-nothing-we-will-get-used-to-it apartment. He sat with her in the hospital for two weeks and lost his accounting job due to it. He was there today when she died. Sally had looked up at him within her last hour and said she remembered the day they watched a dog in Central Park on a long leash literally wrap its owner up "101 Dalmatians" style and drag him a few yards. They laughed aloud, heads back like Peanuts characters, like they had many times before Sally became ill. She looked up at John, with tears welling in her eyes. For a brief moment, the old Sally was there. "I love you," she said. "I love you, too," he replied.	I live in a world when you lie you get a scar. The bigger the scar, the worse the lie. I apparently was in an accident a year ago and now I can't remember things that well. So there I am at the store and I see this girl with one extremely large and deep looking scar. I figured I should go ask her what she said because it seems interesting there was only one lie. So I asked her and she said she used to be my wife. She couldn't look me in the eye and she said it was "I love you." Edit: Yes I know someone else did something similar to this. Just saying before downvotes happen.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	We met at a bar one evening. She had a beer in her hand, something local on tap, about half-drained. We struck up some conversation - weather or sports or some such, I don't remember, small talk though. She made some passing comment about liking my ears, and I almost brushed it off as false praise - I think they stick out a bit too much - before I noticed her smooth skin; not a single scar visible. I had my own fair share of lies cut into my skin - most minor, a few major. Even the bigger ones I'd usually defend, outside of a big one on my arm. "I've been clean for a year!". Even so, that's the least regretful mistake from that part of my life - I'm proud to say I can say that line now without the scar growing larger. I got her name - Jane - and later, her number. We ended up setting up a date for the following weekend, and hit it off quickly. Similar interests - hiking, video games, cooking... Well, mostly same interests, anyway. I remember her coy smile when I said I liked her Coltrane collection, and a line of skin on my forearm darkened. Can't stand jazz, really. I thought for about a month that she was perfectly honest, until we went to bed together. Jane seemed reluctant to take off her shirt, but that same honesty that kept her skin smooth must have demanded she not cover up now - her bra came off, and across the inside of her left breast was the deepest scar that I've ever seen. It wasn't a discoloration like most scars - it was like a knotted rope was underneath the skin. It wasn't the sort of thing you can comment on lightly, but at the same time, it would be more conspicuous to ignore it. She was clearly distressed, waiting for my reaction. I wasn't sure what to say, but we were both naked at that point so there was no hoping that a lie would be covered up by clothing. "There's obviously a story here, and I'm curious, but... Right now, it's not important. I'm willing to wait until you're willing to tell me on your own terms" I said, and punctuated the sentence with a kiss. She ran a hand through my short hair, and the encounter continued naturally after that. But frankly the details are none of your business. It was another six months before I learned any more details about that scar of hers. We were quite serious by now, and I'd had plenty of opportunities to see it again at this point. Jane told me that her parents were going to be coming by for Thanksgiving, and that she wanted me to be there. Her face was strangely tense, and when I pressed for information, she just said that she didn't feel up for explaining. What could I say to that? So, I didn't press the issue, and waited for Thursday to roll around. Her parents showed up - her mother was a frumpy sort of woman, with a flowery dress, and her father was tall, but had a thick neck and a double chin. I was surprised the two of them could have produced such a beautiful daughter, but all the same I could see some resemblance, particularly in the eyes and nose. The first thing I heard her father say - before even "hello" - was right after he jerked a thumb in my direction. "Is this that friend of yours? She looks like a fucking dyke." Her mother agreed emphatically. I found myself dumbstruck, unable to respond. Jane laughed uncomfortably, but her father didn't seem to notice - he was sniffing the air. "Turkey's already on, eh? Surprised you haven't caught yourself a husband yet, with your cooking. Hah!" "No luck yet, but I'm sure I'll find one one of these days." Jane replied with a weak smile, clearly hiding a wince as the scar above her heart wrought its way deeper into her skin.	"Mr. Graves, are you certain your client has been telling the truth?" The voice of the judge cut through the room. I glanced up from my papers, and stood up, taking off my gloves and scarf. The jury panel gasped a little bit when they saw my unscarred face and hands. More than a few looked jealous, but most merely looked impressed. I nodded. Good. I had affixed myself as a person who told the truth in their mind. My client, meanwhile, was a mass of scars. They marred his face, hands, neck, biceps. A few of them were deep and ugly. He was staring at his handcuffed hands, looking despondent. I cleared my throat. "Yes, your honor. And I intend to prove not only to you, but to the men and women of the jury that the evidence the state has not does not prove my client's innocence, but that the evidence proves his innocence!" The jury mumbled amongst themselves as I launched into my opening statement. --- "Thank you, Mr. Graves," my client said, grinning in my office, wearing his ratty yet comfortable clothes once again. "I thought I'd be locked up for good, but you... you pulled off a miracle. " I smiled a little, straightening my posture and linking my fingers on the desk. "It wasn't me, Mr. Williams. It was your testimony that made the most compelling argument." Williams smiled, the scars on his face stretching and distorting. "Mr. Graves, you're a godsend. I can never thank you enough. I'm going to go and try and pull my life together." There. A small little slice, right by his ear. It wasn't much, and he didn't notice it, and I didn't stare. No one deserved to be caught, especially in the lies they tell themselves. Mr. Williams thanked me profusely, continued to make that same promise that tore open that scar a little more each time, then left. When he was gone, I once again stood in the mirror in my office. I unbuttoned my shirt, allowing myself a wince as I opened the shirt a bit further. Yep, it was still there. The one scar that I had from telling myself the lie. The biggest lie I had ever told, and it was the only reason I was still around. I took a deep breath, looked myself dead in the mirror, and mouthed the lie to myself. The pain lanced through me as the scar re-opened once again, starting at my collarbone, opening up through my stomach, curling around my belly button, and immediately soaking my pant leg with blood as it ended somewhere in my inner thigh. The pain had been enough to knock me out the first time I had told that lie. My parents had rushed me to the hospital. Now, all I did was grunt, set my teeth, and reach for the suture kit on the counter in front of me. That lie hurt, even more each time I said it. But I had to let myself know I was okay. Even if it was a lie.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	My mind boiled over with thoughts, it raced with many theories and ideas as to what it could be. What did they do? What did they lie about? In this world, for some foresaken reason, god had betrayed his people. I knew lying was wrong, most of the time. But for me? Oh no, my mother taught me well, as would any mother would with the markings a lie would give you. You use your words and your mind. You think before you speak. You work your way around and at some point those markings mean nothing. Absolutely nothing. We all had minor scars, we all told small lies here and there, it was over looked most of the time. You would be given a look of embarrassment and there would be a certain quietness in the room. It would go over looked but everyone still knew when it happened: You lied. It was blunt. It was a strong odor no one could control. Scars all over our bodies, in odd places that surely made you wonder; Can I trust you? Trust? What was trust in this world? The ones, the pure ones, who had no markings were sat upon a throne. You were good. You were clean, pure, holy, and surly too good to be true. But the others? The others with deep scars that showed their past? That showed the history of their mouth and what they had to offer? It was too much, just the sight of a deep scar was a very dangerous thing to behold. You wouldn't be trusted, you simply wouldn't be. It was an automatic detection of you being filthy, a filthy liar. We would bathe ourselves as children, confessing our sins and screaming out for God to make the markings go away. We would scrub our bodies until they'd bleed. We would put on creams and makeup, just to make it disappear. But the lie would still remain, and you couldn't take it back. The guilt would make you go mad and the scar would stay forever as a reminder. When I laid eyes upon this man, this man with the biggest and most deepest scar I had ever seen, I was over the edge with desire to know. Frantically twitching and trying to ease my way into a conversation with the young male, my efforts seemed worthless as I could tell he knew, his blank facial expression made a statement to fuck off. Right before I took a breath and spared a few words, I dwelled in my cowardness and froze. "What do you want?" he asked. And at that moment, that exact moment, was when I got my biggest scar. "Nothing".	"Mr. Graves, are you certain your client has been telling the truth?" The voice of the judge cut through the room. I glanced up from my papers, and stood up, taking off my gloves and scarf. The jury panel gasped a little bit when they saw my unscarred face and hands. More than a few looked jealous, but most merely looked impressed. I nodded. Good. I had affixed myself as a person who told the truth in their mind. My client, meanwhile, was a mass of scars. They marred his face, hands, neck, biceps. A few of them were deep and ugly. He was staring at his handcuffed hands, looking despondent. I cleared my throat. "Yes, your honor. And I intend to prove not only to you, but to the men and women of the jury that the evidence the state has not does not prove my client's innocence, but that the evidence proves his innocence!" The jury mumbled amongst themselves as I launched into my opening statement. --- "Thank you, Mr. Graves," my client said, grinning in my office, wearing his ratty yet comfortable clothes once again. "I thought I'd be locked up for good, but you... you pulled off a miracle. " I smiled a little, straightening my posture and linking my fingers on the desk. "It wasn't me, Mr. Williams. It was your testimony that made the most compelling argument." Williams smiled, the scars on his face stretching and distorting. "Mr. Graves, you're a godsend. I can never thank you enough. I'm going to go and try and pull my life together." There. A small little slice, right by his ear. It wasn't much, and he didn't notice it, and I didn't stare. No one deserved to be caught, especially in the lies they tell themselves. Mr. Williams thanked me profusely, continued to make that same promise that tore open that scar a little more each time, then left. When he was gone, I once again stood in the mirror in my office. I unbuttoned my shirt, allowing myself a wince as I opened the shirt a bit further. Yep, it was still there. The one scar that I had from telling myself the lie. The biggest lie I had ever told, and it was the only reason I was still around. I took a deep breath, looked myself dead in the mirror, and mouthed the lie to myself. The pain lanced through me as the scar re-opened once again, starting at my collarbone, opening up through my stomach, curling around my belly button, and immediately soaking my pant leg with blood as it ended somewhere in my inner thigh. The pain had been enough to knock me out the first time I had told that lie. My parents had rushed me to the hospital. Now, all I did was grunt, set my teeth, and reach for the suture kit on the counter in front of me. That lie hurt, even more each time I said it. But I had to let myself know I was okay. Even if it was a lie.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	It was the middle of the January, one of the better times to lie if you had to. In the cold winter months, you could get away with hiding your secrets under an oversized, baggy sweater. There just enough snow in the air that to make the sky seem to sparkle, but it was nothing compared to the sparkle in her piercing green eyes when they first made contact with mine. I swear, it was love at first sight. Her hair was close cut, its raven black color a stark contrast to the white world which framed it. Her cheeks and nose had a splash of red from the cold. Fuzzy earmuffs, slightly oversized on her head, enveloped her ears. The cold steam of her breath escaped in short bursts from thin, pursed lips. She turned toward me a bit, wrapping her puffy red coat snugly around her body and drawing her arms over her chest for warmth. Skinny black jeans, the kind that showed off just enough of her curves, ran down into pristine white boots, the soles of which were almost obscured by the thin layer of snow on the ground. In short, she was perfect. Before I realized what I was doing, I hid my hands in my coat pockets self-consciously. I cursed myself for not having the foresight to wear gloves. Most of mine show up on my hands, and seeing all of them up front tends to give people the wrong first impression. See, the Scars have something of a twisted sense of humor. You tell a lie about some action you've taken, you get a scar on your arms or hands; tell a lie about somewhere you've been, you get a scar on your legs or feet; tell a lie about what you think, you get a scar somewhere on your head. Medical experts have been studying the scars for as far back as anyone can remember, but the best science can tell us is that they just... happen. For all science knows, the world could be home to legions of overly vigilant, painfully ironic fairies wielding pocket knives. Gathering my courage, I unzipped my coat and started walking in her direction. I nearly stopped myself and turned away a couple of times, but I'd promised myself long ago to always be truthful to my feelings. Nonetheless, I stalled awkwardly when I came close. Her green eyes watching me, the smell of her perfume drifting over to me, the cold wind blowing against my shirt... I took a deep breath. I probably looked like an idiot. But, now was not the time to panic. I laid my heart out on the line, in more ways than one. I told her she was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen, and that if she would allow me the opportunity, I wanted to take her somewhere special. That might seem a bit direct, but it helps your case a lot when a girl can simply watch your chest to see if your feelings are genuine. Sure enough, no bloodstain appeared. She looked down at the snowy ground, her cheeks growing even more red in the cold weather. "Alright," she said, her lips teasing into a slight smile. "What did you have in mind?" Good question. What did I have in mind? We ended up in a nearby restaurant, though I can't for the life of me remember how. I got really lucky is probably the best answer. As we took our seats in the booth, she took off her outer jacket, revealing a white sweater underneath. I didn't think anything of it at first. Slowly, as if unsure of herself, she unzipped the sweater too and pulled it down her arms, not fully off but not quite on either. Beneath it, she was wearing a rather tight shirt which revealed her slender arms and the fair skin of her midriff. I was caught completely off-guard by her drastic change of apparel. She shivered a bit and rubber her shoulders. I sat there speechless, transfixed by her beauty. Her skin was so... perfect. Not a single scar marred her arms, her stomach, her neck, or anything. I realized I must have been staring, and turned a way just a bit too quickly. "It's okay," she said softly, pulling her coat back on. "I wanted you to see that, since... I mean, you were so up front with me and... but not in a bad way, and... I guess I could've just told you outright..." She stared at the table a bit too pointedly. I smiled to myself. At least I wasn't the only one who was bad at this. ... That was three years ago, back when life was so much simpler. Back before the diagnosis, before the painful treatments which dragged on into weeks and then months. Before we learned about the cancer that was eating away, slowly but surely, at her brain. The doctors told us nothing could be done. They could treat her, give her drugs to ease the suffering and ultimately the transition, but she was never going to get better. They said she would be... gone... within a few months. I stared at them like a hawk as they spoke, scrutinizing every inch of skin as I processed each sentence, but no Scars came. It was the truth. We were both left to ask why it had to be her. She grew irritable and lashed out, though I could hardly blame her. They said it was pressing on her brain, altering her mood and her thoughts. I'm not ashamed to admit that I bawled my eyes out when I first heard the news. But I had to be strong, I had to keep going. I had to be a rock, no matter how hard that would be. As her time in the hospital grew, so did the doses they gave her. On one of her worse nights, I sat there with her as she tried to process all the built up frustration. I could see in her eyes that she didn't fully recognize me, a look I would never grow used to. With no other outlet, she turned it on me. "Why did this have to happen?" she suddenly screamed at me, choking back a sob. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "I... I hate you!" For a moment, neither of us said anything. We sat in near silence, interrupted only by the occasional sob. I watched her somberly, not daring to react. And that's when I saw it. A large pool of blood soaked into her hospital gown, just above her heart. The only Scar she would ever have. ... Thanks for reading! -ShutainzuGeito	"Mr. Graves, are you certain your client has been telling the truth?" The voice of the judge cut through the room. I glanced up from my papers, and stood up, taking off my gloves and scarf. The jury panel gasped a little bit when they saw my unscarred face and hands. More than a few looked jealous, but most merely looked impressed. I nodded. Good. I had affixed myself as a person who told the truth in their mind. My client, meanwhile, was a mass of scars. They marred his face, hands, neck, biceps. A few of them were deep and ugly. He was staring at his handcuffed hands, looking despondent. I cleared my throat. "Yes, your honor. And I intend to prove not only to you, but to the men and women of the jury that the evidence the state has not does not prove my client's innocence, but that the evidence proves his innocence!" The jury mumbled amongst themselves as I launched into my opening statement. --- "Thank you, Mr. Graves," my client said, grinning in my office, wearing his ratty yet comfortable clothes once again. "I thought I'd be locked up for good, but you... you pulled off a miracle. " I smiled a little, straightening my posture and linking my fingers on the desk. "It wasn't me, Mr. Williams. It was your testimony that made the most compelling argument." Williams smiled, the scars on his face stretching and distorting. "Mr. Graves, you're a godsend. I can never thank you enough. I'm going to go and try and pull my life together." There. A small little slice, right by his ear. It wasn't much, and he didn't notice it, and I didn't stare. No one deserved to be caught, especially in the lies they tell themselves. Mr. Williams thanked me profusely, continued to make that same promise that tore open that scar a little more each time, then left. When he was gone, I once again stood in the mirror in my office. I unbuttoned my shirt, allowing myself a wince as I opened the shirt a bit further. Yep, it was still there. The one scar that I had from telling myself the lie. The biggest lie I had ever told, and it was the only reason I was still around. I took a deep breath, looked myself dead in the mirror, and mouthed the lie to myself. The pain lanced through me as the scar re-opened once again, starting at my collarbone, opening up through my stomach, curling around my belly button, and immediately soaking my pant leg with blood as it ended somewhere in my inner thigh. The pain had been enough to knock me out the first time I had told that lie. My parents had rushed me to the hospital. Now, all I did was grunt, set my teeth, and reach for the suture kit on the counter in front of me. That lie hurt, even more each time I said it. But I had to let myself know I was okay. Even if it was a lie.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	"Anything else?" the waitress asked me, as she smacked a cup of coffee on the table somewhat carelessly. I think her name was Darla. I shook my head a bit and watched her saunter back to the counter out of the corner of my eye. I knew she had judged me from the moment she saw me. She had given me the same look most everyone else does. It's funny how someone marked and nicked with little white scars on her hands and arms and neck and legs can look down on me for having more of them. To be fair to - whatever her name was... - Darla- ...to be fair to Darla, and to everyone else, I do have lots and lots of little scars. I looked out to the window to my right at a lamp post that illuminated the darkened streets. This was as asleep as the city gets at night. I started my scar collection as a kid. My mother meant well and might've been a decent parent if she didn't spend her days swigging vodka. My dad was never in the picture. A military man, apparently, who had to move to a base in Europe before I was born, although looking back I'm sure that wasn't true. My mother, now she had a lot of scars. A scar for every time she was going to quit drinking and "do right by me." The first scar I remember scratching its way onto my skin was when I was probably four or five. My teacher had asked me if I was going to be ok. My mother hadn't come to pick me up which was a semi-frequent event, and I had gotten up to walk home - I lived a 20-minute walk or so away from the school so it wasn't a problem for me. He asked me if I was going to have dinner at home, and I lied. I told him we were having company over and my mom probably just lost track of time cooking this big meal for us all. I don't even know why I lied about it because it was a pointless lie, but I felt the sting on the back of my shoulder as the words left my lips. Over the years the lies I told people, the lies I told my mother created a tapestry of scar tissue across my body. Sometimes I just wanted to get away from the house and I'd tell her I was staying with a friend. The marks were inconsequential to me. I'm a journalist now - a failed one - there's no use lying to you. It's funny really because none of my scars ever came from anything I've ever written. I'm stupid; I use my lies on bullshit, instead of making money. I looked down at my coffee and heard Darla telling a couple large patrons at the counter that she was planning on going back to school soon. I wondered if she got a scar for that or if she really meant it. It didn't really matter to me. I'm not interested in the lies people tell others. That's easy. It's recorded in the history of your body like the rings of a tree and even though they fade over time, more will always take their place - we can't help ourselves. No, what interests me are the lies people tell themselves. When people put makeup over their scars to cover up as many as they can, do they look into the mirror and pretend they are honest? A bell rang as the door opened. I glanced to my left and saw a young man walk in. And I froze. "Go ahead and sit where you'd like," Darla yelled out cheerily. "I'll be with you in just a sec." The newcomer walked towards a back booth, and my eyes stayed fixed on him the entire time. His skin was unmarred by any scar or blemish. I had looked over his face and neck and forearms, and not a mark there was on them. Bullshit. Everyone lies. That is the only consistent truth I have ever known, and I've known that as far back as my memory extends. Everyone is a liar - that is a universal truth. It's the universal truth. I found myself rising out of my seat. My feet carried me towards the man in the back, quickening with each step. My heart pounded. "Let me see your arms," I managed to squeeze out as I gripped his arm and turned it. My voice was nervous. I quickly jumped to the other arms and hurriedly looked it over. I rubbed his arm spastically to remove any makeup - but there was nothing. I looked up at his face. His eyes were those of a deer's caught in a headlight. What I was doing was crazy, I knew that. I had grabbed a random stranger but he couldn't be this honest. It wasn't possible. "Where are your scars?" I demanded. He was still taken aback. "Where are they?" I repeated a little more forcefully. "I- what scars?" he stammered out. I felt a surge of anger rise up in me. "Where are your fucking scars!" I yelled at the man and grabbed his shirt at his shoulders. His shocked silence only made me angrier. In an instant, I whipped his shirt up and dumbfoundedly stepped back. The entire front of his torso was one giant mass of scarred flesh. "How are they all there?" I breathed out. "That can't be from one lie..." He looked hurt. "There was an accident," he said dejectedly. "Bullshit!" I shot back. That was a lie everyone with an exceptional scar tried to get away with. That it wasn't from a lie, but some physical injury instead. I'd heard that one before. Sometimes a new mark was worth keeping the truth in the dark. But there was no new mark. I scanned over his body. "How did that happen?" "It was an accident!" he retorted, anger now growing in his voice. "There was a fire in my building! People died...and I was lucky enough to only be left with this at the end of the night." I looked over his body and watched as no new scars carved their way in. He threw his shirt back down and was clearly angry now. I stepped backward. The diner was silent. I could feel everyone's eyes on me. The man I accosted threw some money on the table and slid out of his booth. He moved passed me and I watched as the only honest man I had ever known walked out of the door. I was brought crashing back down to reality. I glanced towards the counter and saw the two patrons and the waitress staring at me. I walked back to my table and left some money there before walking out the door. I made it a few steps down the sidewalk before my legs went weak. I sat down on the curb and cried. It was only six months later when I saw the man's face again. This time on the news. His name was Robert Lewis, and he had been arrested for arson. He had set a fire in his apartment building that apparently grew out of control and wound up killing six people and sending dozens more to the hospital. He had been found there lying in the smoke by first responders. But here's the kicker. He hadn't suffered any burns when they found him. That scar only appeared after he had been questioned about the fire by a couple other firefighters before the cops even spoke to him. It took them a couple weeks to realize what happened and then months to find the guy. Everyone is a liar. He was just better at telling half truths. Edit: Grammatical	"Mr. Graves, are you certain your client has been telling the truth?" The voice of the judge cut through the room. I glanced up from my papers, and stood up, taking off my gloves and scarf. The jury panel gasped a little bit when they saw my unscarred face and hands. More than a few looked jealous, but most merely looked impressed. I nodded. Good. I had affixed myself as a person who told the truth in their mind. My client, meanwhile, was a mass of scars. They marred his face, hands, neck, biceps. A few of them were deep and ugly. He was staring at his handcuffed hands, looking despondent. I cleared my throat. "Yes, your honor. And I intend to prove not only to you, but to the men and women of the jury that the evidence the state has not does not prove my client's innocence, but that the evidence proves his innocence!" The jury mumbled amongst themselves as I launched into my opening statement. --- "Thank you, Mr. Graves," my client said, grinning in my office, wearing his ratty yet comfortable clothes once again. "I thought I'd be locked up for good, but you... you pulled off a miracle. " I smiled a little, straightening my posture and linking my fingers on the desk. "It wasn't me, Mr. Williams. It was your testimony that made the most compelling argument." Williams smiled, the scars on his face stretching and distorting. "Mr. Graves, you're a godsend. I can never thank you enough. I'm going to go and try and pull my life together." There. A small little slice, right by his ear. It wasn't much, and he didn't notice it, and I didn't stare. No one deserved to be caught, especially in the lies they tell themselves. Mr. Williams thanked me profusely, continued to make that same promise that tore open that scar a little more each time, then left. When he was gone, I once again stood in the mirror in my office. I unbuttoned my shirt, allowing myself a wince as I opened the shirt a bit further. Yep, it was still there. The one scar that I had from telling myself the lie. The biggest lie I had ever told, and it was the only reason I was still around. I took a deep breath, looked myself dead in the mirror, and mouthed the lie to myself. The pain lanced through me as the scar re-opened once again, starting at my collarbone, opening up through my stomach, curling around my belly button, and immediately soaking my pant leg with blood as it ended somewhere in my inner thigh. The pain had been enough to knock me out the first time I had told that lie. My parents had rushed me to the hospital. Now, all I did was grunt, set my teeth, and reach for the suture kit on the counter in front of me. That lie hurt, even more each time I said it. But I had to let myself know I was okay. Even if it was a lie.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	It's a mad world Nowadays you are asked to take your clothes off in a job interview for god's sake, even in court in some countries, I mean come on sometimes you actually need to lie goddamnit sometimes it actually does some real good but it literally scars you for life... I have my fair number of scars, mostly very light ones , I can take my shirt off when I go to the beach without most of them showing , heck I can have sex with a girl and they won't notice most, the more necessary you felt that the lie was the better hidden the scar is, so most of mine are in addition to very light on ... convenient spots. I have scars on the back of my thighs, I have two behind my ears, I have some on my armpits . I once heard of a guy who had one on his penis , it turns out how you feel about the lie makes a huge difference in what scar it will leave you and where, just imagine that guy getting undressed in front of a woman , or man whatever he is into anyway. Well at least some girls say scars are sexy, or so I’ve heard. You do get used to it but still... I once had a pretty long conversation with a war veteran about scars , now that was scarring. He took he shirt off to show me his body he was FULL. I first noticed two bullets scars , didn't think I could recognize them but damn do they look different. The bullet scars though , they were nice compared to the rest , they were in battle defending his country but the rest of his body was more scar tissue than actual skin, there were spots where I couldn't even make out how many scars he had. They formed one big pile of butchered up skin. During our conversation I found out that he actually got all the visible scars he had on his upper body in a single week , he was taken as a prisoner of war and trust me , the only countries that actually give even a single flying fuck about the Geneva convention are the ones that have already won the war. Long story short , pretty much all the scars were from the lies he told trying to lead the enemies away while they were torturing him instead of giving them real information , it's mad how they can torture you into treachery without leaving a scar on your body. It is true though , EVERYONE breaks given enough time. The war veteran story is my go-to example on why we shouldn't judge people by their scars. There is a whole other story that I just can't get myself to tell. Too goddamn sad , well probably not so when you just hear it as a story but you were not there talking with him you did not see the sorrow and the chaos on his face. His name was George. In my country he have to serve in the military , mandatory service . The military of course is purely defensive and the service is easier than professional militaries naturally. George was pretty much the nicest guy we all knew , he would never even lie. There had been a few occasions where others were mad at him because he would tell our officers about anything they asked and being the military there were consequences , he really , actually never lied. We also noticed after a couple of months that even though most would get out of bath completely naked since we were only men, he would get in and out always wearing a t-shirt, and whenever he had to change his t-shirt without taking a bath he hid, went to the bathroom or was alone someway. We all wondered but we thought that he just lied without us noticing and wanted to hide his scars , all the others still believe that but I know. George and I became friends over time. We would go out for a drink , we would even go to the gym or for a run together sometimes. The park where we run was closer to his home so one day when it started raining he told me to come take a shower at his place, he'd lend me some clothes and drive me home. He let me get in to take a shower first. I got in finished my shower and got out, he went in right after me. Seconds after he got in I realized a left my shoes in the bathroom and I sweat a lot so my shoes get smelly so I wanted to get them to the balcony. Being used to it from my service, who we had both finished some months prior to that day, where we didn't really care if someone saw us naked I just opened the door and went in without knocking. God I wish I hadn't. I saw George's back as he was getting in the shower, he just froze as he saw the awe in my face when I stared at his single scar, one single scar in the entirety of his body , it was a huge scar spanning diagonally on his whole back , it was so large it reminded me of video game characters , and so deep I thought it was see-through where the skin met the spine. I just looked at him and he knew, he got a look that was stuck in his face for the rest of the week and just said "Let me finish my shower and I'll explain". And so he finished , and so he explained , and so I was moved , then I processed what he said and I was devastated , and then I thought about it once more and I started to cry , then he let go and started to cry even more than I did. It was one of the saddest stories I had ever heard. Until you are 13-16 depending on the person you get no scars from lying, I mean come on who doesn’t lie as a kid. One day you wake up with an already fainted scar across your whole face which goes away in a day or two and that is how you know you now get scars from lying. So George was relatively lucky as he got his initiation scar a couple of weeks after he became sixteen. When George was 14 his mother got cancer. His 3 years younger sister got cancer too a year later, while his father had died in an accident when George was 9. His mother was given a 60% chance of getting rid of the cancer for good at the beginning with chemotherapy. She didn’t. A month after she learned that her cancer got too spread to be completely stopped, her daughter got cancer too. George said the doctor believed that his mother must have been exposed to radiation when pregnant with his sister else it was just a very tragic coincidence that they both got cancer in such a small time interval with his sister at such a young age. George’s mother stopped chemotherapy just before he became 15 since the doctor said it wouldn’t help anymore. His sister was never given much chance, a mere 10% that chemotherapy would even do anything. His mother couldn’t get out of bed just before George turned 16. At the same time the doctor told his sister that chemotherapy couldn’t do anything anymore and that she was giving her about another year and 6 to 8 months in a “good enough” health. Naturally George and his sister wanted their mother to die knowing her daughter at least would survive. So they thought they’d lie to her, tell her that her daughter was getting better. George learned how to do makeup and helped his sister so she would seem in good health no matter what happened. They told their mum that even though she had gotten past cancer she started paying attention to the details of life and that she wanted to start putting on make up to look better and her being 13 at the time her mother believed her. And so George kept lying, with a lie that started a few weeks after he got his first scar, he kept saying the same lie to his mother everyday. His mother got worse and so did his sister. His mother died 6 months after George got 16 years old, his sister one month after that, the doctor predicted wrong. The last two months that their mother was alive his sister couldn’t get out of bed and so every day he lied to his mother that his sister had to study , or that she didn’t get a very good grade on a test and didn’t want to disappoint her , or that she went out with friends whenever his mother asked why his sister didn't visit much. On the days his sister was feeling better she put on make-up, gathered all her strength and walked enough to go sit beside her mother’s bed. And so George kept lying so that his mother would die happy, every day for hours each day he lied to his dying mother that his dying sister was well, a few weeks before the end he told her that his sister had gotten fully rid of her tumor while his sister would faint trying to get up and see her mother. And George kept lying even the last few days when his mother could hardly see or talk and asked to see her daughter, so George said that she went abroad in a school program for students good in literature related subjects and she called him to relay her love for her mother to her, while she was in the hospital 20 meters away on the same floor, hanging on to life by a thread. Then his mother died and he couldn’t lie anymore, his sister died and he could hardly feel like he could live anymore. All that left him with one big scar, the same lie being told over and over and over again devastating him even more each time, killing him inside and out a bit more each time creating a scar that would never heal. Creating a scar that was bigger than anyone I and maybe anyone else living on this godforsaken planet has ever seen. Creating a scar that made every other evil, obstacle or problem seem redundant, turning George into the best person I had ever known, into the best person anyone that met him had ever known. It’s a mad world , and it’s mad to judge people by their scars , some carry them with sorrow , some with pride , some with regret some with happiness , some only need one , some have none , some can’t seem to get enough. . This is my first ever prompt , pretty much the first story i've ever written to be honest ( outside of school of course). Feedback is appreciated Also sorry if it got too sad too fast in the end I was listening to Tears in Heaven by Eric Clapton when I started writing , a very sad song who I only found out about yesterday, worth a listen. Edit: So I'm done with changes to the story , may edit in the future if I find any spelling or grammar mistakes	"Mr. Graves, are you certain your client has been telling the truth?" The voice of the judge cut through the room. I glanced up from my papers, and stood up, taking off my gloves and scarf. The jury panel gasped a little bit when they saw my unscarred face and hands. More than a few looked jealous, but most merely looked impressed. I nodded. Good. I had affixed myself as a person who told the truth in their mind. My client, meanwhile, was a mass of scars. They marred his face, hands, neck, biceps. A few of them were deep and ugly. He was staring at his handcuffed hands, looking despondent. I cleared my throat. "Yes, your honor. And I intend to prove not only to you, but to the men and women of the jury that the evidence the state has not does not prove my client's innocence, but that the evidence proves his innocence!" The jury mumbled amongst themselves as I launched into my opening statement. --- "Thank you, Mr. Graves," my client said, grinning in my office, wearing his ratty yet comfortable clothes once again. "I thought I'd be locked up for good, but you... you pulled off a miracle. " I smiled a little, straightening my posture and linking my fingers on the desk. "It wasn't me, Mr. Williams. It was your testimony that made the most compelling argument." Williams smiled, the scars on his face stretching and distorting. "Mr. Graves, you're a godsend. I can never thank you enough. I'm going to go and try and pull my life together." There. A small little slice, right by his ear. It wasn't much, and he didn't notice it, and I didn't stare. No one deserved to be caught, especially in the lies they tell themselves. Mr. Williams thanked me profusely, continued to make that same promise that tore open that scar a little more each time, then left. When he was gone, I once again stood in the mirror in my office. I unbuttoned my shirt, allowing myself a wince as I opened the shirt a bit further. Yep, it was still there. The one scar that I had from telling myself the lie. The biggest lie I had ever told, and it was the only reason I was still around. I took a deep breath, looked myself dead in the mirror, and mouthed the lie to myself. The pain lanced through me as the scar re-opened once again, starting at my collarbone, opening up through my stomach, curling around my belly button, and immediately soaking my pant leg with blood as it ended somewhere in my inner thigh. The pain had been enough to knock me out the first time I had told that lie. My parents had rushed me to the hospital. Now, all I did was grunt, set my teeth, and reach for the suture kit on the counter in front of me. That lie hurt, even more each time I said it. But I had to let myself know I was okay. Even if it was a lie.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	You want to know how I got these scars? Well, for one thing they aren’t ‘scars’, if you look closely you’ll see it’s one continuous scar that travels around my face, neck, down my body, all around wrapping itself around my arms, legs, fingers and toes. The only part of my body that isn’t scarred tissue is the inside of my body and even a bit of my mouth is still scarred. So the correct question you want to ask is how did I get this scar? Singular. Well, you know that old saying? About how a girl likes a guy with scars? It shows they’re a bad boy, that they kick a lot of ass or in my case lie. I didn’t kick anyone’s ass or get into a big crash, I lied. That’s pretty much what happened. I suppose you’ll want specifics. Well, years ago back when I was unblemished, face filled with pimples and a voice that didn’t quite want to go low I had a crush on a girl. A pretty girl, one that seemed to really like me with not a scar on her body as far as I could tell! So when she told me she loved me I believed her totally and without reservation. We went out, kissed and eventually I did find she had scars. I won’t share the details of how I found out but I’m sure your imagination can fill in the blanks. Anyways, her scars, they were here and there. Small ones mostly with two or three medium sized ones. I asked her about them and she told me she didn’t want to talk about them. She seemed ashamed. I wanted to tell her that she was human, that everyone had scars. Then she looked at me and asked if I had any? Well, I didn’t but I didn’t want her to feel bad so I said yes. Next thing I knew I felt something scratch my arm and there it was. A scar. Now that should’ve been the end of that but here’s the weird thing. It then sorta vanished. Then came back twice as bad as it realized I was sorta telling the truth but lying at the same time. It couldn’t decide what to do. So it just kept going. So here I was with my girlfriend in front of me with my eyes wide in horror as the scar kept scratching me, fading and growing again. By the time it all stopped I was still screaming. Honestly I had no idea when I started. And now we’re married.	"Mr. Graves, are you certain your client has been telling the truth?" The voice of the judge cut through the room. I glanced up from my papers, and stood up, taking off my gloves and scarf. The jury panel gasped a little bit when they saw my unscarred face and hands. More than a few looked jealous, but most merely looked impressed. I nodded. Good. I had affixed myself as a person who told the truth in their mind. My client, meanwhile, was a mass of scars. They marred his face, hands, neck, biceps. A few of them were deep and ugly. He was staring at his handcuffed hands, looking despondent. I cleared my throat. "Yes, your honor. And I intend to prove not only to you, but to the men and women of the jury that the evidence the state has not does not prove my client's innocence, but that the evidence proves his innocence!" The jury mumbled amongst themselves as I launched into my opening statement. --- "Thank you, Mr. Graves," my client said, grinning in my office, wearing his ratty yet comfortable clothes once again. "I thought I'd be locked up for good, but you... you pulled off a miracle. " I smiled a little, straightening my posture and linking my fingers on the desk. "It wasn't me, Mr. Williams. It was your testimony that made the most compelling argument." Williams smiled, the scars on his face stretching and distorting. "Mr. Graves, you're a godsend. I can never thank you enough. I'm going to go and try and pull my life together." There. A small little slice, right by his ear. It wasn't much, and he didn't notice it, and I didn't stare. No one deserved to be caught, especially in the lies they tell themselves. Mr. Williams thanked me profusely, continued to make that same promise that tore open that scar a little more each time, then left. When he was gone, I once again stood in the mirror in my office. I unbuttoned my shirt, allowing myself a wince as I opened the shirt a bit further. Yep, it was still there. The one scar that I had from telling myself the lie. The biggest lie I had ever told, and it was the only reason I was still around. I took a deep breath, looked myself dead in the mirror, and mouthed the lie to myself. The pain lanced through me as the scar re-opened once again, starting at my collarbone, opening up through my stomach, curling around my belly button, and immediately soaking my pant leg with blood as it ended somewhere in my inner thigh. The pain had been enough to knock me out the first time I had told that lie. My parents had rushed me to the hospital. Now, all I did was grunt, set my teeth, and reach for the suture kit on the counter in front of me. That lie hurt, even more each time I said it. But I had to let myself know I was okay. Even if it was a lie.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	We met at a bar one evening. She had a beer in her hand, something local on tap, about half-drained. We struck up some conversation - weather or sports or some such, I don't remember, small talk though. She made some passing comment about liking my ears, and I almost brushed it off as false praise - I think they stick out a bit too much - before I noticed her smooth skin; not a single scar visible. I had my own fair share of lies cut into my skin - most minor, a few major. Even the bigger ones I'd usually defend, outside of a big one on my arm. "I've been clean for a year!". Even so, that's the least regretful mistake from that part of my life - I'm proud to say I can say that line now without the scar growing larger. I got her name - Jane - and later, her number. We ended up setting up a date for the following weekend, and hit it off quickly. Similar interests - hiking, video games, cooking... Well, mostly same interests, anyway. I remember her coy smile when I said I liked her Coltrane collection, and a line of skin on my forearm darkened. Can't stand jazz, really. I thought for about a month that she was perfectly honest, until we went to bed together. Jane seemed reluctant to take off her shirt, but that same honesty that kept her skin smooth must have demanded she not cover up now - her bra came off, and across the inside of her left breast was the deepest scar that I've ever seen. It wasn't a discoloration like most scars - it was like a knotted rope was underneath the skin. It wasn't the sort of thing you can comment on lightly, but at the same time, it would be more conspicuous to ignore it. She was clearly distressed, waiting for my reaction. I wasn't sure what to say, but we were both naked at that point so there was no hoping that a lie would be covered up by clothing. "There's obviously a story here, and I'm curious, but... Right now, it's not important. I'm willing to wait until you're willing to tell me on your own terms" I said, and punctuated the sentence with a kiss. She ran a hand through my short hair, and the encounter continued naturally after that. But frankly the details are none of your business. It was another six months before I learned any more details about that scar of hers. We were quite serious by now, and I'd had plenty of opportunities to see it again at this point. Jane told me that her parents were going to be coming by for Thanksgiving, and that she wanted me to be there. Her face was strangely tense, and when I pressed for information, she just said that she didn't feel up for explaining. What could I say to that? So, I didn't press the issue, and waited for Thursday to roll around. Her parents showed up - her mother was a frumpy sort of woman, with a flowery dress, and her father was tall, but had a thick neck and a double chin. I was surprised the two of them could have produced such a beautiful daughter, but all the same I could see some resemblance, particularly in the eyes and nose. The first thing I heard her father say - before even "hello" - was right after he jerked a thumb in my direction. "Is this that friend of yours? She looks like a fucking dyke." Her mother agreed emphatically. I found myself dumbstruck, unable to respond. Jane laughed uncomfortably, but her father didn't seem to notice - he was sniffing the air. "Turkey's already on, eh? Surprised you haven't caught yourself a husband yet, with your cooking. Hah!" "No luck yet, but I'm sure I'll find one one of these days." Jane replied with a weak smile, clearly hiding a wince as the scar above her heart wrought its way deeper into her skin.	We lived side by side spending our days joined at the hips so much so people thought we were brothers. My skin was covered in them by the time I was 12 while he hadn’t got a single mark yet, I was slightly envious of his clear skin that impressed people for a boy his age. When I asked him how he did it, he simply shrugged and said anything was possible with a slight grin. His vague reply made me more jealous, sure I lied more than most kids my age but most of the lies were petty and insignificant that I didn’t think twice about. Plus, the marks I got didn’t hurt one bit so it just sorta added up after a while. Then childhood ended and I moved away right before I started high-school. We didn’t really keep in contact with each other like how most kids promise but never do. It wasn’t any different with us, by the time my 20s came around he was just a hazy childhood friend I had all but forgotten about. It was blistering hot that day, too hot to wear anything but short sleeves and pants. I hated wearing those types of clothes, while most people’s scars were skinny and faded into their skin. Mine had become more gashed and discolored as I grew older, I was one of the unlucky ones whose skin healed badly to these marks. Just genetics they told me. I was walking back from the bus stop when I saw him in front of me, his clear pale skin devoid of any scars got my attention first before I saw his face. When I looked up at his face that’s when I recognized him, I called out his name and waved slightly at him. His face looked blank for a moment before lighting up in recognition as well. His pasty lips smiled at me and called me over, while we caught up all I could notice was how unblemished his arms and legs looked. Scars usually showed up first on your limbs before covering your whole body. He must have noticed my gawking and laughed a bit before telling me to not trust your first impressions. I was confused by what he meant, but when I asked he just smiled a bit wider. “Ben, I was actually kind of happy you were jealous of me when we were younger. In a way, I was just lucky they showed up in places where no one noticed.” He said to me, before turning his back and walking away before I could reply. I noticed a painful red looking scar peeking out from the back of his neck and drops of red starting to stain his white shirt.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	It was the middle of the January, one of the better times to lie if you had to. In the cold winter months, you could get away with hiding your secrets under an oversized, baggy sweater. There just enough snow in the air that to make the sky seem to sparkle, but it was nothing compared to the sparkle in her piercing green eyes when they first made contact with mine. I swear, it was love at first sight. Her hair was close cut, its raven black color a stark contrast to the white world which framed it. Her cheeks and nose had a splash of red from the cold. Fuzzy earmuffs, slightly oversized on her head, enveloped her ears. The cold steam of her breath escaped in short bursts from thin, pursed lips. She turned toward me a bit, wrapping her puffy red coat snugly around her body and drawing her arms over her chest for warmth. Skinny black jeans, the kind that showed off just enough of her curves, ran down into pristine white boots, the soles of which were almost obscured by the thin layer of snow on the ground. In short, she was perfect. Before I realized what I was doing, I hid my hands in my coat pockets self-consciously. I cursed myself for not having the foresight to wear gloves. Most of mine show up on my hands, and seeing all of them up front tends to give people the wrong first impression. See, the Scars have something of a twisted sense of humor. You tell a lie about some action you've taken, you get a scar on your arms or hands; tell a lie about somewhere you've been, you get a scar on your legs or feet; tell a lie about what you think, you get a scar somewhere on your head. Medical experts have been studying the scars for as far back as anyone can remember, but the best science can tell us is that they just... happen. For all science knows, the world could be home to legions of overly vigilant, painfully ironic fairies wielding pocket knives. Gathering my courage, I unzipped my coat and started walking in her direction. I nearly stopped myself and turned away a couple of times, but I'd promised myself long ago to always be truthful to my feelings. Nonetheless, I stalled awkwardly when I came close. Her green eyes watching me, the smell of her perfume drifting over to me, the cold wind blowing against my shirt... I took a deep breath. I probably looked like an idiot. But, now was not the time to panic. I laid my heart out on the line, in more ways than one. I told her she was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen, and that if she would allow me the opportunity, I wanted to take her somewhere special. That might seem a bit direct, but it helps your case a lot when a girl can simply watch your chest to see if your feelings are genuine. Sure enough, no bloodstain appeared. She looked down at the snowy ground, her cheeks growing even more red in the cold weather. "Alright," she said, her lips teasing into a slight smile. "What did you have in mind?" Good question. What did I have in mind? We ended up in a nearby restaurant, though I can't for the life of me remember how. I got really lucky is probably the best answer. As we took our seats in the booth, she took off her outer jacket, revealing a white sweater underneath. I didn't think anything of it at first. Slowly, as if unsure of herself, she unzipped the sweater too and pulled it down her arms, not fully off but not quite on either. Beneath it, she was wearing a rather tight shirt which revealed her slender arms and the fair skin of her midriff. I was caught completely off-guard by her drastic change of apparel. She shivered a bit and rubber her shoulders. I sat there speechless, transfixed by her beauty. Her skin was so... perfect. Not a single scar marred her arms, her stomach, her neck, or anything. I realized I must have been staring, and turned a way just a bit too quickly. "It's okay," she said softly, pulling her coat back on. "I wanted you to see that, since... I mean, you were so up front with me and... but not in a bad way, and... I guess I could've just told you outright..." She stared at the table a bit too pointedly. I smiled to myself. At least I wasn't the only one who was bad at this. ... That was three years ago, back when life was so much simpler. Back before the diagnosis, before the painful treatments which dragged on into weeks and then months. Before we learned about the cancer that was eating away, slowly but surely, at her brain. The doctors told us nothing could be done. They could treat her, give her drugs to ease the suffering and ultimately the transition, but she was never going to get better. They said she would be... gone... within a few months. I stared at them like a hawk as they spoke, scrutinizing every inch of skin as I processed each sentence, but no Scars came. It was the truth. We were both left to ask why it had to be her. She grew irritable and lashed out, though I could hardly blame her. They said it was pressing on her brain, altering her mood and her thoughts. I'm not ashamed to admit that I bawled my eyes out when I first heard the news. But I had to be strong, I had to keep going. I had to be a rock, no matter how hard that would be. As her time in the hospital grew, so did the doses they gave her. On one of her worse nights, I sat there with her as she tried to process all the built up frustration. I could see in her eyes that she didn't fully recognize me, a look I would never grow used to. With no other outlet, she turned it on me. "Why did this have to happen?" she suddenly screamed at me, choking back a sob. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "I... I hate you!" For a moment, neither of us said anything. We sat in near silence, interrupted only by the occasional sob. I watched her somberly, not daring to react. And that's when I saw it. A large pool of blood soaked into her hospital gown, just above her heart. The only Scar she would ever have. ... Thanks for reading! -ShutainzuGeito	We lived side by side spending our days joined at the hips so much so people thought we were brothers. My skin was covered in them by the time I was 12 while he hadn’t got a single mark yet, I was slightly envious of his clear skin that impressed people for a boy his age. When I asked him how he did it, he simply shrugged and said anything was possible with a slight grin. His vague reply made me more jealous, sure I lied more than most kids my age but most of the lies were petty and insignificant that I didn’t think twice about. Plus, the marks I got didn’t hurt one bit so it just sorta added up after a while. Then childhood ended and I moved away right before I started high-school. We didn’t really keep in contact with each other like how most kids promise but never do. It wasn’t any different with us, by the time my 20s came around he was just a hazy childhood friend I had all but forgotten about. It was blistering hot that day, too hot to wear anything but short sleeves and pants. I hated wearing those types of clothes, while most people’s scars were skinny and faded into their skin. Mine had become more gashed and discolored as I grew older, I was one of the unlucky ones whose skin healed badly to these marks. Just genetics they told me. I was walking back from the bus stop when I saw him in front of me, his clear pale skin devoid of any scars got my attention first before I saw his face. When I looked up at his face that’s when I recognized him, I called out his name and waved slightly at him. His face looked blank for a moment before lighting up in recognition as well. His pasty lips smiled at me and called me over, while we caught up all I could notice was how unblemished his arms and legs looked. Scars usually showed up first on your limbs before covering your whole body. He must have noticed my gawking and laughed a bit before telling me to not trust your first impressions. I was confused by what he meant, but when I asked he just smiled a bit wider. “Ben, I was actually kind of happy you were jealous of me when we were younger. In a way, I was just lucky they showed up in places where no one noticed.” He said to me, before turning his back and walking away before I could reply. I noticed a painful red looking scar peeking out from the back of his neck and drops of red starting to stain his white shirt.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	It's a mad world Nowadays you are asked to take your clothes off in a job interview for god's sake, even in court in some countries, I mean come on sometimes you actually need to lie goddamnit sometimes it actually does some real good but it literally scars you for life... I have my fair number of scars, mostly very light ones , I can take my shirt off when I go to the beach without most of them showing , heck I can have sex with a girl and they won't notice most, the more necessary you felt that the lie was the better hidden the scar is, so most of mine are in addition to very light on ... convenient spots. I have scars on the back of my thighs, I have two behind my ears, I have some on my armpits . I once heard of a guy who had one on his penis , it turns out how you feel about the lie makes a huge difference in what scar it will leave you and where, just imagine that guy getting undressed in front of a woman , or man whatever he is into anyway. Well at least some girls say scars are sexy, or so I’ve heard. You do get used to it but still... I once had a pretty long conversation with a war veteran about scars , now that was scarring. He took he shirt off to show me his body he was FULL. I first noticed two bullets scars , didn't think I could recognize them but damn do they look different. The bullet scars though , they were nice compared to the rest , they were in battle defending his country but the rest of his body was more scar tissue than actual skin, there were spots where I couldn't even make out how many scars he had. They formed one big pile of butchered up skin. During our conversation I found out that he actually got all the visible scars he had on his upper body in a single week , he was taken as a prisoner of war and trust me , the only countries that actually give even a single flying fuck about the Geneva convention are the ones that have already won the war. Long story short , pretty much all the scars were from the lies he told trying to lead the enemies away while they were torturing him instead of giving them real information , it's mad how they can torture you into treachery without leaving a scar on your body. It is true though , EVERYONE breaks given enough time. The war veteran story is my go-to example on why we shouldn't judge people by their scars. There is a whole other story that I just can't get myself to tell. Too goddamn sad , well probably not so when you just hear it as a story but you were not there talking with him you did not see the sorrow and the chaos on his face. His name was George. In my country he have to serve in the military , mandatory service . The military of course is purely defensive and the service is easier than professional militaries naturally. George was pretty much the nicest guy we all knew , he would never even lie. There had been a few occasions where others were mad at him because he would tell our officers about anything they asked and being the military there were consequences , he really , actually never lied. We also noticed after a couple of months that even though most would get out of bath completely naked since we were only men, he would get in and out always wearing a t-shirt, and whenever he had to change his t-shirt without taking a bath he hid, went to the bathroom or was alone someway. We all wondered but we thought that he just lied without us noticing and wanted to hide his scars , all the others still believe that but I know. George and I became friends over time. We would go out for a drink , we would even go to the gym or for a run together sometimes. The park where we run was closer to his home so one day when it started raining he told me to come take a shower at his place, he'd lend me some clothes and drive me home. He let me get in to take a shower first. I got in finished my shower and got out, he went in right after me. Seconds after he got in I realized a left my shoes in the bathroom and I sweat a lot so my shoes get smelly so I wanted to get them to the balcony. Being used to it from my service, who we had both finished some months prior to that day, where we didn't really care if someone saw us naked I just opened the door and went in without knocking. God I wish I hadn't. I saw George's back as he was getting in the shower, he just froze as he saw the awe in my face when I stared at his single scar, one single scar in the entirety of his body , it was a huge scar spanning diagonally on his whole back , it was so large it reminded me of video game characters , and so deep I thought it was see-through where the skin met the spine. I just looked at him and he knew, he got a look that was stuck in his face for the rest of the week and just said "Let me finish my shower and I'll explain". And so he finished , and so he explained , and so I was moved , then I processed what he said and I was devastated , and then I thought about it once more and I started to cry , then he let go and started to cry even more than I did. It was one of the saddest stories I had ever heard. Until you are 13-16 depending on the person you get no scars from lying, I mean come on who doesn’t lie as a kid. One day you wake up with an already fainted scar across your whole face which goes away in a day or two and that is how you know you now get scars from lying. So George was relatively lucky as he got his initiation scar a couple of weeks after he became sixteen. When George was 14 his mother got cancer. His 3 years younger sister got cancer too a year later, while his father had died in an accident when George was 9. His mother was given a 60% chance of getting rid of the cancer for good at the beginning with chemotherapy. She didn’t. A month after she learned that her cancer got too spread to be completely stopped, her daughter got cancer too. George said the doctor believed that his mother must have been exposed to radiation when pregnant with his sister else it was just a very tragic coincidence that they both got cancer in such a small time interval with his sister at such a young age. George’s mother stopped chemotherapy just before he became 15 since the doctor said it wouldn’t help anymore. His sister was never given much chance, a mere 10% that chemotherapy would even do anything. His mother couldn’t get out of bed just before George turned 16. At the same time the doctor told his sister that chemotherapy couldn’t do anything anymore and that she was giving her about another year and 6 to 8 months in a “good enough” health. Naturally George and his sister wanted their mother to die knowing her daughter at least would survive. So they thought they’d lie to her, tell her that her daughter was getting better. George learned how to do makeup and helped his sister so she would seem in good health no matter what happened. They told their mum that even though she had gotten past cancer she started paying attention to the details of life and that she wanted to start putting on make up to look better and her being 13 at the time her mother believed her. And so George kept lying, with a lie that started a few weeks after he got his first scar, he kept saying the same lie to his mother everyday. His mother got worse and so did his sister. His mother died 6 months after George got 16 years old, his sister one month after that, the doctor predicted wrong. The last two months that their mother was alive his sister couldn’t get out of bed and so every day he lied to his mother that his sister had to study , or that she didn’t get a very good grade on a test and didn’t want to disappoint her , or that she went out with friends whenever his mother asked why his sister didn't visit much. On the days his sister was feeling better she put on make-up, gathered all her strength and walked enough to go sit beside her mother’s bed. And so George kept lying so that his mother would die happy, every day for hours each day he lied to his dying mother that his dying sister was well, a few weeks before the end he told her that his sister had gotten fully rid of her tumor while his sister would faint trying to get up and see her mother. And George kept lying even the last few days when his mother could hardly see or talk and asked to see her daughter, so George said that she went abroad in a school program for students good in literature related subjects and she called him to relay her love for her mother to her, while she was in the hospital 20 meters away on the same floor, hanging on to life by a thread. Then his mother died and he couldn’t lie anymore, his sister died and he could hardly feel like he could live anymore. All that left him with one big scar, the same lie being told over and over and over again devastating him even more each time, killing him inside and out a bit more each time creating a scar that would never heal. Creating a scar that was bigger than anyone I and maybe anyone else living on this godforsaken planet has ever seen. Creating a scar that made every other evil, obstacle or problem seem redundant, turning George into the best person I had ever known, into the best person anyone that met him had ever known. It’s a mad world , and it’s mad to judge people by their scars , some carry them with sorrow , some with pride , some with regret some with happiness , some only need one , some have none , some can’t seem to get enough. . This is my first ever prompt , pretty much the first story i've ever written to be honest ( outside of school of course). Feedback is appreciated Also sorry if it got too sad too fast in the end I was listening to Tears in Heaven by Eric Clapton when I started writing , a very sad song who I only found out about yesterday, worth a listen. Edit: So I'm done with changes to the story , may edit in the future if I find any spelling or grammar mistakes	We lived side by side spending our days joined at the hips so much so people thought we were brothers. My skin was covered in them by the time I was 12 while he hadn’t got a single mark yet, I was slightly envious of his clear skin that impressed people for a boy his age. When I asked him how he did it, he simply shrugged and said anything was possible with a slight grin. His vague reply made me more jealous, sure I lied more than most kids my age but most of the lies were petty and insignificant that I didn’t think twice about. Plus, the marks I got didn’t hurt one bit so it just sorta added up after a while. Then childhood ended and I moved away right before I started high-school. We didn’t really keep in contact with each other like how most kids promise but never do. It wasn’t any different with us, by the time my 20s came around he was just a hazy childhood friend I had all but forgotten about. It was blistering hot that day, too hot to wear anything but short sleeves and pants. I hated wearing those types of clothes, while most people’s scars were skinny and faded into their skin. Mine had become more gashed and discolored as I grew older, I was one of the unlucky ones whose skin healed badly to these marks. Just genetics they told me. I was walking back from the bus stop when I saw him in front of me, his clear pale skin devoid of any scars got my attention first before I saw his face. When I looked up at his face that’s when I recognized him, I called out his name and waved slightly at him. His face looked blank for a moment before lighting up in recognition as well. His pasty lips smiled at me and called me over, while we caught up all I could notice was how unblemished his arms and legs looked. Scars usually showed up first on your limbs before covering your whole body. He must have noticed my gawking and laughed a bit before telling me to not trust your first impressions. I was confused by what he meant, but when I asked he just smiled a bit wider. “Ben, I was actually kind of happy you were jealous of me when we were younger. In a way, I was just lucky they showed up in places where no one noticed.” He said to me, before turning his back and walking away before I could reply. I noticed a painful red looking scar peeking out from the back of his neck and drops of red starting to stain his white shirt.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	We met at a bar one evening. She had a beer in her hand, something local on tap, about half-drained. We struck up some conversation - weather or sports or some such, I don't remember, small talk though. She made some passing comment about liking my ears, and I almost brushed it off as false praise - I think they stick out a bit too much - before I noticed her smooth skin; not a single scar visible. I had my own fair share of lies cut into my skin - most minor, a few major. Even the bigger ones I'd usually defend, outside of a big one on my arm. "I've been clean for a year!". Even so, that's the least regretful mistake from that part of my life - I'm proud to say I can say that line now without the scar growing larger. I got her name - Jane - and later, her number. We ended up setting up a date for the following weekend, and hit it off quickly. Similar interests - hiking, video games, cooking... Well, mostly same interests, anyway. I remember her coy smile when I said I liked her Coltrane collection, and a line of skin on my forearm darkened. Can't stand jazz, really. I thought for about a month that she was perfectly honest, until we went to bed together. Jane seemed reluctant to take off her shirt, but that same honesty that kept her skin smooth must have demanded she not cover up now - her bra came off, and across the inside of her left breast was the deepest scar that I've ever seen. It wasn't a discoloration like most scars - it was like a knotted rope was underneath the skin. It wasn't the sort of thing you can comment on lightly, but at the same time, it would be more conspicuous to ignore it. She was clearly distressed, waiting for my reaction. I wasn't sure what to say, but we were both naked at that point so there was no hoping that a lie would be covered up by clothing. "There's obviously a story here, and I'm curious, but... Right now, it's not important. I'm willing to wait until you're willing to tell me on your own terms" I said, and punctuated the sentence with a kiss. She ran a hand through my short hair, and the encounter continued naturally after that. But frankly the details are none of your business. It was another six months before I learned any more details about that scar of hers. We were quite serious by now, and I'd had plenty of opportunities to see it again at this point. Jane told me that her parents were going to be coming by for Thanksgiving, and that she wanted me to be there. Her face was strangely tense, and when I pressed for information, she just said that she didn't feel up for explaining. What could I say to that? So, I didn't press the issue, and waited for Thursday to roll around. Her parents showed up - her mother was a frumpy sort of woman, with a flowery dress, and her father was tall, but had a thick neck and a double chin. I was surprised the two of them could have produced such a beautiful daughter, but all the same I could see some resemblance, particularly in the eyes and nose. The first thing I heard her father say - before even "hello" - was right after he jerked a thumb in my direction. "Is this that friend of yours? She looks like a fucking dyke." Her mother agreed emphatically. I found myself dumbstruck, unable to respond. Jane laughed uncomfortably, but her father didn't seem to notice - he was sniffing the air. "Turkey's already on, eh? Surprised you haven't caught yourself a husband yet, with your cooking. Hah!" "No luck yet, but I'm sure I'll find one one of these days." Jane replied with a weak smile, clearly hiding a wince as the scar above her heart wrought its way deeper into her skin.	As I stood there, he looked at me with longing in his eyes. He had been living on this earth for longer than anyone I knew. "Can you hear me?" I asked him. "Yes, loud and clear." "Have you ever lied in your life?" "Only once. And it was the worst lie I've ever told anyone. The biggest, far bigger than any lie that you could think of." "Hold on, you're telling me you've only ever lied once in your life? Not even little white lies like 'yeah that outfit looks fine'?" "No. And it upsets me to remember that day." He gets a far away look in his eyes. . . . He's back in the White House. "Mr. President, it has been carried out as you ordered." "Good. Now leave and never talk about this." . . . "What do you know about 9/11?" "Well, AL Qaeda attacked the twin towers by hijacking a few planes." "Do you know if anyone inside the United States government, perhaps the President, was involved in planning or carrying out the attacks?" "If you're asking whether 9/11 was an inside job, no, it was not." Suddenly he fell out of his chair, his screams filling the room. He ripped off his shirt as a massive scar finished appearing.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	"Hey, how'd you get that scar?" "Told my parents that I brushed my teeth." "You are such a liar! That's way too big for that!" "Yea. I'm a liar, duh."	As I stood there, he looked at me with longing in his eyes. He had been living on this earth for longer than anyone I knew. "Can you hear me?" I asked him. "Yes, loud and clear." "Have you ever lied in your life?" "Only once. And it was the worst lie I've ever told anyone. The biggest, far bigger than any lie that you could think of." "Hold on, you're telling me you've only ever lied once in your life? Not even little white lies like 'yeah that outfit looks fine'?" "No. And it upsets me to remember that day." He gets a far away look in his eyes. . . . He's back in the White House. "Mr. President, it has been carried out as you ordered." "Good. Now leave and never talk about this." . . . "What do you know about 9/11?" "Well, AL Qaeda attacked the twin towers by hijacking a few planes." "Do you know if anyone inside the United States government, perhaps the President, was involved in planning or carrying out the attacks?" "If you're asking whether 9/11 was an inside job, no, it was not." Suddenly he fell out of his chair, his screams filling the room. He ripped off his shirt as a massive scar finished appearing.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	My mind boiled over with thoughts, it raced with many theories and ideas as to what it could be. What did they do? What did they lie about? In this world, for some foresaken reason, god had betrayed his people. I knew lying was wrong, most of the time. But for me? Oh no, my mother taught me well, as would any mother would with the markings a lie would give you. You use your words and your mind. You think before you speak. You work your way around and at some point those markings mean nothing. Absolutely nothing. We all had minor scars, we all told small lies here and there, it was over looked most of the time. You would be given a look of embarrassment and there would be a certain quietness in the room. It would go over looked but everyone still knew when it happened: You lied. It was blunt. It was a strong odor no one could control. Scars all over our bodies, in odd places that surely made you wonder; Can I trust you? Trust? What was trust in this world? The ones, the pure ones, who had no markings were sat upon a throne. You were good. You were clean, pure, holy, and surly too good to be true. But the others? The others with deep scars that showed their past? That showed the history of their mouth and what they had to offer? It was too much, just the sight of a deep scar was a very dangerous thing to behold. You wouldn't be trusted, you simply wouldn't be. It was an automatic detection of you being filthy, a filthy liar. We would bathe ourselves as children, confessing our sins and screaming out for God to make the markings go away. We would scrub our bodies until they'd bleed. We would put on creams and makeup, just to make it disappear. But the lie would still remain, and you couldn't take it back. The guilt would make you go mad and the scar would stay forever as a reminder. When I laid eyes upon this man, this man with the biggest and most deepest scar I had ever seen, I was over the edge with desire to know. Frantically twitching and trying to ease my way into a conversation with the young male, my efforts seemed worthless as I could tell he knew, his blank facial expression made a statement to fuck off. Right before I took a breath and spared a few words, I dwelled in my cowardness and froze. "What do you want?" he asked. And at that moment, that exact moment, was when I got my biggest scar. "Nothing".	As I stood there, he looked at me with longing in his eyes. He had been living on this earth for longer than anyone I knew. "Can you hear me?" I asked him. "Yes, loud and clear." "Have you ever lied in your life?" "Only once. And it was the worst lie I've ever told anyone. The biggest, far bigger than any lie that you could think of." "Hold on, you're telling me you've only ever lied once in your life? Not even little white lies like 'yeah that outfit looks fine'?" "No. And it upsets me to remember that day." He gets a far away look in his eyes. . . . He's back in the White House. "Mr. President, it has been carried out as you ordered." "Good. Now leave and never talk about this." . . . "What do you know about 9/11?" "Well, AL Qaeda attacked the twin towers by hijacking a few planes." "Do you know if anyone inside the United States government, perhaps the President, was involved in planning or carrying out the attacks?" "If you're asking whether 9/11 was an inside job, no, it was not." Suddenly he fell out of his chair, his screams filling the room. He ripped off his shirt as a massive scar finished appearing.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	It was the middle of the January, one of the better times to lie if you had to. In the cold winter months, you could get away with hiding your secrets under an oversized, baggy sweater. There just enough snow in the air that to make the sky seem to sparkle, but it was nothing compared to the sparkle in her piercing green eyes when they first made contact with mine. I swear, it was love at first sight. Her hair was close cut, its raven black color a stark contrast to the white world which framed it. Her cheeks and nose had a splash of red from the cold. Fuzzy earmuffs, slightly oversized on her head, enveloped her ears. The cold steam of her breath escaped in short bursts from thin, pursed lips. She turned toward me a bit, wrapping her puffy red coat snugly around her body and drawing her arms over her chest for warmth. Skinny black jeans, the kind that showed off just enough of her curves, ran down into pristine white boots, the soles of which were almost obscured by the thin layer of snow on the ground. In short, she was perfect. Before I realized what I was doing, I hid my hands in my coat pockets self-consciously. I cursed myself for not having the foresight to wear gloves. Most of mine show up on my hands, and seeing all of them up front tends to give people the wrong first impression. See, the Scars have something of a twisted sense of humor. You tell a lie about some action you've taken, you get a scar on your arms or hands; tell a lie about somewhere you've been, you get a scar on your legs or feet; tell a lie about what you think, you get a scar somewhere on your head. Medical experts have been studying the scars for as far back as anyone can remember, but the best science can tell us is that they just... happen. For all science knows, the world could be home to legions of overly vigilant, painfully ironic fairies wielding pocket knives. Gathering my courage, I unzipped my coat and started walking in her direction. I nearly stopped myself and turned away a couple of times, but I'd promised myself long ago to always be truthful to my feelings. Nonetheless, I stalled awkwardly when I came close. Her green eyes watching me, the smell of her perfume drifting over to me, the cold wind blowing against my shirt... I took a deep breath. I probably looked like an idiot. But, now was not the time to panic. I laid my heart out on the line, in more ways than one. I told her she was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen, and that if she would allow me the opportunity, I wanted to take her somewhere special. That might seem a bit direct, but it helps your case a lot when a girl can simply watch your chest to see if your feelings are genuine. Sure enough, no bloodstain appeared. She looked down at the snowy ground, her cheeks growing even more red in the cold weather. "Alright," she said, her lips teasing into a slight smile. "What did you have in mind?" Good question. What did I have in mind? We ended up in a nearby restaurant, though I can't for the life of me remember how. I got really lucky is probably the best answer. As we took our seats in the booth, she took off her outer jacket, revealing a white sweater underneath. I didn't think anything of it at first. Slowly, as if unsure of herself, she unzipped the sweater too and pulled it down her arms, not fully off but not quite on either. Beneath it, she was wearing a rather tight shirt which revealed her slender arms and the fair skin of her midriff. I was caught completely off-guard by her drastic change of apparel. She shivered a bit and rubber her shoulders. I sat there speechless, transfixed by her beauty. Her skin was so... perfect. Not a single scar marred her arms, her stomach, her neck, or anything. I realized I must have been staring, and turned a way just a bit too quickly. "It's okay," she said softly, pulling her coat back on. "I wanted you to see that, since... I mean, you were so up front with me and... but not in a bad way, and... I guess I could've just told you outright..." She stared at the table a bit too pointedly. I smiled to myself. At least I wasn't the only one who was bad at this. ... That was three years ago, back when life was so much simpler. Back before the diagnosis, before the painful treatments which dragged on into weeks and then months. Before we learned about the cancer that was eating away, slowly but surely, at her brain. The doctors told us nothing could be done. They could treat her, give her drugs to ease the suffering and ultimately the transition, but she was never going to get better. They said she would be... gone... within a few months. I stared at them like a hawk as they spoke, scrutinizing every inch of skin as I processed each sentence, but no Scars came. It was the truth. We were both left to ask why it had to be her. She grew irritable and lashed out, though I could hardly blame her. They said it was pressing on her brain, altering her mood and her thoughts. I'm not ashamed to admit that I bawled my eyes out when I first heard the news. But I had to be strong, I had to keep going. I had to be a rock, no matter how hard that would be. As her time in the hospital grew, so did the doses they gave her. On one of her worse nights, I sat there with her as she tried to process all the built up frustration. I could see in her eyes that she didn't fully recognize me, a look I would never grow used to. With no other outlet, she turned it on me. "Why did this have to happen?" she suddenly screamed at me, choking back a sob. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "I... I hate you!" For a moment, neither of us said anything. We sat in near silence, interrupted only by the occasional sob. I watched her somberly, not daring to react. And that's when I saw it. A large pool of blood soaked into her hospital gown, just above her heart. The only Scar she would ever have. ... Thanks for reading! -ShutainzuGeito	As I stood there, he looked at me with longing in his eyes. He had been living on this earth for longer than anyone I knew. "Can you hear me?" I asked him. "Yes, loud and clear." "Have you ever lied in your life?" "Only once. And it was the worst lie I've ever told anyone. The biggest, far bigger than any lie that you could think of." "Hold on, you're telling me you've only ever lied once in your life? Not even little white lies like 'yeah that outfit looks fine'?" "No. And it upsets me to remember that day." He gets a far away look in his eyes. . . . He's back in the White House. "Mr. President, it has been carried out as you ordered." "Good. Now leave and never talk about this." . . . "What do you know about 9/11?" "Well, AL Qaeda attacked the twin towers by hijacking a few planes." "Do you know if anyone inside the United States government, perhaps the President, was involved in planning or carrying out the attacks?" "If you're asking whether 9/11 was an inside job, no, it was not." Suddenly he fell out of his chair, his screams filling the room. He ripped off his shirt as a massive scar finished appearing.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	"Anything else?" the waitress asked me, as she smacked a cup of coffee on the table somewhat carelessly. I think her name was Darla. I shook my head a bit and watched her saunter back to the counter out of the corner of my eye. I knew she had judged me from the moment she saw me. She had given me the same look most everyone else does. It's funny how someone marked and nicked with little white scars on her hands and arms and neck and legs can look down on me for having more of them. To be fair to - whatever her name was... - Darla- ...to be fair to Darla, and to everyone else, I do have lots and lots of little scars. I looked out to the window to my right at a lamp post that illuminated the darkened streets. This was as asleep as the city gets at night. I started my scar collection as a kid. My mother meant well and might've been a decent parent if she didn't spend her days swigging vodka. My dad was never in the picture. A military man, apparently, who had to move to a base in Europe before I was born, although looking back I'm sure that wasn't true. My mother, now she had a lot of scars. A scar for every time she was going to quit drinking and "do right by me." The first scar I remember scratching its way onto my skin was when I was probably four or five. My teacher had asked me if I was going to be ok. My mother hadn't come to pick me up which was a semi-frequent event, and I had gotten up to walk home - I lived a 20-minute walk or so away from the school so it wasn't a problem for me. He asked me if I was going to have dinner at home, and I lied. I told him we were having company over and my mom probably just lost track of time cooking this big meal for us all. I don't even know why I lied about it because it was a pointless lie, but I felt the sting on the back of my shoulder as the words left my lips. Over the years the lies I told people, the lies I told my mother created a tapestry of scar tissue across my body. Sometimes I just wanted to get away from the house and I'd tell her I was staying with a friend. The marks were inconsequential to me. I'm a journalist now - a failed one - there's no use lying to you. It's funny really because none of my scars ever came from anything I've ever written. I'm stupid; I use my lies on bullshit, instead of making money. I looked down at my coffee and heard Darla telling a couple large patrons at the counter that she was planning on going back to school soon. I wondered if she got a scar for that or if she really meant it. It didn't really matter to me. I'm not interested in the lies people tell others. That's easy. It's recorded in the history of your body like the rings of a tree and even though they fade over time, more will always take their place - we can't help ourselves. No, what interests me are the lies people tell themselves. When people put makeup over their scars to cover up as many as they can, do they look into the mirror and pretend they are honest? A bell rang as the door opened. I glanced to my left and saw a young man walk in. And I froze. "Go ahead and sit where you'd like," Darla yelled out cheerily. "I'll be with you in just a sec." The newcomer walked towards a back booth, and my eyes stayed fixed on him the entire time. His skin was unmarred by any scar or blemish. I had looked over his face and neck and forearms, and not a mark there was on them. Bullshit. Everyone lies. That is the only consistent truth I have ever known, and I've known that as far back as my memory extends. Everyone is a liar - that is a universal truth. It's the universal truth. I found myself rising out of my seat. My feet carried me towards the man in the back, quickening with each step. My heart pounded. "Let me see your arms," I managed to squeeze out as I gripped his arm and turned it. My voice was nervous. I quickly jumped to the other arms and hurriedly looked it over. I rubbed his arm spastically to remove any makeup - but there was nothing. I looked up at his face. His eyes were those of a deer's caught in a headlight. What I was doing was crazy, I knew that. I had grabbed a random stranger but he couldn't be this honest. It wasn't possible. "Where are your scars?" I demanded. He was still taken aback. "Where are they?" I repeated a little more forcefully. "I- what scars?" he stammered out. I felt a surge of anger rise up in me. "Where are your fucking scars!" I yelled at the man and grabbed his shirt at his shoulders. His shocked silence only made me angrier. In an instant, I whipped his shirt up and dumbfoundedly stepped back. The entire front of his torso was one giant mass of scarred flesh. "How are they all there?" I breathed out. "That can't be from one lie..." He looked hurt. "There was an accident," he said dejectedly. "Bullshit!" I shot back. That was a lie everyone with an exceptional scar tried to get away with. That it wasn't from a lie, but some physical injury instead. I'd heard that one before. Sometimes a new mark was worth keeping the truth in the dark. But there was no new mark. I scanned over his body. "How did that happen?" "It was an accident!" he retorted, anger now growing in his voice. "There was a fire in my building! People died...and I was lucky enough to only be left with this at the end of the night." I looked over his body and watched as no new scars carved their way in. He threw his shirt back down and was clearly angry now. I stepped backward. The diner was silent. I could feel everyone's eyes on me. The man I accosted threw some money on the table and slid out of his booth. He moved passed me and I watched as the only honest man I had ever known walked out of the door. I was brought crashing back down to reality. I glanced towards the counter and saw the two patrons and the waitress staring at me. I walked back to my table and left some money there before walking out the door. I made it a few steps down the sidewalk before my legs went weak. I sat down on the curb and cried. It was only six months later when I saw the man's face again. This time on the news. His name was Robert Lewis, and he had been arrested for arson. He had set a fire in his apartment building that apparently grew out of control and wound up killing six people and sending dozens more to the hospital. He had been found there lying in the smoke by first responders. But here's the kicker. He hadn't suffered any burns when they found him. That scar only appeared after he had been questioned about the fire by a couple other firefighters before the cops even spoke to him. It took them a couple weeks to realize what happened and then months to find the guy. Everyone is a liar. He was just better at telling half truths. Edit: Grammatical	As I stood there, he looked at me with longing in his eyes. He had been living on this earth for longer than anyone I knew. "Can you hear me?" I asked him. "Yes, loud and clear." "Have you ever lied in your life?" "Only once. And it was the worst lie I've ever told anyone. The biggest, far bigger than any lie that you could think of." "Hold on, you're telling me you've only ever lied once in your life? Not even little white lies like 'yeah that outfit looks fine'?" "No. And it upsets me to remember that day." He gets a far away look in his eyes. . . . He's back in the White House. "Mr. President, it has been carried out as you ordered." "Good. Now leave and never talk about this." . . . "What do you know about 9/11?" "Well, AL Qaeda attacked the twin towers by hijacking a few planes." "Do you know if anyone inside the United States government, perhaps the President, was involved in planning or carrying out the attacks?" "If you're asking whether 9/11 was an inside job, no, it was not." Suddenly he fell out of his chair, his screams filling the room. He ripped off his shirt as a massive scar finished appearing.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	It's a mad world Nowadays you are asked to take your clothes off in a job interview for god's sake, even in court in some countries, I mean come on sometimes you actually need to lie goddamnit sometimes it actually does some real good but it literally scars you for life... I have my fair number of scars, mostly very light ones , I can take my shirt off when I go to the beach without most of them showing , heck I can have sex with a girl and they won't notice most, the more necessary you felt that the lie was the better hidden the scar is, so most of mine are in addition to very light on ... convenient spots. I have scars on the back of my thighs, I have two behind my ears, I have some on my armpits . I once heard of a guy who had one on his penis , it turns out how you feel about the lie makes a huge difference in what scar it will leave you and where, just imagine that guy getting undressed in front of a woman , or man whatever he is into anyway. Well at least some girls say scars are sexy, or so I’ve heard. You do get used to it but still... I once had a pretty long conversation with a war veteran about scars , now that was scarring. He took he shirt off to show me his body he was FULL. I first noticed two bullets scars , didn't think I could recognize them but damn do they look different. The bullet scars though , they were nice compared to the rest , they were in battle defending his country but the rest of his body was more scar tissue than actual skin, there were spots where I couldn't even make out how many scars he had. They formed one big pile of butchered up skin. During our conversation I found out that he actually got all the visible scars he had on his upper body in a single week , he was taken as a prisoner of war and trust me , the only countries that actually give even a single flying fuck about the Geneva convention are the ones that have already won the war. Long story short , pretty much all the scars were from the lies he told trying to lead the enemies away while they were torturing him instead of giving them real information , it's mad how they can torture you into treachery without leaving a scar on your body. It is true though , EVERYONE breaks given enough time. The war veteran story is my go-to example on why we shouldn't judge people by their scars. There is a whole other story that I just can't get myself to tell. Too goddamn sad , well probably not so when you just hear it as a story but you were not there talking with him you did not see the sorrow and the chaos on his face. His name was George. In my country he have to serve in the military , mandatory service . The military of course is purely defensive and the service is easier than professional militaries naturally. George was pretty much the nicest guy we all knew , he would never even lie. There had been a few occasions where others were mad at him because he would tell our officers about anything they asked and being the military there were consequences , he really , actually never lied. We also noticed after a couple of months that even though most would get out of bath completely naked since we were only men, he would get in and out always wearing a t-shirt, and whenever he had to change his t-shirt without taking a bath he hid, went to the bathroom or was alone someway. We all wondered but we thought that he just lied without us noticing and wanted to hide his scars , all the others still believe that but I know. George and I became friends over time. We would go out for a drink , we would even go to the gym or for a run together sometimes. The park where we run was closer to his home so one day when it started raining he told me to come take a shower at his place, he'd lend me some clothes and drive me home. He let me get in to take a shower first. I got in finished my shower and got out, he went in right after me. Seconds after he got in I realized a left my shoes in the bathroom and I sweat a lot so my shoes get smelly so I wanted to get them to the balcony. Being used to it from my service, who we had both finished some months prior to that day, where we didn't really care if someone saw us naked I just opened the door and went in without knocking. God I wish I hadn't. I saw George's back as he was getting in the shower, he just froze as he saw the awe in my face when I stared at his single scar, one single scar in the entirety of his body , it was a huge scar spanning diagonally on his whole back , it was so large it reminded me of video game characters , and so deep I thought it was see-through where the skin met the spine. I just looked at him and he knew, he got a look that was stuck in his face for the rest of the week and just said "Let me finish my shower and I'll explain". And so he finished , and so he explained , and so I was moved , then I processed what he said and I was devastated , and then I thought about it once more and I started to cry , then he let go and started to cry even more than I did. It was one of the saddest stories I had ever heard. Until you are 13-16 depending on the person you get no scars from lying, I mean come on who doesn’t lie as a kid. One day you wake up with an already fainted scar across your whole face which goes away in a day or two and that is how you know you now get scars from lying. So George was relatively lucky as he got his initiation scar a couple of weeks after he became sixteen. When George was 14 his mother got cancer. His 3 years younger sister got cancer too a year later, while his father had died in an accident when George was 9. His mother was given a 60% chance of getting rid of the cancer for good at the beginning with chemotherapy. She didn’t. A month after she learned that her cancer got too spread to be completely stopped, her daughter got cancer too. George said the doctor believed that his mother must have been exposed to radiation when pregnant with his sister else it was just a very tragic coincidence that they both got cancer in such a small time interval with his sister at such a young age. George’s mother stopped chemotherapy just before he became 15 since the doctor said it wouldn’t help anymore. His sister was never given much chance, a mere 10% that chemotherapy would even do anything. His mother couldn’t get out of bed just before George turned 16. At the same time the doctor told his sister that chemotherapy couldn’t do anything anymore and that she was giving her about another year and 6 to 8 months in a “good enough” health. Naturally George and his sister wanted their mother to die knowing her daughter at least would survive. So they thought they’d lie to her, tell her that her daughter was getting better. George learned how to do makeup and helped his sister so she would seem in good health no matter what happened. They told their mum that even though she had gotten past cancer she started paying attention to the details of life and that she wanted to start putting on make up to look better and her being 13 at the time her mother believed her. And so George kept lying, with a lie that started a few weeks after he got his first scar, he kept saying the same lie to his mother everyday. His mother got worse and so did his sister. His mother died 6 months after George got 16 years old, his sister one month after that, the doctor predicted wrong. The last two months that their mother was alive his sister couldn’t get out of bed and so every day he lied to his mother that his sister had to study , or that she didn’t get a very good grade on a test and didn’t want to disappoint her , or that she went out with friends whenever his mother asked why his sister didn't visit much. On the days his sister was feeling better she put on make-up, gathered all her strength and walked enough to go sit beside her mother’s bed. And so George kept lying so that his mother would die happy, every day for hours each day he lied to his dying mother that his dying sister was well, a few weeks before the end he told her that his sister had gotten fully rid of her tumor while his sister would faint trying to get up and see her mother. And George kept lying even the last few days when his mother could hardly see or talk and asked to see her daughter, so George said that she went abroad in a school program for students good in literature related subjects and she called him to relay her love for her mother to her, while she was in the hospital 20 meters away on the same floor, hanging on to life by a thread. Then his mother died and he couldn’t lie anymore, his sister died and he could hardly feel like he could live anymore. All that left him with one big scar, the same lie being told over and over and over again devastating him even more each time, killing him inside and out a bit more each time creating a scar that would never heal. Creating a scar that was bigger than anyone I and maybe anyone else living on this godforsaken planet has ever seen. Creating a scar that made every other evil, obstacle or problem seem redundant, turning George into the best person I had ever known, into the best person anyone that met him had ever known. It’s a mad world , and it’s mad to judge people by their scars , some carry them with sorrow , some with pride , some with regret some with happiness , some only need one , some have none , some can’t seem to get enough. . This is my first ever prompt , pretty much the first story i've ever written to be honest ( outside of school of course). Feedback is appreciated Also sorry if it got too sad too fast in the end I was listening to Tears in Heaven by Eric Clapton when I started writing , a very sad song who I only found out about yesterday, worth a listen. Edit: So I'm done with changes to the story , may edit in the future if I find any spelling or grammar mistakes	As I stood there, he looked at me with longing in his eyes. He had been living on this earth for longer than anyone I knew. "Can you hear me?" I asked him. "Yes, loud and clear." "Have you ever lied in your life?" "Only once. And it was the worst lie I've ever told anyone. The biggest, far bigger than any lie that you could think of." "Hold on, you're telling me you've only ever lied once in your life? Not even little white lies like 'yeah that outfit looks fine'?" "No. And it upsets me to remember that day." He gets a far away look in his eyes. . . . He's back in the White House. "Mr. President, it has been carried out as you ordered." "Good. Now leave and never talk about this." . . . "What do you know about 9/11?" "Well, AL Qaeda attacked the twin towers by hijacking a few planes." "Do you know if anyone inside the United States government, perhaps the President, was involved in planning or carrying out the attacks?" "If you're asking whether 9/11 was an inside job, no, it was not." Suddenly he fell out of his chair, his screams filling the room. He ripped off his shirt as a massive scar finished appearing.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	My deepest cut? Easy. Upper right hip, curving from almost my navel to my asscrack. It's an unusual, but fortunately concealed, spot for me; usually I'm an arm guy, so my parents always dressed me in tshirts, for conveniences sake when asking if I'd done my homework. You'd think they'd have figured it out, after I was held back a grade... But this chick. Now, I'm a man who knows what I like. Short, curly hair, sundresses, enough scars to show a wild side, few enough scars that I know I won't get a 'git-scar. Happened to one of my buddies once; after his girlfriend found out his "I'm not cheating on you" mark was hidden under his beard, she cut more than hair in taking it off. I told him dating a girl with skin textured like prairie grass was bad news, but he just couldn't resist the crazies. Birds of a feather, I suppose... But back to this girl. She had it all. The dress. The hair. The... scar. Some chicks hide them, some showcase them. She was a shower, and damn, did she have a lot to show. The dress had to be custom tailored, for it framed and flattered the deep colors of the scar along her back perfectly. But other than that... flawless. Already I longed to stroke her smooth arms, kiss her milky neck, lift up her already short dress... I approached, and distracted by the juxtaposition of beauty and destruction, went with the lamest, most common of openings. I gestured towards her. "That's quite the display. Is it 'git?" Her laughter, as expected, sounded like the tinkling of bells. "But of course it's legit!" she said. "It was a tragic accident..." she looked solemn, for a moment, as if getting lost in a painful memory, but then her smile, refreshing as a spring shower, returned. "Though of course, that might not be the case. After all, I only ever speak in lies."	As I stood there, he looked at me with longing in his eyes. He had been living on this earth for longer than anyone I knew. "Can you hear me?" I asked him. "Yes, loud and clear." "Have you ever lied in your life?" "Only once. And it was the worst lie I've ever told anyone. The biggest, far bigger than any lie that you could think of." "Hold on, you're telling me you've only ever lied once in your life? Not even little white lies like 'yeah that outfit looks fine'?" "No. And it upsets me to remember that day." He gets a far away look in his eyes. . . . He's back in the White House. "Mr. President, it has been carried out as you ordered." "Good. Now leave and never talk about this." . . . "What do you know about 9/11?" "Well, AL Qaeda attacked the twin towers by hijacking a few planes." "Do you know if anyone inside the United States government, perhaps the President, was involved in planning or carrying out the attacks?" "If you're asking whether 9/11 was an inside job, no, it was not." Suddenly he fell out of his chair, his screams filling the room. He ripped off his shirt as a massive scar finished appearing.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	They said we'd meet all kinds at university. I grew up in a small farming town and I can't tell you how right they were. With the recent election behind us, tensions were still high. The debates had been arduous. Should we deal with climate change via the solar route or reach out to newer frontiers of nuclear or wave power. I have to admit I was disappointed I missed the lottery for physics 570, which meant a free semester on one of the 17 lunar colonies, but if I was being honest with myself I knew my scores didn't merit more than a single ticket in the pool. I'd met several people who honestly believed we'd establish more than a foothold on mars, which I couldn't believe. I mean with the em drive version 4 we were pushing on to Europa, and water base station. Huge lead plates were already on the way with humans soon to follow. The abundance of food, advances in medicine, and lack of disease (thanks to vaccines and proper medication) meant I was honored to be taught English 104 by a professor that was alive when electric cars were just being invented. But I never thought to meet a heretic. She was pretty, excepting the large red scar that marred her face and neck. Almost half an inch across and running from her forehead down her face, over her jaw, and disappearing under her shirt the scar was open red raw, proof she repeated the lie again. Not that any of had to ask what it was, with the thin golden cross hanging from her necklace. I stayed away from her, like the others, as I focused on my studies and where I wanted to take not only my life but the human race, out among the stars.	As I stood there, he looked at me with longing in his eyes. He had been living on this earth for longer than anyone I knew. "Can you hear me?" I asked him. "Yes, loud and clear." "Have you ever lied in your life?" "Only once. And it was the worst lie I've ever told anyone. The biggest, far bigger than any lie that you could think of." "Hold on, you're telling me you've only ever lied once in your life? Not even little white lies like 'yeah that outfit looks fine'?" "No. And it upsets me to remember that day." He gets a far away look in his eyes. . . . He's back in the White House. "Mr. President, it has been carried out as you ordered." "Good. Now leave and never talk about this." . . . "What do you know about 9/11?" "Well, AL Qaeda attacked the twin towers by hijacking a few planes." "Do you know if anyone inside the United States government, perhaps the President, was involved in planning or carrying out the attacks?" "If you're asking whether 9/11 was an inside job, no, it was not." Suddenly he fell out of his chair, his screams filling the room. He ripped off his shirt as a massive scar finished appearing.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	You want to know how I got these scars? Well, for one thing they aren’t ‘scars’, if you look closely you’ll see it’s one continuous scar that travels around my face, neck, down my body, all around wrapping itself around my arms, legs, fingers and toes. The only part of my body that isn’t scarred tissue is the inside of my body and even a bit of my mouth is still scarred. So the correct question you want to ask is how did I get this scar? Singular. Well, you know that old saying? About how a girl likes a guy with scars? It shows they’re a bad boy, that they kick a lot of ass or in my case lie. I didn’t kick anyone’s ass or get into a big crash, I lied. That’s pretty much what happened. I suppose you’ll want specifics. Well, years ago back when I was unblemished, face filled with pimples and a voice that didn’t quite want to go low I had a crush on a girl. A pretty girl, one that seemed to really like me with not a scar on her body as far as I could tell! So when she told me she loved me I believed her totally and without reservation. We went out, kissed and eventually I did find she had scars. I won’t share the details of how I found out but I’m sure your imagination can fill in the blanks. Anyways, her scars, they were here and there. Small ones mostly with two or three medium sized ones. I asked her about them and she told me she didn’t want to talk about them. She seemed ashamed. I wanted to tell her that she was human, that everyone had scars. Then she looked at me and asked if I had any? Well, I didn’t but I didn’t want her to feel bad so I said yes. Next thing I knew I felt something scratch my arm and there it was. A scar. Now that should’ve been the end of that but here’s the weird thing. It then sorta vanished. Then came back twice as bad as it realized I was sorta telling the truth but lying at the same time. It couldn’t decide what to do. So it just kept going. So here I was with my girlfriend in front of me with my eyes wide in horror as the scar kept scratching me, fading and growing again. By the time it all stopped I was still screaming. Honestly I had no idea when I started. And now we’re married.	As I stood there, he looked at me with longing in his eyes. He had been living on this earth for longer than anyone I knew. "Can you hear me?" I asked him. "Yes, loud and clear." "Have you ever lied in your life?" "Only once. And it was the worst lie I've ever told anyone. The biggest, far bigger than any lie that you could think of." "Hold on, you're telling me you've only ever lied once in your life? Not even little white lies like 'yeah that outfit looks fine'?" "No. And it upsets me to remember that day." He gets a far away look in his eyes. . . . He's back in the White House. "Mr. President, it has been carried out as you ordered." "Good. Now leave and never talk about this." . . . "What do you know about 9/11?" "Well, AL Qaeda attacked the twin towers by hijacking a few planes." "Do you know if anyone inside the United States government, perhaps the President, was involved in planning or carrying out the attacks?" "If you're asking whether 9/11 was an inside job, no, it was not." Suddenly he fell out of his chair, his screams filling the room. He ripped off his shirt as a massive scar finished appearing.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	The subway rattled it's syncopated song, barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum. About twenty lonely people swayed back and forth in harmony within the car. There are usually a few homeless people at this hour. One typically sat in the far back corner, asleep. But tonight there was just a guy with puffy eyes in a white tee shirt with sleeves that came to around the middle of his bicep. He was thin, but not sickeningly so, moderately handsome, and utterly defeated judging by his posture. His most striking feature of all was a newly formed slash down his forearm. The largest I've ever seen, by far. Still wet, they would say. His second most striking feature was the absence of any other scars. Now usually, you get at least a few scars growing up. It's kind of like touching a burner as a kid. You just have to learn from experience. You might tell a fib at school about homework, and pets that have suddenly acquired an appetite for homework, and you collect a few scars along the way. I sure as hell did at least. But this guy had to have made it all the way here, in New York City of all places, without telling a single lie. Well, until today. I was intrigued. I mean, how could you not be? He was Mother-freaking-Teresa, but even she probably failed to disclose the secret location of her breadbasket base every now and then. "Dantooine...they're all on Dantooine," she might have said. I approached, with caution. I recognize this was selfish of me, but maybe the guy needed someone to talk to. "Hey, man. You doing ok?" I said, conveying empathy the best my socially awkward self could manage. "Yeah," the kid, who I just realized was only about 26, if that, said with such brevity that he may as well said nothing at all. "Look, I don't usually intrude on people's private affairs. It's just, usually a homeless guy who goes by Squirrel sits where you are now and I don't think the strongest constitution in the bowel department, if you get my meaning." The kid smiled at least, wiping his right eye with his scarless forearm, and moved to the bench seat next to where I was standing. "I'm John," he said. "Hi John, it's a pleasure. I'm Matt." I sat down next to him. "Maybe if you tell me about your day, you will be distracted enough to forget it." "I guess we aren't really going anywhere, are we." The doors to the subway car opened to dump out about half its contents. Those left in the car were otherwise enthralled in their phones or their headphones. "How many more stops do you have?" "Twelve." "Me too." He looked around the car, as the doors closed and the car lurched forward with the same barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum. I guess he adjudged the car private enough, so he began his story. It all started with a girl. Imagine that. "Ah, to be young again," I thought. Brown hair, decent looks, and smart, he said. He had dated her for four years. They had graduated college together, fallen in love, and moved in to a too-small-but-hey-we-are-achieving-our-dreams-and-living-in-the-big-city-oh-look-a-dead-rat-its-nothing-we-will-get-used-to-it apartment. They even got one of those stupid plant holders that hang out of window sills. You know the ones that kill about eight people a year in a city like the Big Apple. John had been the perfect boyfriend to Sally. He got her cute gifts that were within his budget, but not too within his budget, and he was nice to all of her friends. He even took her to a Giants game or two. Hell, he even ended up on the big screen for a kiss that ended up being televised on WFAN because of the quirky way he tossed the popcorn aside and did one of those "back from the war" kisses. They even got engaged. But last year, Sally was diagnosed with a cognitive disorder that changed her behavior. Sally was never the same again. She had flashes of anger, where she would insult John and his family. She would talk of other guys she had been with in the past, when she never did that before. She would even compare John to other guys that they had been around, telling him why they were better than him. This went on for a year. She demeaned him to the point of no return, yet he remained there with her. John kept her medication in order and cooked for her, because processes were lost at that point. After Sally lost control of her colon he cleaned their Murphy Bed in their too-small-but-hey-we-are-achieving-our-dreams-and-living-in-the-big-city-oh-look-a-dead-rat-its-nothing-we-will-get-used-to-it apartment. He sat with her in the hospital for two weeks and lost his accounting job due to it. He was there today when she died. Sally had looked up at him within her last hour and said she remembered the day they watched a dog in Central Park on a long leash literally wrap its owner up "101 Dalmatians" style and drag him a few yards. They laughed aloud, heads back like Peanuts characters, like they had many times before Sally became ill. She looked up at John, with tears welling in her eyes. For a brief moment, the old Sally was there. "I love you," she said. "I love you, too," he replied.	As I stood there, he looked at me with longing in his eyes. He had been living on this earth for longer than anyone I knew. "Can you hear me?" I asked him. "Yes, loud and clear." "Have you ever lied in your life?" "Only once. And it was the worst lie I've ever told anyone. The biggest, far bigger than any lie that you could think of." "Hold on, you're telling me you've only ever lied once in your life? Not even little white lies like 'yeah that outfit looks fine'?" "No. And it upsets me to remember that day." He gets a far away look in his eyes. . . . He's back in the White House. "Mr. President, it has been carried out as you ordered." "Good. Now leave and never talk about this." . . . "What do you know about 9/11?" "Well, AL Qaeda attacked the twin towers by hijacking a few planes." "Do you know if anyone inside the United States government, perhaps the President, was involved in planning or carrying out the attacks?" "If you're asking whether 9/11 was an inside job, no, it was not." Suddenly he fell out of his chair, his screams filling the room. He ripped off his shirt as a massive scar finished appearing.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I pass the open door of my favourite cafe, a warm plume of caramel scented air greets me, inviting me and pulling me off the cold winter street. I let myself get carried over to the bar, expecting to see the usual waiter; a burly man in his 40s wearing the usual faded suit jacket and dark jeans. As I look up, my breath is plucked from my lungs. I aren't greeted by the thinning blond hair and piercing blue eyes I expected, but a girl. Soft hair, brown and untamed cascaded over her shoulders on to the pristine white shirt and onto her bust. Everything seems to be in slow motion as my eyes trace every contour and shape of her body in detail. Unlike me, or any of the other customers, who's hands are littered with small flecks of white, which was the cost of keeping face in today's society, she was completely pure. From her head to her toes, not a single blemish on her silk skin. She is the definition of beautiful. Her delicate, porcelain hands clasped together in front of that short black dress, which is formal but still very attractive. Green eyes flicked up with a look of coy and curiosity as a faint smile worked it's way onto her soft peach lips. I blush. Her voice resonated into my mind, cutting off my thought. Matching her appearance, her words are softly spoken and sweet. The type of voice that reminds you of home. "Hi, my name's Mei. What are you ordering today, sir" she asks with enthusiasm. "Uh... a.." I fumble through my speech like a nervous child on his first day of school "A number 7 please" I falter for a moment after realizing my mistake. There is no number 7 on the menu. As soon as the words leave me, her eyes narrow. The persona of before has left her and now, all I can think of is danger. She asks me to follow her in a quick and monotone voice. That voice reminded me of a killer. Her speech and her walking pattern, as she walks through to a separate room is ruthless and efficient. No wasted movement. I follow nervously, almost tripping over myself and take a seat opposite her in the exquisitely decorated room I now find myself in. A square table, wooden and stained dark, separates us. "So Mr.. Hudson. You requested a model 23, complete organ transplants. You've transferred 14 million, half of the payment and were ready to begin." I don't understand. I'm panicking. Did she just say organ transplant? I desperately try to think of a way out of this situation but I'm distracted by the sight of Mei taking her formal shirt off to reveal a very thin, white top underneath. She looks so damn perfect. I've gained momentary relief from my panic just by the mere sight of her. That's when the real Mr Hudson walks in. He is very old and withered, covered in long, deep scars, spiralling across his body. He must be about 80, and he speaks with a dry, raspy voice. "I'm here to see Mei" he says almost innocently. Mei walks to meet him and that's when I see it. A huge, deep purple scar under the thin shirt she's wearing, swimming from the top of her neck all the way down to the small of her back, and then way past where I can see. She approaches him calmly whispers something in his ear. He raises and eyebrow and they both smile. My sense of danger kicks in again, and adrenaline starts to course through my veins. I get it now. "Now then sir, as you are probably aware, there has been a confusion between you and Mr Hudson here" she says gesturing to the old man with an open palm. She doesn't have to tell the truth like the rest of us. "Don't worry sir." She walks towards me with a smile. A smile of malice. That's not her body. "You're going to be just fine." She smiles as her green eyes turn cold and run through me. That's not her fucking body.	As I stood there, he looked at me with longing in his eyes. He had been living on this earth for longer than anyone I knew. "Can you hear me?" I asked him. "Yes, loud and clear." "Have you ever lied in your life?" "Only once. And it was the worst lie I've ever told anyone. The biggest, far bigger than any lie that you could think of." "Hold on, you're telling me you've only ever lied once in your life? Not even little white lies like 'yeah that outfit looks fine'?" "No. And it upsets me to remember that day." He gets a far away look in his eyes. . . . He's back in the White House. "Mr. President, it has been carried out as you ordered." "Good. Now leave and never talk about this." . . . "What do you know about 9/11?" "Well, AL Qaeda attacked the twin towers by hijacking a few planes." "Do you know if anyone inside the United States government, perhaps the President, was involved in planning or carrying out the attacks?" "If you're asking whether 9/11 was an inside job, no, it was not." Suddenly he fell out of his chair, his screams filling the room. He ripped off his shirt as a massive scar finished appearing.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I groan as I roll out of bed. Another day, trapped. Mom feeds me breakfast, smiling her usual smile as she talks about what the old ladies at church had been discussing. Heedless of the struggles going on in my head. I eat my eggs and bread in silence, trying to stay as small, as invisible as possible. I don’t say very much… perhaps that was why I didn’t have the usual scars that cover everyone else? I pass by the store on my way to school, making sure not to linger for too long, not let my brother get suspicious. I stare wistfully at the dresses and necklaces, so elegant and pretty. But my parents would never let me have such things. I glance down at my jeans and sweatshirt, hating how it made me appear masculine. My own body, betraying me. School passed by in a blur, like most days. My brother runs ahead, laughing as he bounds into our house without a care in the world. How nice it must be, to be born into the body you want. Father smiles at me, asks me the same question he’s asked every day since I started school. I noticed the scar that first night he asked, on my back as I took off my shirt to shower. It was the biggest I’d ever seen. I’ve never taken off my shirt in front of my family ever since. “Hey, kid! How’s life treating ya?” I pause, for a brief moment. “Fine, dad. I’m fine.”	As I stood there, he looked at me with longing in his eyes. He had been living on this earth for longer than anyone I knew. "Can you hear me?" I asked him. "Yes, loud and clear." "Have you ever lied in your life?" "Only once. And it was the worst lie I've ever told anyone. The biggest, far bigger than any lie that you could think of." "Hold on, you're telling me you've only ever lied once in your life? Not even little white lies like 'yeah that outfit looks fine'?" "No. And it upsets me to remember that day." He gets a far away look in his eyes. . . . He's back in the White House. "Mr. President, it has been carried out as you ordered." "Good. Now leave and never talk about this." . . . "What do you know about 9/11?" "Well, AL Qaeda attacked the twin towers by hijacking a few planes." "Do you know if anyone inside the United States government, perhaps the President, was involved in planning or carrying out the attacks?" "If you're asking whether 9/11 was an inside job, no, it was not." Suddenly he fell out of his chair, his screams filling the room. He ripped off his shirt as a massive scar finished appearing.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	The scar - singular, I must highlight - was so horrific, so deep, and so... extensive... It's either one huge lie, or... I had to look away as I realised I could take a full anatomy lesson just by looking at him naked. "I'm a software engineer, IT guy, and all round tech-guru," he murmured. "I keep skipping reading the sodding Terms and Conditions."	As I stood there, he looked at me with longing in his eyes. He had been living on this earth for longer than anyone I knew. "Can you hear me?" I asked him. "Yes, loud and clear." "Have you ever lied in your life?" "Only once. And it was the worst lie I've ever told anyone. The biggest, far bigger than any lie that you could think of." "Hold on, you're telling me you've only ever lied once in your life? Not even little white lies like 'yeah that outfit looks fine'?" "No. And it upsets me to remember that day." He gets a far away look in his eyes. . . . He's back in the White House. "Mr. President, it has been carried out as you ordered." "Good. Now leave and never talk about this." . . . "What do you know about 9/11?" "Well, AL Qaeda attacked the twin towers by hijacking a few planes." "Do you know if anyone inside the United States government, perhaps the President, was involved in planning or carrying out the attacks?" "If you're asking whether 9/11 was an inside job, no, it was not." Suddenly he fell out of his chair, his screams filling the room. He ripped off his shirt as a massive scar finished appearing.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I had always been comfortable with my scars. Thin silver and white lines were strewn across my skin, but they were small enough that you could only see them if you were standing close to me. I tried my best not to lie to others, but sometimes there was an option worse than deception. My chemistry lab partner from my freshman year of college had flawless skin. He often seemed distant or tired, but he was kind, hardworking, and by the looks of his skin, incredibly honest. I had never seen anyone like him and was instantly intrigued. Between classwork, study sessions, and late night pizza runs, I found myself falling in love with him. When I asked him if he would ever give me a chance, he said yes. My eyes glanced over his skin to gauge his honesty, but alas, no scars appeared. Before long, that man was my husband. Mark was never close to his family and focused all his energy on me and making sure that we had an amazing life together. In his vows he told me he would always love me and that I brought a new light to his life. On our honeymoon, his skin was still as flawless as the day he was born, and I knew that he meant every word. One day I was fixing dinner for Mark and myself. He stepped through the front door after a long day of work and I rushed into his arms to kiss him and ask about his day. He set down his briefcase, loosened his tie, and sighed. "What's wrong baby?" I asked. With sad eyes, he ever so slightly lifted his head to look at me and mumbled "My father died." I had never met Mark's father. His parents divorced when he was young, and Mark had a spotty relationship with his father after the divorce. I wasn't sure how deeply this news was affecting my husband, but I grabbed his hand and stretched up to my tip toes to kiss his forehead. Using my free hand to lift up his chin, I looked into Mark's once brilliantly bright eyes and told him I would do whatever he needed me to do. Six days later, I tightened the tie Mark asked me to pick out for him. I slipped on my heels and told Mark that I would be right beside him as he said his final goodbyes to his father. He chose not to speak at the funeral, but before he left he placed one hand on the casket, closed his eyes, and whispered "I love you, Dad." That night, I climbed into the shower with Mark to hold him close and comfort him. Sprawled across Mark's back was the longest, deepest scar I had ever seen. My husband's skin had been flawless that morning, and the only thing he had said all day was that he had loved his father. Concerned, I called Mark's mother the next day while Mark was at work. It took some encouraging, but his mom finally spilled the only secret Mark had ever kept from me. "Hannah, Mark had an older sister. When Mark's father and I divorced, Mark stayed with me and his sister moved in with her dad. When Mark was 11, his dad was driving his sister to a friend's birthday party....only he was drunk. He ran a red light and a car crossing the intersection crashed into the passenger side of the car, killing Mark's sister. I don't think Mark ever saw his father sober after that, and he never fully forgave him." Disbelieving, I thanked Mark's mother for her time and hung up. I never mentioned the conversation or the new scar to Mark, but I held him a little tighter and kissed him a little longer that night. His skin would never be flawless again, but to me he was still perfect.	As I stood there, he looked at me with longing in his eyes. He had been living on this earth for longer than anyone I knew. "Can you hear me?" I asked him. "Yes, loud and clear." "Have you ever lied in your life?" "Only once. And it was the worst lie I've ever told anyone. The biggest, far bigger than any lie that you could think of." "Hold on, you're telling me you've only ever lied once in your life? Not even little white lies like 'yeah that outfit looks fine'?" "No. And it upsets me to remember that day." He gets a far away look in his eyes. . . . He's back in the White House. "Mr. President, it has been carried out as you ordered." "Good. Now leave and never talk about this." . . . "What do you know about 9/11?" "Well, AL Qaeda attacked the twin towers by hijacking a few planes." "Do you know if anyone inside the United States government, perhaps the President, was involved in planning or carrying out the attacks?" "If you're asking whether 9/11 was an inside job, no, it was not." Suddenly he fell out of his chair, his screams filling the room. He ripped off his shirt as a massive scar finished appearing.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I'd... I'd never seen anything like it. It went through her body to the other side. I've seen murderers and heavily experienced con-men with shallower scars. This was... shocking. The moonlight reflected from her fair, creamy skin as we walked. I looked for more lies, but I could find none. Only the deep one across her chest, the one she showed but never explained. Even the last Pope had two scars, albeit quite shallow. She swept her silky amber hair to the side and showed a faint smile. She seemed happy, but I was not. I couldn't focus. I needed to know her lie. I had to know, but I didn't want to drive her away. I tried the subtle approach, but I'm not too good with subtlety. "Would you like to know how I got these scars?" I asked, like the Joker after a five-month hospital regimen. My shyness was showing, but I'm not sure she picked up on it. "Sure, if you want to tell. As long as it doesn't make you uncomfortable." I pointed to the one on my forearm. That was a... memorable one, to say the least. "This was when I lied about smoking weed and having sex. I was a dumb teenager who was too dependant on what people thought of me. I wanted to be cool, but I was just a sheltered brat." "You're a little hard on yourself. We all make mistakes." Very inspiring, but almost hollow coming from her. I gestured to the deep one on my neck. "This was when I lied about setting our garage on fire. I was playing around with my dad's lighter when I dropped it on the floor. For some reason, there was gas leaking from the car. The fumes ignited. The whole thing went up in flames. I said it was an electrical problem." "How much was the damage?" "100K, including the price of a new car. That drained our savings." "Wow..." I finished on my final one, my third one. A very deep one on my stomach. This was my least favorite. "This was when I lied about checking on grandma when she called our house. I ignored the call and told my parents she was fine. She'd called... she'd called us to say she fell and broke her back on the bathtub... she died the next day... I just... I feel so much guilt... and I told my parents it wasn't my fault..." "I'm sorry... that's horrible." "It's fine. The experience lead me to stop lying. I haven't told a lie in over 10 years." "Me too." An awkward silence hung over us. Would she talk about the scar? Would she ignore it? No, no no no we're nearing her apartment. I gotta say something! "I have a question, but you don't have to answer it if it makes you uncomfortable." "Shoot." "How did you get that scar across your chest?" She chuckled a bit, as if amused by my question. "LARP accident. Some guy brought a real claymore sword. He cut through my foam armor and went straight through my midsection, almost took my upper half off. The doctors say it was a miracle I survived." It... it wasn't a lie? It was an accident? That's so... relieving! My word, here I was thinking-- wait, is that a new scar on her arm? She laughed an unconvincing laugh. "I-I wasn't lying, that was true! I'm not a murderer or anything!" Another scar popped up. And I ran. ***** I ran so far awaaaaaay. I just raaaaan, I ran all night and daaaaay. I couldn't get away! /r/Picklestasteg00d.	As I stood there, he looked at me with longing in his eyes. He had been living on this earth for longer than anyone I knew. "Can you hear me?" I asked him. "Yes, loud and clear." "Have you ever lied in your life?" "Only once. And it was the worst lie I've ever told anyone. The biggest, far bigger than any lie that you could think of." "Hold on, you're telling me you've only ever lied once in your life? Not even little white lies like 'yeah that outfit looks fine'?" "No. And it upsets me to remember that day." He gets a far away look in his eyes. . . . He's back in the White House. "Mr. President, it has been carried out as you ordered." "Good. Now leave and never talk about this." . . . "What do you know about 9/11?" "Well, AL Qaeda attacked the twin towers by hijacking a few planes." "Do you know if anyone inside the United States government, perhaps the President, was involved in planning or carrying out the attacks?" "If you're asking whether 9/11 was an inside job, no, it was not." Suddenly he fell out of his chair, his screams filling the room. He ripped off his shirt as a massive scar finished appearing.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	We met at a bar one evening. She had a beer in her hand, something local on tap, about half-drained. We struck up some conversation - weather or sports or some such, I don't remember, small talk though. She made some passing comment about liking my ears, and I almost brushed it off as false praise - I think they stick out a bit too much - before I noticed her smooth skin; not a single scar visible. I had my own fair share of lies cut into my skin - most minor, a few major. Even the bigger ones I'd usually defend, outside of a big one on my arm. "I've been clean for a year!". Even so, that's the least regretful mistake from that part of my life - I'm proud to say I can say that line now without the scar growing larger. I got her name - Jane - and later, her number. We ended up setting up a date for the following weekend, and hit it off quickly. Similar interests - hiking, video games, cooking... Well, mostly same interests, anyway. I remember her coy smile when I said I liked her Coltrane collection, and a line of skin on my forearm darkened. Can't stand jazz, really. I thought for about a month that she was perfectly honest, until we went to bed together. Jane seemed reluctant to take off her shirt, but that same honesty that kept her skin smooth must have demanded she not cover up now - her bra came off, and across the inside of her left breast was the deepest scar that I've ever seen. It wasn't a discoloration like most scars - it was like a knotted rope was underneath the skin. It wasn't the sort of thing you can comment on lightly, but at the same time, it would be more conspicuous to ignore it. She was clearly distressed, waiting for my reaction. I wasn't sure what to say, but we were both naked at that point so there was no hoping that a lie would be covered up by clothing. "There's obviously a story here, and I'm curious, but... Right now, it's not important. I'm willing to wait until you're willing to tell me on your own terms" I said, and punctuated the sentence with a kiss. She ran a hand through my short hair, and the encounter continued naturally after that. But frankly the details are none of your business. It was another six months before I learned any more details about that scar of hers. We were quite serious by now, and I'd had plenty of opportunities to see it again at this point. Jane told me that her parents were going to be coming by for Thanksgiving, and that she wanted me to be there. Her face was strangely tense, and when I pressed for information, she just said that she didn't feel up for explaining. What could I say to that? So, I didn't press the issue, and waited for Thursday to roll around. Her parents showed up - her mother was a frumpy sort of woman, with a flowery dress, and her father was tall, but had a thick neck and a double chin. I was surprised the two of them could have produced such a beautiful daughter, but all the same I could see some resemblance, particularly in the eyes and nose. The first thing I heard her father say - before even "hello" - was right after he jerked a thumb in my direction. "Is this that friend of yours? She looks like a fucking dyke." Her mother agreed emphatically. I found myself dumbstruck, unable to respond. Jane laughed uncomfortably, but her father didn't seem to notice - he was sniffing the air. "Turkey's already on, eh? Surprised you haven't caught yourself a husband yet, with your cooking. Hah!" "No luck yet, but I'm sure I'll find one one of these days." Jane replied with a weak smile, clearly hiding a wince as the scar above her heart wrought its way deeper into her skin.	It was the election day again. In a world where each lie meant a scar you knew who was going to be trustful. I saw Tony Monzana again. The last time I saw him in person was the last election day. Our old prime minister was going for a second round. He was about to start his political speech, he looked casual. He looked pretty clean for an average person, not many scars anywhere, brown hair and glasses. The usual. Just before he got to start the speech his doctor ran to him and asked something about a skin surgery. Tony asked him back "What fucking skin surgery, I have never had a skin surgery". He immeditially broke in half, which his doctors only replied to "Sigh... Politicians".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	"Hey, how'd you get that scar?" "Told my parents that I brushed my teeth." "You are such a liar! That's way too big for that!" "Yea. I'm a liar, duh."	It was the election day again. In a world where each lie meant a scar you knew who was going to be trustful. I saw Tony Monzana again. The last time I saw him in person was the last election day. Our old prime minister was going for a second round. He was about to start his political speech, he looked casual. He looked pretty clean for an average person, not many scars anywhere, brown hair and glasses. The usual. Just before he got to start the speech his doctor ran to him and asked something about a skin surgery. Tony asked him back "What fucking skin surgery, I have never had a skin surgery". He immeditially broke in half, which his doctors only replied to "Sigh... Politicians".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	My mind boiled over with thoughts, it raced with many theories and ideas as to what it could be. What did they do? What did they lie about? In this world, for some foresaken reason, god had betrayed his people. I knew lying was wrong, most of the time. But for me? Oh no, my mother taught me well, as would any mother would with the markings a lie would give you. You use your words and your mind. You think before you speak. You work your way around and at some point those markings mean nothing. Absolutely nothing. We all had minor scars, we all told small lies here and there, it was over looked most of the time. You would be given a look of embarrassment and there would be a certain quietness in the room. It would go over looked but everyone still knew when it happened: You lied. It was blunt. It was a strong odor no one could control. Scars all over our bodies, in odd places that surely made you wonder; Can I trust you? Trust? What was trust in this world? The ones, the pure ones, who had no markings were sat upon a throne. You were good. You were clean, pure, holy, and surly too good to be true. But the others? The others with deep scars that showed their past? That showed the history of their mouth and what they had to offer? It was too much, just the sight of a deep scar was a very dangerous thing to behold. You wouldn't be trusted, you simply wouldn't be. It was an automatic detection of you being filthy, a filthy liar. We would bathe ourselves as children, confessing our sins and screaming out for God to make the markings go away. We would scrub our bodies until they'd bleed. We would put on creams and makeup, just to make it disappear. But the lie would still remain, and you couldn't take it back. The guilt would make you go mad and the scar would stay forever as a reminder. When I laid eyes upon this man, this man with the biggest and most deepest scar I had ever seen, I was over the edge with desire to know. Frantically twitching and trying to ease my way into a conversation with the young male, my efforts seemed worthless as I could tell he knew, his blank facial expression made a statement to fuck off. Right before I took a breath and spared a few words, I dwelled in my cowardness and froze. "What do you want?" he asked. And at that moment, that exact moment, was when I got my biggest scar. "Nothing".	It was the election day again. In a world where each lie meant a scar you knew who was going to be trustful. I saw Tony Monzana again. The last time I saw him in person was the last election day. Our old prime minister was going for a second round. He was about to start his political speech, he looked casual. He looked pretty clean for an average person, not many scars anywhere, brown hair and glasses. The usual. Just before he got to start the speech his doctor ran to him and asked something about a skin surgery. Tony asked him back "What fucking skin surgery, I have never had a skin surgery". He immeditially broke in half, which his doctors only replied to "Sigh... Politicians".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	It was the middle of the January, one of the better times to lie if you had to. In the cold winter months, you could get away with hiding your secrets under an oversized, baggy sweater. There just enough snow in the air that to make the sky seem to sparkle, but it was nothing compared to the sparkle in her piercing green eyes when they first made contact with mine. I swear, it was love at first sight. Her hair was close cut, its raven black color a stark contrast to the white world which framed it. Her cheeks and nose had a splash of red from the cold. Fuzzy earmuffs, slightly oversized on her head, enveloped her ears. The cold steam of her breath escaped in short bursts from thin, pursed lips. She turned toward me a bit, wrapping her puffy red coat snugly around her body and drawing her arms over her chest for warmth. Skinny black jeans, the kind that showed off just enough of her curves, ran down into pristine white boots, the soles of which were almost obscured by the thin layer of snow on the ground. In short, she was perfect. Before I realized what I was doing, I hid my hands in my coat pockets self-consciously. I cursed myself for not having the foresight to wear gloves. Most of mine show up on my hands, and seeing all of them up front tends to give people the wrong first impression. See, the Scars have something of a twisted sense of humor. You tell a lie about some action you've taken, you get a scar on your arms or hands; tell a lie about somewhere you've been, you get a scar on your legs or feet; tell a lie about what you think, you get a scar somewhere on your head. Medical experts have been studying the scars for as far back as anyone can remember, but the best science can tell us is that they just... happen. For all science knows, the world could be home to legions of overly vigilant, painfully ironic fairies wielding pocket knives. Gathering my courage, I unzipped my coat and started walking in her direction. I nearly stopped myself and turned away a couple of times, but I'd promised myself long ago to always be truthful to my feelings. Nonetheless, I stalled awkwardly when I came close. Her green eyes watching me, the smell of her perfume drifting over to me, the cold wind blowing against my shirt... I took a deep breath. I probably looked like an idiot. But, now was not the time to panic. I laid my heart out on the line, in more ways than one. I told her she was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen, and that if she would allow me the opportunity, I wanted to take her somewhere special. That might seem a bit direct, but it helps your case a lot when a girl can simply watch your chest to see if your feelings are genuine. Sure enough, no bloodstain appeared. She looked down at the snowy ground, her cheeks growing even more red in the cold weather. "Alright," she said, her lips teasing into a slight smile. "What did you have in mind?" Good question. What did I have in mind? We ended up in a nearby restaurant, though I can't for the life of me remember how. I got really lucky is probably the best answer. As we took our seats in the booth, she took off her outer jacket, revealing a white sweater underneath. I didn't think anything of it at first. Slowly, as if unsure of herself, she unzipped the sweater too and pulled it down her arms, not fully off but not quite on either. Beneath it, she was wearing a rather tight shirt which revealed her slender arms and the fair skin of her midriff. I was caught completely off-guard by her drastic change of apparel. She shivered a bit and rubber her shoulders. I sat there speechless, transfixed by her beauty. Her skin was so... perfect. Not a single scar marred her arms, her stomach, her neck, or anything. I realized I must have been staring, and turned a way just a bit too quickly. "It's okay," she said softly, pulling her coat back on. "I wanted you to see that, since... I mean, you were so up front with me and... but not in a bad way, and... I guess I could've just told you outright..." She stared at the table a bit too pointedly. I smiled to myself. At least I wasn't the only one who was bad at this. ... That was three years ago, back when life was so much simpler. Back before the diagnosis, before the painful treatments which dragged on into weeks and then months. Before we learned about the cancer that was eating away, slowly but surely, at her brain. The doctors told us nothing could be done. They could treat her, give her drugs to ease the suffering and ultimately the transition, but she was never going to get better. They said she would be... gone... within a few months. I stared at them like a hawk as they spoke, scrutinizing every inch of skin as I processed each sentence, but no Scars came. It was the truth. We were both left to ask why it had to be her. She grew irritable and lashed out, though I could hardly blame her. They said it was pressing on her brain, altering her mood and her thoughts. I'm not ashamed to admit that I bawled my eyes out when I first heard the news. But I had to be strong, I had to keep going. I had to be a rock, no matter how hard that would be. As her time in the hospital grew, so did the doses they gave her. On one of her worse nights, I sat there with her as she tried to process all the built up frustration. I could see in her eyes that she didn't fully recognize me, a look I would never grow used to. With no other outlet, she turned it on me. "Why did this have to happen?" she suddenly screamed at me, choking back a sob. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "I... I hate you!" For a moment, neither of us said anything. We sat in near silence, interrupted only by the occasional sob. I watched her somberly, not daring to react. And that's when I saw it. A large pool of blood soaked into her hospital gown, just above her heart. The only Scar she would ever have. ... Thanks for reading! -ShutainzuGeito	It was the election day again. In a world where each lie meant a scar you knew who was going to be trustful. I saw Tony Monzana again. The last time I saw him in person was the last election day. Our old prime minister was going for a second round. He was about to start his political speech, he looked casual. He looked pretty clean for an average person, not many scars anywhere, brown hair and glasses. The usual. Just before he got to start the speech his doctor ran to him and asked something about a skin surgery. Tony asked him back "What fucking skin surgery, I have never had a skin surgery". He immeditially broke in half, which his doctors only replied to "Sigh... Politicians".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	"Anything else?" the waitress asked me, as she smacked a cup of coffee on the table somewhat carelessly. I think her name was Darla. I shook my head a bit and watched her saunter back to the counter out of the corner of my eye. I knew she had judged me from the moment she saw me. She had given me the same look most everyone else does. It's funny how someone marked and nicked with little white scars on her hands and arms and neck and legs can look down on me for having more of them. To be fair to - whatever her name was... - Darla- ...to be fair to Darla, and to everyone else, I do have lots and lots of little scars. I looked out to the window to my right at a lamp post that illuminated the darkened streets. This was as asleep as the city gets at night. I started my scar collection as a kid. My mother meant well and might've been a decent parent if she didn't spend her days swigging vodka. My dad was never in the picture. A military man, apparently, who had to move to a base in Europe before I was born, although looking back I'm sure that wasn't true. My mother, now she had a lot of scars. A scar for every time she was going to quit drinking and "do right by me." The first scar I remember scratching its way onto my skin was when I was probably four or five. My teacher had asked me if I was going to be ok. My mother hadn't come to pick me up which was a semi-frequent event, and I had gotten up to walk home - I lived a 20-minute walk or so away from the school so it wasn't a problem for me. He asked me if I was going to have dinner at home, and I lied. I told him we were having company over and my mom probably just lost track of time cooking this big meal for us all. I don't even know why I lied about it because it was a pointless lie, but I felt the sting on the back of my shoulder as the words left my lips. Over the years the lies I told people, the lies I told my mother created a tapestry of scar tissue across my body. Sometimes I just wanted to get away from the house and I'd tell her I was staying with a friend. The marks were inconsequential to me. I'm a journalist now - a failed one - there's no use lying to you. It's funny really because none of my scars ever came from anything I've ever written. I'm stupid; I use my lies on bullshit, instead of making money. I looked down at my coffee and heard Darla telling a couple large patrons at the counter that she was planning on going back to school soon. I wondered if she got a scar for that or if she really meant it. It didn't really matter to me. I'm not interested in the lies people tell others. That's easy. It's recorded in the history of your body like the rings of a tree and even though they fade over time, more will always take their place - we can't help ourselves. No, what interests me are the lies people tell themselves. When people put makeup over their scars to cover up as many as they can, do they look into the mirror and pretend they are honest? A bell rang as the door opened. I glanced to my left and saw a young man walk in. And I froze. "Go ahead and sit where you'd like," Darla yelled out cheerily. "I'll be with you in just a sec." The newcomer walked towards a back booth, and my eyes stayed fixed on him the entire time. His skin was unmarred by any scar or blemish. I had looked over his face and neck and forearms, and not a mark there was on them. Bullshit. Everyone lies. That is the only consistent truth I have ever known, and I've known that as far back as my memory extends. Everyone is a liar - that is a universal truth. It's the universal truth. I found myself rising out of my seat. My feet carried me towards the man in the back, quickening with each step. My heart pounded. "Let me see your arms," I managed to squeeze out as I gripped his arm and turned it. My voice was nervous. I quickly jumped to the other arms and hurriedly looked it over. I rubbed his arm spastically to remove any makeup - but there was nothing. I looked up at his face. His eyes were those of a deer's caught in a headlight. What I was doing was crazy, I knew that. I had grabbed a random stranger but he couldn't be this honest. It wasn't possible. "Where are your scars?" I demanded. He was still taken aback. "Where are they?" I repeated a little more forcefully. "I- what scars?" he stammered out. I felt a surge of anger rise up in me. "Where are your fucking scars!" I yelled at the man and grabbed his shirt at his shoulders. His shocked silence only made me angrier. In an instant, I whipped his shirt up and dumbfoundedly stepped back. The entire front of his torso was one giant mass of scarred flesh. "How are they all there?" I breathed out. "That can't be from one lie..." He looked hurt. "There was an accident," he said dejectedly. "Bullshit!" I shot back. That was a lie everyone with an exceptional scar tried to get away with. That it wasn't from a lie, but some physical injury instead. I'd heard that one before. Sometimes a new mark was worth keeping the truth in the dark. But there was no new mark. I scanned over his body. "How did that happen?" "It was an accident!" he retorted, anger now growing in his voice. "There was a fire in my building! People died...and I was lucky enough to only be left with this at the end of the night." I looked over his body and watched as no new scars carved their way in. He threw his shirt back down and was clearly angry now. I stepped backward. The diner was silent. I could feel everyone's eyes on me. The man I accosted threw some money on the table and slid out of his booth. He moved passed me and I watched as the only honest man I had ever known walked out of the door. I was brought crashing back down to reality. I glanced towards the counter and saw the two patrons and the waitress staring at me. I walked back to my table and left some money there before walking out the door. I made it a few steps down the sidewalk before my legs went weak. I sat down on the curb and cried. It was only six months later when I saw the man's face again. This time on the news. His name was Robert Lewis, and he had been arrested for arson. He had set a fire in his apartment building that apparently grew out of control and wound up killing six people and sending dozens more to the hospital. He had been found there lying in the smoke by first responders. But here's the kicker. He hadn't suffered any burns when they found him. That scar only appeared after he had been questioned about the fire by a couple other firefighters before the cops even spoke to him. It took them a couple weeks to realize what happened and then months to find the guy. Everyone is a liar. He was just better at telling half truths. Edit: Grammatical	It was the election day again. In a world where each lie meant a scar you knew who was going to be trustful. I saw Tony Monzana again. The last time I saw him in person was the last election day. Our old prime minister was going for a second round. He was about to start his political speech, he looked casual. He looked pretty clean for an average person, not many scars anywhere, brown hair and glasses. The usual. Just before he got to start the speech his doctor ran to him and asked something about a skin surgery. Tony asked him back "What fucking skin surgery, I have never had a skin surgery". He immeditially broke in half, which his doctors only replied to "Sigh... Politicians".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	It's a mad world Nowadays you are asked to take your clothes off in a job interview for god's sake, even in court in some countries, I mean come on sometimes you actually need to lie goddamnit sometimes it actually does some real good but it literally scars you for life... I have my fair number of scars, mostly very light ones , I can take my shirt off when I go to the beach without most of them showing , heck I can have sex with a girl and they won't notice most, the more necessary you felt that the lie was the better hidden the scar is, so most of mine are in addition to very light on ... convenient spots. I have scars on the back of my thighs, I have two behind my ears, I have some on my armpits . I once heard of a guy who had one on his penis , it turns out how you feel about the lie makes a huge difference in what scar it will leave you and where, just imagine that guy getting undressed in front of a woman , or man whatever he is into anyway. Well at least some girls say scars are sexy, or so I’ve heard. You do get used to it but still... I once had a pretty long conversation with a war veteran about scars , now that was scarring. He took he shirt off to show me his body he was FULL. I first noticed two bullets scars , didn't think I could recognize them but damn do they look different. The bullet scars though , they were nice compared to the rest , they were in battle defending his country but the rest of his body was more scar tissue than actual skin, there were spots where I couldn't even make out how many scars he had. They formed one big pile of butchered up skin. During our conversation I found out that he actually got all the visible scars he had on his upper body in a single week , he was taken as a prisoner of war and trust me , the only countries that actually give even a single flying fuck about the Geneva convention are the ones that have already won the war. Long story short , pretty much all the scars were from the lies he told trying to lead the enemies away while they were torturing him instead of giving them real information , it's mad how they can torture you into treachery without leaving a scar on your body. It is true though , EVERYONE breaks given enough time. The war veteran story is my go-to example on why we shouldn't judge people by their scars. There is a whole other story that I just can't get myself to tell. Too goddamn sad , well probably not so when you just hear it as a story but you were not there talking with him you did not see the sorrow and the chaos on his face. His name was George. In my country he have to serve in the military , mandatory service . The military of course is purely defensive and the service is easier than professional militaries naturally. George was pretty much the nicest guy we all knew , he would never even lie. There had been a few occasions where others were mad at him because he would tell our officers about anything they asked and being the military there were consequences , he really , actually never lied. We also noticed after a couple of months that even though most would get out of bath completely naked since we were only men, he would get in and out always wearing a t-shirt, and whenever he had to change his t-shirt without taking a bath he hid, went to the bathroom or was alone someway. We all wondered but we thought that he just lied without us noticing and wanted to hide his scars , all the others still believe that but I know. George and I became friends over time. We would go out for a drink , we would even go to the gym or for a run together sometimes. The park where we run was closer to his home so one day when it started raining he told me to come take a shower at his place, he'd lend me some clothes and drive me home. He let me get in to take a shower first. I got in finished my shower and got out, he went in right after me. Seconds after he got in I realized a left my shoes in the bathroom and I sweat a lot so my shoes get smelly so I wanted to get them to the balcony. Being used to it from my service, who we had both finished some months prior to that day, where we didn't really care if someone saw us naked I just opened the door and went in without knocking. God I wish I hadn't. I saw George's back as he was getting in the shower, he just froze as he saw the awe in my face when I stared at his single scar, one single scar in the entirety of his body , it was a huge scar spanning diagonally on his whole back , it was so large it reminded me of video game characters , and so deep I thought it was see-through where the skin met the spine. I just looked at him and he knew, he got a look that was stuck in his face for the rest of the week and just said "Let me finish my shower and I'll explain". And so he finished , and so he explained , and so I was moved , then I processed what he said and I was devastated , and then I thought about it once more and I started to cry , then he let go and started to cry even more than I did. It was one of the saddest stories I had ever heard. Until you are 13-16 depending on the person you get no scars from lying, I mean come on who doesn’t lie as a kid. One day you wake up with an already fainted scar across your whole face which goes away in a day or two and that is how you know you now get scars from lying. So George was relatively lucky as he got his initiation scar a couple of weeks after he became sixteen. When George was 14 his mother got cancer. His 3 years younger sister got cancer too a year later, while his father had died in an accident when George was 9. His mother was given a 60% chance of getting rid of the cancer for good at the beginning with chemotherapy. She didn’t. A month after she learned that her cancer got too spread to be completely stopped, her daughter got cancer too. George said the doctor believed that his mother must have been exposed to radiation when pregnant with his sister else it was just a very tragic coincidence that they both got cancer in such a small time interval with his sister at such a young age. George’s mother stopped chemotherapy just before he became 15 since the doctor said it wouldn’t help anymore. His sister was never given much chance, a mere 10% that chemotherapy would even do anything. His mother couldn’t get out of bed just before George turned 16. At the same time the doctor told his sister that chemotherapy couldn’t do anything anymore and that she was giving her about another year and 6 to 8 months in a “good enough” health. Naturally George and his sister wanted their mother to die knowing her daughter at least would survive. So they thought they’d lie to her, tell her that her daughter was getting better. George learned how to do makeup and helped his sister so she would seem in good health no matter what happened. They told their mum that even though she had gotten past cancer she started paying attention to the details of life and that she wanted to start putting on make up to look better and her being 13 at the time her mother believed her. And so George kept lying, with a lie that started a few weeks after he got his first scar, he kept saying the same lie to his mother everyday. His mother got worse and so did his sister. His mother died 6 months after George got 16 years old, his sister one month after that, the doctor predicted wrong. The last two months that their mother was alive his sister couldn’t get out of bed and so every day he lied to his mother that his sister had to study , or that she didn’t get a very good grade on a test and didn’t want to disappoint her , or that she went out with friends whenever his mother asked why his sister didn't visit much. On the days his sister was feeling better she put on make-up, gathered all her strength and walked enough to go sit beside her mother’s bed. And so George kept lying so that his mother would die happy, every day for hours each day he lied to his dying mother that his dying sister was well, a few weeks before the end he told her that his sister had gotten fully rid of her tumor while his sister would faint trying to get up and see her mother. And George kept lying even the last few days when his mother could hardly see or talk and asked to see her daughter, so George said that she went abroad in a school program for students good in literature related subjects and she called him to relay her love for her mother to her, while she was in the hospital 20 meters away on the same floor, hanging on to life by a thread. Then his mother died and he couldn’t lie anymore, his sister died and he could hardly feel like he could live anymore. All that left him with one big scar, the same lie being told over and over and over again devastating him even more each time, killing him inside and out a bit more each time creating a scar that would never heal. Creating a scar that was bigger than anyone I and maybe anyone else living on this godforsaken planet has ever seen. Creating a scar that made every other evil, obstacle or problem seem redundant, turning George into the best person I had ever known, into the best person anyone that met him had ever known. It’s a mad world , and it’s mad to judge people by their scars , some carry them with sorrow , some with pride , some with regret some with happiness , some only need one , some have none , some can’t seem to get enough. . This is my first ever prompt , pretty much the first story i've ever written to be honest ( outside of school of course). Feedback is appreciated Also sorry if it got too sad too fast in the end I was listening to Tears in Heaven by Eric Clapton when I started writing , a very sad song who I only found out about yesterday, worth a listen. Edit: So I'm done with changes to the story , may edit in the future if I find any spelling or grammar mistakes	It was the election day again. In a world where each lie meant a scar you knew who was going to be trustful. I saw Tony Monzana again. The last time I saw him in person was the last election day. Our old prime minister was going for a second round. He was about to start his political speech, he looked casual. He looked pretty clean for an average person, not many scars anywhere, brown hair and glasses. The usual. Just before he got to start the speech his doctor ran to him and asked something about a skin surgery. Tony asked him back "What fucking skin surgery, I have never had a skin surgery". He immeditially broke in half, which his doctors only replied to "Sigh... Politicians".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	My deepest cut? Easy. Upper right hip, curving from almost my navel to my asscrack. It's an unusual, but fortunately concealed, spot for me; usually I'm an arm guy, so my parents always dressed me in tshirts, for conveniences sake when asking if I'd done my homework. You'd think they'd have figured it out, after I was held back a grade... But this chick. Now, I'm a man who knows what I like. Short, curly hair, sundresses, enough scars to show a wild side, few enough scars that I know I won't get a 'git-scar. Happened to one of my buddies once; after his girlfriend found out his "I'm not cheating on you" mark was hidden under his beard, she cut more than hair in taking it off. I told him dating a girl with skin textured like prairie grass was bad news, but he just couldn't resist the crazies. Birds of a feather, I suppose... But back to this girl. She had it all. The dress. The hair. The... scar. Some chicks hide them, some showcase them. She was a shower, and damn, did she have a lot to show. The dress had to be custom tailored, for it framed and flattered the deep colors of the scar along her back perfectly. But other than that... flawless. Already I longed to stroke her smooth arms, kiss her milky neck, lift up her already short dress... I approached, and distracted by the juxtaposition of beauty and destruction, went with the lamest, most common of openings. I gestured towards her. "That's quite the display. Is it 'git?" Her laughter, as expected, sounded like the tinkling of bells. "But of course it's legit!" she said. "It was a tragic accident..." she looked solemn, for a moment, as if getting lost in a painful memory, but then her smile, refreshing as a spring shower, returned. "Though of course, that might not be the case. After all, I only ever speak in lies."	It was the election day again. In a world where each lie meant a scar you knew who was going to be trustful. I saw Tony Monzana again. The last time I saw him in person was the last election day. Our old prime minister was going for a second round. He was about to start his political speech, he looked casual. He looked pretty clean for an average person, not many scars anywhere, brown hair and glasses. The usual. Just before he got to start the speech his doctor ran to him and asked something about a skin surgery. Tony asked him back "What fucking skin surgery, I have never had a skin surgery". He immeditially broke in half, which his doctors only replied to "Sigh... Politicians".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	They said we'd meet all kinds at university. I grew up in a small farming town and I can't tell you how right they were. With the recent election behind us, tensions were still high. The debates had been arduous. Should we deal with climate change via the solar route or reach out to newer frontiers of nuclear or wave power. I have to admit I was disappointed I missed the lottery for physics 570, which meant a free semester on one of the 17 lunar colonies, but if I was being honest with myself I knew my scores didn't merit more than a single ticket in the pool. I'd met several people who honestly believed we'd establish more than a foothold on mars, which I couldn't believe. I mean with the em drive version 4 we were pushing on to Europa, and water base station. Huge lead plates were already on the way with humans soon to follow. The abundance of food, advances in medicine, and lack of disease (thanks to vaccines and proper medication) meant I was honored to be taught English 104 by a professor that was alive when electric cars were just being invented. But I never thought to meet a heretic. She was pretty, excepting the large red scar that marred her face and neck. Almost half an inch across and running from her forehead down her face, over her jaw, and disappearing under her shirt the scar was open red raw, proof she repeated the lie again. Not that any of had to ask what it was, with the thin golden cross hanging from her necklace. I stayed away from her, like the others, as I focused on my studies and where I wanted to take not only my life but the human race, out among the stars.	It was the election day again. In a world where each lie meant a scar you knew who was going to be trustful. I saw Tony Monzana again. The last time I saw him in person was the last election day. Our old prime minister was going for a second round. He was about to start his political speech, he looked casual. He looked pretty clean for an average person, not many scars anywhere, brown hair and glasses. The usual. Just before he got to start the speech his doctor ran to him and asked something about a skin surgery. Tony asked him back "What fucking skin surgery, I have never had a skin surgery". He immeditially broke in half, which his doctors only replied to "Sigh... Politicians".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	You want to know how I got these scars? Well, for one thing they aren’t ‘scars’, if you look closely you’ll see it’s one continuous scar that travels around my face, neck, down my body, all around wrapping itself around my arms, legs, fingers and toes. The only part of my body that isn’t scarred tissue is the inside of my body and even a bit of my mouth is still scarred. So the correct question you want to ask is how did I get this scar? Singular. Well, you know that old saying? About how a girl likes a guy with scars? It shows they’re a bad boy, that they kick a lot of ass or in my case lie. I didn’t kick anyone’s ass or get into a big crash, I lied. That’s pretty much what happened. I suppose you’ll want specifics. Well, years ago back when I was unblemished, face filled with pimples and a voice that didn’t quite want to go low I had a crush on a girl. A pretty girl, one that seemed to really like me with not a scar on her body as far as I could tell! So when she told me she loved me I believed her totally and without reservation. We went out, kissed and eventually I did find she had scars. I won’t share the details of how I found out but I’m sure your imagination can fill in the blanks. Anyways, her scars, they were here and there. Small ones mostly with two or three medium sized ones. I asked her about them and she told me she didn’t want to talk about them. She seemed ashamed. I wanted to tell her that she was human, that everyone had scars. Then she looked at me and asked if I had any? Well, I didn’t but I didn’t want her to feel bad so I said yes. Next thing I knew I felt something scratch my arm and there it was. A scar. Now that should’ve been the end of that but here’s the weird thing. It then sorta vanished. Then came back twice as bad as it realized I was sorta telling the truth but lying at the same time. It couldn’t decide what to do. So it just kept going. So here I was with my girlfriend in front of me with my eyes wide in horror as the scar kept scratching me, fading and growing again. By the time it all stopped I was still screaming. Honestly I had no idea when I started. And now we’re married.	It was the election day again. In a world where each lie meant a scar you knew who was going to be trustful. I saw Tony Monzana again. The last time I saw him in person was the last election day. Our old prime minister was going for a second round. He was about to start his political speech, he looked casual. He looked pretty clean for an average person, not many scars anywhere, brown hair and glasses. The usual. Just before he got to start the speech his doctor ran to him and asked something about a skin surgery. Tony asked him back "What fucking skin surgery, I have never had a skin surgery". He immeditially broke in half, which his doctors only replied to "Sigh... Politicians".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	The subway rattled it's syncopated song, barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum. About twenty lonely people swayed back and forth in harmony within the car. There are usually a few homeless people at this hour. One typically sat in the far back corner, asleep. But tonight there was just a guy with puffy eyes in a white tee shirt with sleeves that came to around the middle of his bicep. He was thin, but not sickeningly so, moderately handsome, and utterly defeated judging by his posture. His most striking feature of all was a newly formed slash down his forearm. The largest I've ever seen, by far. Still wet, they would say. His second most striking feature was the absence of any other scars. Now usually, you get at least a few scars growing up. It's kind of like touching a burner as a kid. You just have to learn from experience. You might tell a fib at school about homework, and pets that have suddenly acquired an appetite for homework, and you collect a few scars along the way. I sure as hell did at least. But this guy had to have made it all the way here, in New York City of all places, without telling a single lie. Well, until today. I was intrigued. I mean, how could you not be? He was Mother-freaking-Teresa, but even she probably failed to disclose the secret location of her breadbasket base every now and then. "Dantooine...they're all on Dantooine," she might have said. I approached, with caution. I recognize this was selfish of me, but maybe the guy needed someone to talk to. "Hey, man. You doing ok?" I said, conveying empathy the best my socially awkward self could manage. "Yeah," the kid, who I just realized was only about 26, if that, said with such brevity that he may as well said nothing at all. "Look, I don't usually intrude on people's private affairs. It's just, usually a homeless guy who goes by Squirrel sits where you are now and I don't think the strongest constitution in the bowel department, if you get my meaning." The kid smiled at least, wiping his right eye with his scarless forearm, and moved to the bench seat next to where I was standing. "I'm John," he said. "Hi John, it's a pleasure. I'm Matt." I sat down next to him. "Maybe if you tell me about your day, you will be distracted enough to forget it." "I guess we aren't really going anywhere, are we." The doors to the subway car opened to dump out about half its contents. Those left in the car were otherwise enthralled in their phones or their headphones. "How many more stops do you have?" "Twelve." "Me too." He looked around the car, as the doors closed and the car lurched forward with the same barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum. I guess he adjudged the car private enough, so he began his story. It all started with a girl. Imagine that. "Ah, to be young again," I thought. Brown hair, decent looks, and smart, he said. He had dated her for four years. They had graduated college together, fallen in love, and moved in to a too-small-but-hey-we-are-achieving-our-dreams-and-living-in-the-big-city-oh-look-a-dead-rat-its-nothing-we-will-get-used-to-it apartment. They even got one of those stupid plant holders that hang out of window sills. You know the ones that kill about eight people a year in a city like the Big Apple. John had been the perfect boyfriend to Sally. He got her cute gifts that were within his budget, but not too within his budget, and he was nice to all of her friends. He even took her to a Giants game or two. Hell, he even ended up on the big screen for a kiss that ended up being televised on WFAN because of the quirky way he tossed the popcorn aside and did one of those "back from the war" kisses. They even got engaged. But last year, Sally was diagnosed with a cognitive disorder that changed her behavior. Sally was never the same again. She had flashes of anger, where she would insult John and his family. She would talk of other guys she had been with in the past, when she never did that before. She would even compare John to other guys that they had been around, telling him why they were better than him. This went on for a year. She demeaned him to the point of no return, yet he remained there with her. John kept her medication in order and cooked for her, because processes were lost at that point. After Sally lost control of her colon he cleaned their Murphy Bed in their too-small-but-hey-we-are-achieving-our-dreams-and-living-in-the-big-city-oh-look-a-dead-rat-its-nothing-we-will-get-used-to-it apartment. He sat with her in the hospital for two weeks and lost his accounting job due to it. He was there today when she died. Sally had looked up at him within her last hour and said she remembered the day they watched a dog in Central Park on a long leash literally wrap its owner up "101 Dalmatians" style and drag him a few yards. They laughed aloud, heads back like Peanuts characters, like they had many times before Sally became ill. She looked up at John, with tears welling in her eyes. For a brief moment, the old Sally was there. "I love you," she said. "I love you, too," he replied.	It was the election day again. In a world where each lie meant a scar you knew who was going to be trustful. I saw Tony Monzana again. The last time I saw him in person was the last election day. Our old prime minister was going for a second round. He was about to start his political speech, he looked casual. He looked pretty clean for an average person, not many scars anywhere, brown hair and glasses. The usual. Just before he got to start the speech his doctor ran to him and asked something about a skin surgery. Tony asked him back "What fucking skin surgery, I have never had a skin surgery". He immeditially broke in half, which his doctors only replied to "Sigh... Politicians".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I pass the open door of my favourite cafe, a warm plume of caramel scented air greets me, inviting me and pulling me off the cold winter street. I let myself get carried over to the bar, expecting to see the usual waiter; a burly man in his 40s wearing the usual faded suit jacket and dark jeans. As I look up, my breath is plucked from my lungs. I aren't greeted by the thinning blond hair and piercing blue eyes I expected, but a girl. Soft hair, brown and untamed cascaded over her shoulders on to the pristine white shirt and onto her bust. Everything seems to be in slow motion as my eyes trace every contour and shape of her body in detail. Unlike me, or any of the other customers, who's hands are littered with small flecks of white, which was the cost of keeping face in today's society, she was completely pure. From her head to her toes, not a single blemish on her silk skin. She is the definition of beautiful. Her delicate, porcelain hands clasped together in front of that short black dress, which is formal but still very attractive. Green eyes flicked up with a look of coy and curiosity as a faint smile worked it's way onto her soft peach lips. I blush. Her voice resonated into my mind, cutting off my thought. Matching her appearance, her words are softly spoken and sweet. The type of voice that reminds you of home. "Hi, my name's Mei. What are you ordering today, sir" she asks with enthusiasm. "Uh... a.." I fumble through my speech like a nervous child on his first day of school "A number 7 please" I falter for a moment after realizing my mistake. There is no number 7 on the menu. As soon as the words leave me, her eyes narrow. The persona of before has left her and now, all I can think of is danger. She asks me to follow her in a quick and monotone voice. That voice reminded me of a killer. Her speech and her walking pattern, as she walks through to a separate room is ruthless and efficient. No wasted movement. I follow nervously, almost tripping over myself and take a seat opposite her in the exquisitely decorated room I now find myself in. A square table, wooden and stained dark, separates us. "So Mr.. Hudson. You requested a model 23, complete organ transplants. You've transferred 14 million, half of the payment and were ready to begin." I don't understand. I'm panicking. Did she just say organ transplant? I desperately try to think of a way out of this situation but I'm distracted by the sight of Mei taking her formal shirt off to reveal a very thin, white top underneath. She looks so damn perfect. I've gained momentary relief from my panic just by the mere sight of her. That's when the real Mr Hudson walks in. He is very old and withered, covered in long, deep scars, spiralling across his body. He must be about 80, and he speaks with a dry, raspy voice. "I'm here to see Mei" he says almost innocently. Mei walks to meet him and that's when I see it. A huge, deep purple scar under the thin shirt she's wearing, swimming from the top of her neck all the way down to the small of her back, and then way past where I can see. She approaches him calmly whispers something in his ear. He raises and eyebrow and they both smile. My sense of danger kicks in again, and adrenaline starts to course through my veins. I get it now. "Now then sir, as you are probably aware, there has been a confusion between you and Mr Hudson here" she says gesturing to the old man with an open palm. She doesn't have to tell the truth like the rest of us. "Don't worry sir." She walks towards me with a smile. A smile of malice. That's not her body. "You're going to be just fine." She smiles as her green eyes turn cold and run through me. That's not her fucking body.	It was the election day again. In a world where each lie meant a scar you knew who was going to be trustful. I saw Tony Monzana again. The last time I saw him in person was the last election day. Our old prime minister was going for a second round. He was about to start his political speech, he looked casual. He looked pretty clean for an average person, not many scars anywhere, brown hair and glasses. The usual. Just before he got to start the speech his doctor ran to him and asked something about a skin surgery. Tony asked him back "What fucking skin surgery, I have never had a skin surgery". He immeditially broke in half, which his doctors only replied to "Sigh... Politicians".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I groan as I roll out of bed. Another day, trapped. Mom feeds me breakfast, smiling her usual smile as she talks about what the old ladies at church had been discussing. Heedless of the struggles going on in my head. I eat my eggs and bread in silence, trying to stay as small, as invisible as possible. I don’t say very much… perhaps that was why I didn’t have the usual scars that cover everyone else? I pass by the store on my way to school, making sure not to linger for too long, not let my brother get suspicious. I stare wistfully at the dresses and necklaces, so elegant and pretty. But my parents would never let me have such things. I glance down at my jeans and sweatshirt, hating how it made me appear masculine. My own body, betraying me. School passed by in a blur, like most days. My brother runs ahead, laughing as he bounds into our house without a care in the world. How nice it must be, to be born into the body you want. Father smiles at me, asks me the same question he’s asked every day since I started school. I noticed the scar that first night he asked, on my back as I took off my shirt to shower. It was the biggest I’d ever seen. I’ve never taken off my shirt in front of my family ever since. “Hey, kid! How’s life treating ya?” I pause, for a brief moment. “Fine, dad. I’m fine.”	It was the election day again. In a world where each lie meant a scar you knew who was going to be trustful. I saw Tony Monzana again. The last time I saw him in person was the last election day. Our old prime minister was going for a second round. He was about to start his political speech, he looked casual. He looked pretty clean for an average person, not many scars anywhere, brown hair and glasses. The usual. Just before he got to start the speech his doctor ran to him and asked something about a skin surgery. Tony asked him back "What fucking skin surgery, I have never had a skin surgery". He immeditially broke in half, which his doctors only replied to "Sigh... Politicians".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	The scar - singular, I must highlight - was so horrific, so deep, and so... extensive... It's either one huge lie, or... I had to look away as I realised I could take a full anatomy lesson just by looking at him naked. "I'm a software engineer, IT guy, and all round tech-guru," he murmured. "I keep skipping reading the sodding Terms and Conditions."	It was the election day again. In a world where each lie meant a scar you knew who was going to be trustful. I saw Tony Monzana again. The last time I saw him in person was the last election day. Our old prime minister was going for a second round. He was about to start his political speech, he looked casual. He looked pretty clean for an average person, not many scars anywhere, brown hair and glasses. The usual. Just before he got to start the speech his doctor ran to him and asked something about a skin surgery. Tony asked him back "What fucking skin surgery, I have never had a skin surgery". He immeditially broke in half, which his doctors only replied to "Sigh... Politicians".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I had always been comfortable with my scars. Thin silver and white lines were strewn across my skin, but they were small enough that you could only see them if you were standing close to me. I tried my best not to lie to others, but sometimes there was an option worse than deception. My chemistry lab partner from my freshman year of college had flawless skin. He often seemed distant or tired, but he was kind, hardworking, and by the looks of his skin, incredibly honest. I had never seen anyone like him and was instantly intrigued. Between classwork, study sessions, and late night pizza runs, I found myself falling in love with him. When I asked him if he would ever give me a chance, he said yes. My eyes glanced over his skin to gauge his honesty, but alas, no scars appeared. Before long, that man was my husband. Mark was never close to his family and focused all his energy on me and making sure that we had an amazing life together. In his vows he told me he would always love me and that I brought a new light to his life. On our honeymoon, his skin was still as flawless as the day he was born, and I knew that he meant every word. One day I was fixing dinner for Mark and myself. He stepped through the front door after a long day of work and I rushed into his arms to kiss him and ask about his day. He set down his briefcase, loosened his tie, and sighed. "What's wrong baby?" I asked. With sad eyes, he ever so slightly lifted his head to look at me and mumbled "My father died." I had never met Mark's father. His parents divorced when he was young, and Mark had a spotty relationship with his father after the divorce. I wasn't sure how deeply this news was affecting my husband, but I grabbed his hand and stretched up to my tip toes to kiss his forehead. Using my free hand to lift up his chin, I looked into Mark's once brilliantly bright eyes and told him I would do whatever he needed me to do. Six days later, I tightened the tie Mark asked me to pick out for him. I slipped on my heels and told Mark that I would be right beside him as he said his final goodbyes to his father. He chose not to speak at the funeral, but before he left he placed one hand on the casket, closed his eyes, and whispered "I love you, Dad." That night, I climbed into the shower with Mark to hold him close and comfort him. Sprawled across Mark's back was the longest, deepest scar I had ever seen. My husband's skin had been flawless that morning, and the only thing he had said all day was that he had loved his father. Concerned, I called Mark's mother the next day while Mark was at work. It took some encouraging, but his mom finally spilled the only secret Mark had ever kept from me. "Hannah, Mark had an older sister. When Mark's father and I divorced, Mark stayed with me and his sister moved in with her dad. When Mark was 11, his dad was driving his sister to a friend's birthday party....only he was drunk. He ran a red light and a car crossing the intersection crashed into the passenger side of the car, killing Mark's sister. I don't think Mark ever saw his father sober after that, and he never fully forgave him." Disbelieving, I thanked Mark's mother for her time and hung up. I never mentioned the conversation or the new scar to Mark, but I held him a little tighter and kissed him a little longer that night. His skin would never be flawless again, but to me he was still perfect.	It was the election day again. In a world where each lie meant a scar you knew who was going to be trustful. I saw Tony Monzana again. The last time I saw him in person was the last election day. Our old prime minister was going for a second round. He was about to start his political speech, he looked casual. He looked pretty clean for an average person, not many scars anywhere, brown hair and glasses. The usual. Just before he got to start the speech his doctor ran to him and asked something about a skin surgery. Tony asked him back "What fucking skin surgery, I have never had a skin surgery". He immeditially broke in half, which his doctors only replied to "Sigh... Politicians".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I'd... I'd never seen anything like it. It went through her body to the other side. I've seen murderers and heavily experienced con-men with shallower scars. This was... shocking. The moonlight reflected from her fair, creamy skin as we walked. I looked for more lies, but I could find none. Only the deep one across her chest, the one she showed but never explained. Even the last Pope had two scars, albeit quite shallow. She swept her silky amber hair to the side and showed a faint smile. She seemed happy, but I was not. I couldn't focus. I needed to know her lie. I had to know, but I didn't want to drive her away. I tried the subtle approach, but I'm not too good with subtlety. "Would you like to know how I got these scars?" I asked, like the Joker after a five-month hospital regimen. My shyness was showing, but I'm not sure she picked up on it. "Sure, if you want to tell. As long as it doesn't make you uncomfortable." I pointed to the one on my forearm. That was a... memorable one, to say the least. "This was when I lied about smoking weed and having sex. I was a dumb teenager who was too dependant on what people thought of me. I wanted to be cool, but I was just a sheltered brat." "You're a little hard on yourself. We all make mistakes." Very inspiring, but almost hollow coming from her. I gestured to the deep one on my neck. "This was when I lied about setting our garage on fire. I was playing around with my dad's lighter when I dropped it on the floor. For some reason, there was gas leaking from the car. The fumes ignited. The whole thing went up in flames. I said it was an electrical problem." "How much was the damage?" "100K, including the price of a new car. That drained our savings." "Wow..." I finished on my final one, my third one. A very deep one on my stomach. This was my least favorite. "This was when I lied about checking on grandma when she called our house. I ignored the call and told my parents she was fine. She'd called... she'd called us to say she fell and broke her back on the bathtub... she died the next day... I just... I feel so much guilt... and I told my parents it wasn't my fault..." "I'm sorry... that's horrible." "It's fine. The experience lead me to stop lying. I haven't told a lie in over 10 years." "Me too." An awkward silence hung over us. Would she talk about the scar? Would she ignore it? No, no no no we're nearing her apartment. I gotta say something! "I have a question, but you don't have to answer it if it makes you uncomfortable." "Shoot." "How did you get that scar across your chest?" She chuckled a bit, as if amused by my question. "LARP accident. Some guy brought a real claymore sword. He cut through my foam armor and went straight through my midsection, almost took my upper half off. The doctors say it was a miracle I survived." It... it wasn't a lie? It was an accident? That's so... relieving! My word, here I was thinking-- wait, is that a new scar on her arm? She laughed an unconvincing laugh. "I-I wasn't lying, that was true! I'm not a murderer or anything!" Another scar popped up. And I ran. ***** I ran so far awaaaaaay. I just raaaaan, I ran all night and daaaaay. I couldn't get away! /r/Picklestasteg00d.	It was the election day again. In a world where each lie meant a scar you knew who was going to be trustful. I saw Tony Monzana again. The last time I saw him in person was the last election day. Our old prime minister was going for a second round. He was about to start his political speech, he looked casual. He looked pretty clean for an average person, not many scars anywhere, brown hair and glasses. The usual. Just before he got to start the speech his doctor ran to him and asked something about a skin surgery. Tony asked him back "What fucking skin surgery, I have never had a skin surgery". He immeditially broke in half, which his doctors only replied to "Sigh... Politicians".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	It was the middle of the January, one of the better times to lie if you had to. In the cold winter months, you could get away with hiding your secrets under an oversized, baggy sweater. There just enough snow in the air that to make the sky seem to sparkle, but it was nothing compared to the sparkle in her piercing green eyes when they first made contact with mine. I swear, it was love at first sight. Her hair was close cut, its raven black color a stark contrast to the white world which framed it. Her cheeks and nose had a splash of red from the cold. Fuzzy earmuffs, slightly oversized on her head, enveloped her ears. The cold steam of her breath escaped in short bursts from thin, pursed lips. She turned toward me a bit, wrapping her puffy red coat snugly around her body and drawing her arms over her chest for warmth. Skinny black jeans, the kind that showed off just enough of her curves, ran down into pristine white boots, the soles of which were almost obscured by the thin layer of snow on the ground. In short, she was perfect. Before I realized what I was doing, I hid my hands in my coat pockets self-consciously. I cursed myself for not having the foresight to wear gloves. Most of mine show up on my hands, and seeing all of them up front tends to give people the wrong first impression. See, the Scars have something of a twisted sense of humor. You tell a lie about some action you've taken, you get a scar on your arms or hands; tell a lie about somewhere you've been, you get a scar on your legs or feet; tell a lie about what you think, you get a scar somewhere on your head. Medical experts have been studying the scars for as far back as anyone can remember, but the best science can tell us is that they just... happen. For all science knows, the world could be home to legions of overly vigilant, painfully ironic fairies wielding pocket knives. Gathering my courage, I unzipped my coat and started walking in her direction. I nearly stopped myself and turned away a couple of times, but I'd promised myself long ago to always be truthful to my feelings. Nonetheless, I stalled awkwardly when I came close. Her green eyes watching me, the smell of her perfume drifting over to me, the cold wind blowing against my shirt... I took a deep breath. I probably looked like an idiot. But, now was not the time to panic. I laid my heart out on the line, in more ways than one. I told her she was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen, and that if she would allow me the opportunity, I wanted to take her somewhere special. That might seem a bit direct, but it helps your case a lot when a girl can simply watch your chest to see if your feelings are genuine. Sure enough, no bloodstain appeared. She looked down at the snowy ground, her cheeks growing even more red in the cold weather. "Alright," she said, her lips teasing into a slight smile. "What did you have in mind?" Good question. What did I have in mind? We ended up in a nearby restaurant, though I can't for the life of me remember how. I got really lucky is probably the best answer. As we took our seats in the booth, she took off her outer jacket, revealing a white sweater underneath. I didn't think anything of it at first. Slowly, as if unsure of herself, she unzipped the sweater too and pulled it down her arms, not fully off but not quite on either. Beneath it, she was wearing a rather tight shirt which revealed her slender arms and the fair skin of her midriff. I was caught completely off-guard by her drastic change of apparel. She shivered a bit and rubber her shoulders. I sat there speechless, transfixed by her beauty. Her skin was so... perfect. Not a single scar marred her arms, her stomach, her neck, or anything. I realized I must have been staring, and turned a way just a bit too quickly. "It's okay," she said softly, pulling her coat back on. "I wanted you to see that, since... I mean, you were so up front with me and... but not in a bad way, and... I guess I could've just told you outright..." She stared at the table a bit too pointedly. I smiled to myself. At least I wasn't the only one who was bad at this. ... That was three years ago, back when life was so much simpler. Back before the diagnosis, before the painful treatments which dragged on into weeks and then months. Before we learned about the cancer that was eating away, slowly but surely, at her brain. The doctors told us nothing could be done. They could treat her, give her drugs to ease the suffering and ultimately the transition, but she was never going to get better. They said she would be... gone... within a few months. I stared at them like a hawk as they spoke, scrutinizing every inch of skin as I processed each sentence, but no Scars came. It was the truth. We were both left to ask why it had to be her. She grew irritable and lashed out, though I could hardly blame her. They said it was pressing on her brain, altering her mood and her thoughts. I'm not ashamed to admit that I bawled my eyes out when I first heard the news. But I had to be strong, I had to keep going. I had to be a rock, no matter how hard that would be. As her time in the hospital grew, so did the doses they gave her. On one of her worse nights, I sat there with her as she tried to process all the built up frustration. I could see in her eyes that she didn't fully recognize me, a look I would never grow used to. With no other outlet, she turned it on me. "Why did this have to happen?" she suddenly screamed at me, choking back a sob. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "I... I hate you!" For a moment, neither of us said anything. We sat in near silence, interrupted only by the occasional sob. I watched her somberly, not daring to react. And that's when I saw it. A large pool of blood soaked into her hospital gown, just above her heart. The only Scar she would ever have. ... Thanks for reading! -ShutainzuGeito	We met at a bar one evening. She had a beer in her hand, something local on tap, about half-drained. We struck up some conversation - weather or sports or some such, I don't remember, small talk though. She made some passing comment about liking my ears, and I almost brushed it off as false praise - I think they stick out a bit too much - before I noticed her smooth skin; not a single scar visible. I had my own fair share of lies cut into my skin - most minor, a few major. Even the bigger ones I'd usually defend, outside of a big one on my arm. "I've been clean for a year!". Even so, that's the least regretful mistake from that part of my life - I'm proud to say I can say that line now without the scar growing larger. I got her name - Jane - and later, her number. We ended up setting up a date for the following weekend, and hit it off quickly. Similar interests - hiking, video games, cooking... Well, mostly same interests, anyway. I remember her coy smile when I said I liked her Coltrane collection, and a line of skin on my forearm darkened. Can't stand jazz, really. I thought for about a month that she was perfectly honest, until we went to bed together. Jane seemed reluctant to take off her shirt, but that same honesty that kept her skin smooth must have demanded she not cover up now - her bra came off, and across the inside of her left breast was the deepest scar that I've ever seen. It wasn't a discoloration like most scars - it was like a knotted rope was underneath the skin. It wasn't the sort of thing you can comment on lightly, but at the same time, it would be more conspicuous to ignore it. She was clearly distressed, waiting for my reaction. I wasn't sure what to say, but we were both naked at that point so there was no hoping that a lie would be covered up by clothing. "There's obviously a story here, and I'm curious, but... Right now, it's not important. I'm willing to wait until you're willing to tell me on your own terms" I said, and punctuated the sentence with a kiss. She ran a hand through my short hair, and the encounter continued naturally after that. But frankly the details are none of your business. It was another six months before I learned any more details about that scar of hers. We were quite serious by now, and I'd had plenty of opportunities to see it again at this point. Jane told me that her parents were going to be coming by for Thanksgiving, and that she wanted me to be there. Her face was strangely tense, and when I pressed for information, she just said that she didn't feel up for explaining. What could I say to that? So, I didn't press the issue, and waited for Thursday to roll around. Her parents showed up - her mother was a frumpy sort of woman, with a flowery dress, and her father was tall, but had a thick neck and a double chin. I was surprised the two of them could have produced such a beautiful daughter, but all the same I could see some resemblance, particularly in the eyes and nose. The first thing I heard her father say - before even "hello" - was right after he jerked a thumb in my direction. "Is this that friend of yours? She looks like a fucking dyke." Her mother agreed emphatically. I found myself dumbstruck, unable to respond. Jane laughed uncomfortably, but her father didn't seem to notice - he was sniffing the air. "Turkey's already on, eh? Surprised you haven't caught yourself a husband yet, with your cooking. Hah!" "No luck yet, but I'm sure I'll find one one of these days." Jane replied with a weak smile, clearly hiding a wince as the scar above her heart wrought its way deeper into her skin.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	It's a mad world Nowadays you are asked to take your clothes off in a job interview for god's sake, even in court in some countries, I mean come on sometimes you actually need to lie goddamnit sometimes it actually does some real good but it literally scars you for life... I have my fair number of scars, mostly very light ones , I can take my shirt off when I go to the beach without most of them showing , heck I can have sex with a girl and they won't notice most, the more necessary you felt that the lie was the better hidden the scar is, so most of mine are in addition to very light on ... convenient spots. I have scars on the back of my thighs, I have two behind my ears, I have some on my armpits . I once heard of a guy who had one on his penis , it turns out how you feel about the lie makes a huge difference in what scar it will leave you and where, just imagine that guy getting undressed in front of a woman , or man whatever he is into anyway. Well at least some girls say scars are sexy, or so I’ve heard. You do get used to it but still... I once had a pretty long conversation with a war veteran about scars , now that was scarring. He took he shirt off to show me his body he was FULL. I first noticed two bullets scars , didn't think I could recognize them but damn do they look different. The bullet scars though , they were nice compared to the rest , they were in battle defending his country but the rest of his body was more scar tissue than actual skin, there were spots where I couldn't even make out how many scars he had. They formed one big pile of butchered up skin. During our conversation I found out that he actually got all the visible scars he had on his upper body in a single week , he was taken as a prisoner of war and trust me , the only countries that actually give even a single flying fuck about the Geneva convention are the ones that have already won the war. Long story short , pretty much all the scars were from the lies he told trying to lead the enemies away while they were torturing him instead of giving them real information , it's mad how they can torture you into treachery without leaving a scar on your body. It is true though , EVERYONE breaks given enough time. The war veteran story is my go-to example on why we shouldn't judge people by their scars. There is a whole other story that I just can't get myself to tell. Too goddamn sad , well probably not so when you just hear it as a story but you were not there talking with him you did not see the sorrow and the chaos on his face. His name was George. In my country he have to serve in the military , mandatory service . The military of course is purely defensive and the service is easier than professional militaries naturally. George was pretty much the nicest guy we all knew , he would never even lie. There had been a few occasions where others were mad at him because he would tell our officers about anything they asked and being the military there were consequences , he really , actually never lied. We also noticed after a couple of months that even though most would get out of bath completely naked since we were only men, he would get in and out always wearing a t-shirt, and whenever he had to change his t-shirt without taking a bath he hid, went to the bathroom or was alone someway. We all wondered but we thought that he just lied without us noticing and wanted to hide his scars , all the others still believe that but I know. George and I became friends over time. We would go out for a drink , we would even go to the gym or for a run together sometimes. The park where we run was closer to his home so one day when it started raining he told me to come take a shower at his place, he'd lend me some clothes and drive me home. He let me get in to take a shower first. I got in finished my shower and got out, he went in right after me. Seconds after he got in I realized a left my shoes in the bathroom and I sweat a lot so my shoes get smelly so I wanted to get them to the balcony. Being used to it from my service, who we had both finished some months prior to that day, where we didn't really care if someone saw us naked I just opened the door and went in without knocking. God I wish I hadn't. I saw George's back as he was getting in the shower, he just froze as he saw the awe in my face when I stared at his single scar, one single scar in the entirety of his body , it was a huge scar spanning diagonally on his whole back , it was so large it reminded me of video game characters , and so deep I thought it was see-through where the skin met the spine. I just looked at him and he knew, he got a look that was stuck in his face for the rest of the week and just said "Let me finish my shower and I'll explain". And so he finished , and so he explained , and so I was moved , then I processed what he said and I was devastated , and then I thought about it once more and I started to cry , then he let go and started to cry even more than I did. It was one of the saddest stories I had ever heard. Until you are 13-16 depending on the person you get no scars from lying, I mean come on who doesn’t lie as a kid. One day you wake up with an already fainted scar across your whole face which goes away in a day or two and that is how you know you now get scars from lying. So George was relatively lucky as he got his initiation scar a couple of weeks after he became sixteen. When George was 14 his mother got cancer. His 3 years younger sister got cancer too a year later, while his father had died in an accident when George was 9. His mother was given a 60% chance of getting rid of the cancer for good at the beginning with chemotherapy. She didn’t. A month after she learned that her cancer got too spread to be completely stopped, her daughter got cancer too. George said the doctor believed that his mother must have been exposed to radiation when pregnant with his sister else it was just a very tragic coincidence that they both got cancer in such a small time interval with his sister at such a young age. George’s mother stopped chemotherapy just before he became 15 since the doctor said it wouldn’t help anymore. His sister was never given much chance, a mere 10% that chemotherapy would even do anything. His mother couldn’t get out of bed just before George turned 16. At the same time the doctor told his sister that chemotherapy couldn’t do anything anymore and that she was giving her about another year and 6 to 8 months in a “good enough” health. Naturally George and his sister wanted their mother to die knowing her daughter at least would survive. So they thought they’d lie to her, tell her that her daughter was getting better. George learned how to do makeup and helped his sister so she would seem in good health no matter what happened. They told their mum that even though she had gotten past cancer she started paying attention to the details of life and that she wanted to start putting on make up to look better and her being 13 at the time her mother believed her. And so George kept lying, with a lie that started a few weeks after he got his first scar, he kept saying the same lie to his mother everyday. His mother got worse and so did his sister. His mother died 6 months after George got 16 years old, his sister one month after that, the doctor predicted wrong. The last two months that their mother was alive his sister couldn’t get out of bed and so every day he lied to his mother that his sister had to study , or that she didn’t get a very good grade on a test and didn’t want to disappoint her , or that she went out with friends whenever his mother asked why his sister didn't visit much. On the days his sister was feeling better she put on make-up, gathered all her strength and walked enough to go sit beside her mother’s bed. And so George kept lying so that his mother would die happy, every day for hours each day he lied to his dying mother that his dying sister was well, a few weeks before the end he told her that his sister had gotten fully rid of her tumor while his sister would faint trying to get up and see her mother. And George kept lying even the last few days when his mother could hardly see or talk and asked to see her daughter, so George said that she went abroad in a school program for students good in literature related subjects and she called him to relay her love for her mother to her, while she was in the hospital 20 meters away on the same floor, hanging on to life by a thread. Then his mother died and he couldn’t lie anymore, his sister died and he could hardly feel like he could live anymore. All that left him with one big scar, the same lie being told over and over and over again devastating him even more each time, killing him inside and out a bit more each time creating a scar that would never heal. Creating a scar that was bigger than anyone I and maybe anyone else living on this godforsaken planet has ever seen. Creating a scar that made every other evil, obstacle or problem seem redundant, turning George into the best person I had ever known, into the best person anyone that met him had ever known. It’s a mad world , and it’s mad to judge people by their scars , some carry them with sorrow , some with pride , some with regret some with happiness , some only need one , some have none , some can’t seem to get enough. . This is my first ever prompt , pretty much the first story i've ever written to be honest ( outside of school of course). Feedback is appreciated Also sorry if it got too sad too fast in the end I was listening to Tears in Heaven by Eric Clapton when I started writing , a very sad song who I only found out about yesterday, worth a listen. Edit: So I'm done with changes to the story , may edit in the future if I find any spelling or grammar mistakes	We met at a bar one evening. She had a beer in her hand, something local on tap, about half-drained. We struck up some conversation - weather or sports or some such, I don't remember, small talk though. She made some passing comment about liking my ears, and I almost brushed it off as false praise - I think they stick out a bit too much - before I noticed her smooth skin; not a single scar visible. I had my own fair share of lies cut into my skin - most minor, a few major. Even the bigger ones I'd usually defend, outside of a big one on my arm. "I've been clean for a year!". Even so, that's the least regretful mistake from that part of my life - I'm proud to say I can say that line now without the scar growing larger. I got her name - Jane - and later, her number. We ended up setting up a date for the following weekend, and hit it off quickly. Similar interests - hiking, video games, cooking... Well, mostly same interests, anyway. I remember her coy smile when I said I liked her Coltrane collection, and a line of skin on my forearm darkened. Can't stand jazz, really. I thought for about a month that she was perfectly honest, until we went to bed together. Jane seemed reluctant to take off her shirt, but that same honesty that kept her skin smooth must have demanded she not cover up now - her bra came off, and across the inside of her left breast was the deepest scar that I've ever seen. It wasn't a discoloration like most scars - it was like a knotted rope was underneath the skin. It wasn't the sort of thing you can comment on lightly, but at the same time, it would be more conspicuous to ignore it. She was clearly distressed, waiting for my reaction. I wasn't sure what to say, but we were both naked at that point so there was no hoping that a lie would be covered up by clothing. "There's obviously a story here, and I'm curious, but... Right now, it's not important. I'm willing to wait until you're willing to tell me on your own terms" I said, and punctuated the sentence with a kiss. She ran a hand through my short hair, and the encounter continued naturally after that. But frankly the details are none of your business. It was another six months before I learned any more details about that scar of hers. We were quite serious by now, and I'd had plenty of opportunities to see it again at this point. Jane told me that her parents were going to be coming by for Thanksgiving, and that she wanted me to be there. Her face was strangely tense, and when I pressed for information, she just said that she didn't feel up for explaining. What could I say to that? So, I didn't press the issue, and waited for Thursday to roll around. Her parents showed up - her mother was a frumpy sort of woman, with a flowery dress, and her father was tall, but had a thick neck and a double chin. I was surprised the two of them could have produced such a beautiful daughter, but all the same I could see some resemblance, particularly in the eyes and nose. The first thing I heard her father say - before even "hello" - was right after he jerked a thumb in my direction. "Is this that friend of yours? She looks like a fucking dyke." Her mother agreed emphatically. I found myself dumbstruck, unable to respond. Jane laughed uncomfortably, but her father didn't seem to notice - he was sniffing the air. "Turkey's already on, eh? Surprised you haven't caught yourself a husband yet, with your cooking. Hah!" "No luck yet, but I'm sure I'll find one one of these days." Jane replied with a weak smile, clearly hiding a wince as the scar above her heart wrought its way deeper into her skin.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	"Anything else?" the waitress asked me, as she smacked a cup of coffee on the table somewhat carelessly. I think her name was Darla. I shook my head a bit and watched her saunter back to the counter out of the corner of my eye. I knew she had judged me from the moment she saw me. She had given me the same look most everyone else does. It's funny how someone marked and nicked with little white scars on her hands and arms and neck and legs can look down on me for having more of them. To be fair to - whatever her name was... - Darla- ...to be fair to Darla, and to everyone else, I do have lots and lots of little scars. I looked out to the window to my right at a lamp post that illuminated the darkened streets. This was as asleep as the city gets at night. I started my scar collection as a kid. My mother meant well and might've been a decent parent if she didn't spend her days swigging vodka. My dad was never in the picture. A military man, apparently, who had to move to a base in Europe before I was born, although looking back I'm sure that wasn't true. My mother, now she had a lot of scars. A scar for every time she was going to quit drinking and "do right by me." The first scar I remember scratching its way onto my skin was when I was probably four or five. My teacher had asked me if I was going to be ok. My mother hadn't come to pick me up which was a semi-frequent event, and I had gotten up to walk home - I lived a 20-minute walk or so away from the school so it wasn't a problem for me. He asked me if I was going to have dinner at home, and I lied. I told him we were having company over and my mom probably just lost track of time cooking this big meal for us all. I don't even know why I lied about it because it was a pointless lie, but I felt the sting on the back of my shoulder as the words left my lips. Over the years the lies I told people, the lies I told my mother created a tapestry of scar tissue across my body. Sometimes I just wanted to get away from the house and I'd tell her I was staying with a friend. The marks were inconsequential to me. I'm a journalist now - a failed one - there's no use lying to you. It's funny really because none of my scars ever came from anything I've ever written. I'm stupid; I use my lies on bullshit, instead of making money. I looked down at my coffee and heard Darla telling a couple large patrons at the counter that she was planning on going back to school soon. I wondered if she got a scar for that or if she really meant it. It didn't really matter to me. I'm not interested in the lies people tell others. That's easy. It's recorded in the history of your body like the rings of a tree and even though they fade over time, more will always take their place - we can't help ourselves. No, what interests me are the lies people tell themselves. When people put makeup over their scars to cover up as many as they can, do they look into the mirror and pretend they are honest? A bell rang as the door opened. I glanced to my left and saw a young man walk in. And I froze. "Go ahead and sit where you'd like," Darla yelled out cheerily. "I'll be with you in just a sec." The newcomer walked towards a back booth, and my eyes stayed fixed on him the entire time. His skin was unmarred by any scar or blemish. I had looked over his face and neck and forearms, and not a mark there was on them. Bullshit. Everyone lies. That is the only consistent truth I have ever known, and I've known that as far back as my memory extends. Everyone is a liar - that is a universal truth. It's the universal truth. I found myself rising out of my seat. My feet carried me towards the man in the back, quickening with each step. My heart pounded. "Let me see your arms," I managed to squeeze out as I gripped his arm and turned it. My voice was nervous. I quickly jumped to the other arms and hurriedly looked it over. I rubbed his arm spastically to remove any makeup - but there was nothing. I looked up at his face. His eyes were those of a deer's caught in a headlight. What I was doing was crazy, I knew that. I had grabbed a random stranger but he couldn't be this honest. It wasn't possible. "Where are your scars?" I demanded. He was still taken aback. "Where are they?" I repeated a little more forcefully. "I- what scars?" he stammered out. I felt a surge of anger rise up in me. "Where are your fucking scars!" I yelled at the man and grabbed his shirt at his shoulders. His shocked silence only made me angrier. In an instant, I whipped his shirt up and dumbfoundedly stepped back. The entire front of his torso was one giant mass of scarred flesh. "How are they all there?" I breathed out. "That can't be from one lie..." He looked hurt. "There was an accident," he said dejectedly. "Bullshit!" I shot back. That was a lie everyone with an exceptional scar tried to get away with. That it wasn't from a lie, but some physical injury instead. I'd heard that one before. Sometimes a new mark was worth keeping the truth in the dark. But there was no new mark. I scanned over his body. "How did that happen?" "It was an accident!" he retorted, anger now growing in his voice. "There was a fire in my building! People died...and I was lucky enough to only be left with this at the end of the night." I looked over his body and watched as no new scars carved their way in. He threw his shirt back down and was clearly angry now. I stepped backward. The diner was silent. I could feel everyone's eyes on me. The man I accosted threw some money on the table and slid out of his booth. He moved passed me and I watched as the only honest man I had ever known walked out of the door. I was brought crashing back down to reality. I glanced towards the counter and saw the two patrons and the waitress staring at me. I walked back to my table and left some money there before walking out the door. I made it a few steps down the sidewalk before my legs went weak. I sat down on the curb and cried. It was only six months later when I saw the man's face again. This time on the news. His name was Robert Lewis, and he had been arrested for arson. He had set a fire in his apartment building that apparently grew out of control and wound up killing six people and sending dozens more to the hospital. He had been found there lying in the smoke by first responders. But here's the kicker. He hadn't suffered any burns when they found him. That scar only appeared after he had been questioned about the fire by a couple other firefighters before the cops even spoke to him. It took them a couple weeks to realize what happened and then months to find the guy. Everyone is a liar. He was just better at telling half truths. Edit: Grammatical	"Hey, how'd you get that scar?" "Told my parents that I brushed my teeth." "You are such a liar! That's way too big for that!" "Yea. I'm a liar, duh."
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	It's a mad world Nowadays you are asked to take your clothes off in a job interview for god's sake, even in court in some countries, I mean come on sometimes you actually need to lie goddamnit sometimes it actually does some real good but it literally scars you for life... I have my fair number of scars, mostly very light ones , I can take my shirt off when I go to the beach without most of them showing , heck I can have sex with a girl and they won't notice most, the more necessary you felt that the lie was the better hidden the scar is, so most of mine are in addition to very light on ... convenient spots. I have scars on the back of my thighs, I have two behind my ears, I have some on my armpits . I once heard of a guy who had one on his penis , it turns out how you feel about the lie makes a huge difference in what scar it will leave you and where, just imagine that guy getting undressed in front of a woman , or man whatever he is into anyway. Well at least some girls say scars are sexy, or so I’ve heard. You do get used to it but still... I once had a pretty long conversation with a war veteran about scars , now that was scarring. He took he shirt off to show me his body he was FULL. I first noticed two bullets scars , didn't think I could recognize them but damn do they look different. The bullet scars though , they were nice compared to the rest , they were in battle defending his country but the rest of his body was more scar tissue than actual skin, there were spots where I couldn't even make out how many scars he had. They formed one big pile of butchered up skin. During our conversation I found out that he actually got all the visible scars he had on his upper body in a single week , he was taken as a prisoner of war and trust me , the only countries that actually give even a single flying fuck about the Geneva convention are the ones that have already won the war. Long story short , pretty much all the scars were from the lies he told trying to lead the enemies away while they were torturing him instead of giving them real information , it's mad how they can torture you into treachery without leaving a scar on your body. It is true though , EVERYONE breaks given enough time. The war veteran story is my go-to example on why we shouldn't judge people by their scars. There is a whole other story that I just can't get myself to tell. Too goddamn sad , well probably not so when you just hear it as a story but you were not there talking with him you did not see the sorrow and the chaos on his face. His name was George. In my country he have to serve in the military , mandatory service . The military of course is purely defensive and the service is easier than professional militaries naturally. George was pretty much the nicest guy we all knew , he would never even lie. There had been a few occasions where others were mad at him because he would tell our officers about anything they asked and being the military there were consequences , he really , actually never lied. We also noticed after a couple of months that even though most would get out of bath completely naked since we were only men, he would get in and out always wearing a t-shirt, and whenever he had to change his t-shirt without taking a bath he hid, went to the bathroom or was alone someway. We all wondered but we thought that he just lied without us noticing and wanted to hide his scars , all the others still believe that but I know. George and I became friends over time. We would go out for a drink , we would even go to the gym or for a run together sometimes. The park where we run was closer to his home so one day when it started raining he told me to come take a shower at his place, he'd lend me some clothes and drive me home. He let me get in to take a shower first. I got in finished my shower and got out, he went in right after me. Seconds after he got in I realized a left my shoes in the bathroom and I sweat a lot so my shoes get smelly so I wanted to get them to the balcony. Being used to it from my service, who we had both finished some months prior to that day, where we didn't really care if someone saw us naked I just opened the door and went in without knocking. God I wish I hadn't. I saw George's back as he was getting in the shower, he just froze as he saw the awe in my face when I stared at his single scar, one single scar in the entirety of his body , it was a huge scar spanning diagonally on his whole back , it was so large it reminded me of video game characters , and so deep I thought it was see-through where the skin met the spine. I just looked at him and he knew, he got a look that was stuck in his face for the rest of the week and just said "Let me finish my shower and I'll explain". And so he finished , and so he explained , and so I was moved , then I processed what he said and I was devastated , and then I thought about it once more and I started to cry , then he let go and started to cry even more than I did. It was one of the saddest stories I had ever heard. Until you are 13-16 depending on the person you get no scars from lying, I mean come on who doesn’t lie as a kid. One day you wake up with an already fainted scar across your whole face which goes away in a day or two and that is how you know you now get scars from lying. So George was relatively lucky as he got his initiation scar a couple of weeks after he became sixteen. When George was 14 his mother got cancer. His 3 years younger sister got cancer too a year later, while his father had died in an accident when George was 9. His mother was given a 60% chance of getting rid of the cancer for good at the beginning with chemotherapy. She didn’t. A month after she learned that her cancer got too spread to be completely stopped, her daughter got cancer too. George said the doctor believed that his mother must have been exposed to radiation when pregnant with his sister else it was just a very tragic coincidence that they both got cancer in such a small time interval with his sister at such a young age. George’s mother stopped chemotherapy just before he became 15 since the doctor said it wouldn’t help anymore. His sister was never given much chance, a mere 10% that chemotherapy would even do anything. His mother couldn’t get out of bed just before George turned 16. At the same time the doctor told his sister that chemotherapy couldn’t do anything anymore and that she was giving her about another year and 6 to 8 months in a “good enough” health. Naturally George and his sister wanted their mother to die knowing her daughter at least would survive. So they thought they’d lie to her, tell her that her daughter was getting better. George learned how to do makeup and helped his sister so she would seem in good health no matter what happened. They told their mum that even though she had gotten past cancer she started paying attention to the details of life and that she wanted to start putting on make up to look better and her being 13 at the time her mother believed her. And so George kept lying, with a lie that started a few weeks after he got his first scar, he kept saying the same lie to his mother everyday. His mother got worse and so did his sister. His mother died 6 months after George got 16 years old, his sister one month after that, the doctor predicted wrong. The last two months that their mother was alive his sister couldn’t get out of bed and so every day he lied to his mother that his sister had to study , or that she didn’t get a very good grade on a test and didn’t want to disappoint her , or that she went out with friends whenever his mother asked why his sister didn't visit much. On the days his sister was feeling better she put on make-up, gathered all her strength and walked enough to go sit beside her mother’s bed. And so George kept lying so that his mother would die happy, every day for hours each day he lied to his dying mother that his dying sister was well, a few weeks before the end he told her that his sister had gotten fully rid of her tumor while his sister would faint trying to get up and see her mother. And George kept lying even the last few days when his mother could hardly see or talk and asked to see her daughter, so George said that she went abroad in a school program for students good in literature related subjects and she called him to relay her love for her mother to her, while she was in the hospital 20 meters away on the same floor, hanging on to life by a thread. Then his mother died and he couldn’t lie anymore, his sister died and he could hardly feel like he could live anymore. All that left him with one big scar, the same lie being told over and over and over again devastating him even more each time, killing him inside and out a bit more each time creating a scar that would never heal. Creating a scar that was bigger than anyone I and maybe anyone else living on this godforsaken planet has ever seen. Creating a scar that made every other evil, obstacle or problem seem redundant, turning George into the best person I had ever known, into the best person anyone that met him had ever known. It’s a mad world , and it’s mad to judge people by their scars , some carry them with sorrow , some with pride , some with regret some with happiness , some only need one , some have none , some can’t seem to get enough. . This is my first ever prompt , pretty much the first story i've ever written to be honest ( outside of school of course). Feedback is appreciated Also sorry if it got too sad too fast in the end I was listening to Tears in Heaven by Eric Clapton when I started writing , a very sad song who I only found out about yesterday, worth a listen. Edit: So I'm done with changes to the story , may edit in the future if I find any spelling or grammar mistakes	"Hey, how'd you get that scar?" "Told my parents that I brushed my teeth." "You are such a liar! That's way too big for that!" "Yea. I'm a liar, duh."
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	My deepest cut? Easy. Upper right hip, curving from almost my navel to my asscrack. It's an unusual, but fortunately concealed, spot for me; usually I'm an arm guy, so my parents always dressed me in tshirts, for conveniences sake when asking if I'd done my homework. You'd think they'd have figured it out, after I was held back a grade... But this chick. Now, I'm a man who knows what I like. Short, curly hair, sundresses, enough scars to show a wild side, few enough scars that I know I won't get a 'git-scar. Happened to one of my buddies once; after his girlfriend found out his "I'm not cheating on you" mark was hidden under his beard, she cut more than hair in taking it off. I told him dating a girl with skin textured like prairie grass was bad news, but he just couldn't resist the crazies. Birds of a feather, I suppose... But back to this girl. She had it all. The dress. The hair. The... scar. Some chicks hide them, some showcase them. She was a shower, and damn, did she have a lot to show. The dress had to be custom tailored, for it framed and flattered the deep colors of the scar along her back perfectly. But other than that... flawless. Already I longed to stroke her smooth arms, kiss her milky neck, lift up her already short dress... I approached, and distracted by the juxtaposition of beauty and destruction, went with the lamest, most common of openings. I gestured towards her. "That's quite the display. Is it 'git?" Her laughter, as expected, sounded like the tinkling of bells. "But of course it's legit!" she said. "It was a tragic accident..." she looked solemn, for a moment, as if getting lost in a painful memory, but then her smile, refreshing as a spring shower, returned. "Though of course, that might not be the case. After all, I only ever speak in lies."	"Hey, how'd you get that scar?" "Told my parents that I brushed my teeth." "You are such a liar! That's way too big for that!" "Yea. I'm a liar, duh."
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	You want to know how I got these scars? Well, for one thing they aren’t ‘scars’, if you look closely you’ll see it’s one continuous scar that travels around my face, neck, down my body, all around wrapping itself around my arms, legs, fingers and toes. The only part of my body that isn’t scarred tissue is the inside of my body and even a bit of my mouth is still scarred. So the correct question you want to ask is how did I get this scar? Singular. Well, you know that old saying? About how a girl likes a guy with scars? It shows they’re a bad boy, that they kick a lot of ass or in my case lie. I didn’t kick anyone’s ass or get into a big crash, I lied. That’s pretty much what happened. I suppose you’ll want specifics. Well, years ago back when I was unblemished, face filled with pimples and a voice that didn’t quite want to go low I had a crush on a girl. A pretty girl, one that seemed to really like me with not a scar on her body as far as I could tell! So when she told me she loved me I believed her totally and without reservation. We went out, kissed and eventually I did find she had scars. I won’t share the details of how I found out but I’m sure your imagination can fill in the blanks. Anyways, her scars, they were here and there. Small ones mostly with two or three medium sized ones. I asked her about them and she told me she didn’t want to talk about them. She seemed ashamed. I wanted to tell her that she was human, that everyone had scars. Then she looked at me and asked if I had any? Well, I didn’t but I didn’t want her to feel bad so I said yes. Next thing I knew I felt something scratch my arm and there it was. A scar. Now that should’ve been the end of that but here’s the weird thing. It then sorta vanished. Then came back twice as bad as it realized I was sorta telling the truth but lying at the same time. It couldn’t decide what to do. So it just kept going. So here I was with my girlfriend in front of me with my eyes wide in horror as the scar kept scratching me, fading and growing again. By the time it all stopped I was still screaming. Honestly I had no idea when I started. And now we’re married.	"Hey, how'd you get that scar?" "Told my parents that I brushed my teeth." "You are such a liar! That's way too big for that!" "Yea. I'm a liar, duh."
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	The subway rattled it's syncopated song, barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum. About twenty lonely people swayed back and forth in harmony within the car. There are usually a few homeless people at this hour. One typically sat in the far back corner, asleep. But tonight there was just a guy with puffy eyes in a white tee shirt with sleeves that came to around the middle of his bicep. He was thin, but not sickeningly so, moderately handsome, and utterly defeated judging by his posture. His most striking feature of all was a newly formed slash down his forearm. The largest I've ever seen, by far. Still wet, they would say. His second most striking feature was the absence of any other scars. Now usually, you get at least a few scars growing up. It's kind of like touching a burner as a kid. You just have to learn from experience. You might tell a fib at school about homework, and pets that have suddenly acquired an appetite for homework, and you collect a few scars along the way. I sure as hell did at least. But this guy had to have made it all the way here, in New York City of all places, without telling a single lie. Well, until today. I was intrigued. I mean, how could you not be? He was Mother-freaking-Teresa, but even she probably failed to disclose the secret location of her breadbasket base every now and then. "Dantooine...they're all on Dantooine," she might have said. I approached, with caution. I recognize this was selfish of me, but maybe the guy needed someone to talk to. "Hey, man. You doing ok?" I said, conveying empathy the best my socially awkward self could manage. "Yeah," the kid, who I just realized was only about 26, if that, said with such brevity that he may as well said nothing at all. "Look, I don't usually intrude on people's private affairs. It's just, usually a homeless guy who goes by Squirrel sits where you are now and I don't think the strongest constitution in the bowel department, if you get my meaning." The kid smiled at least, wiping his right eye with his scarless forearm, and moved to the bench seat next to where I was standing. "I'm John," he said. "Hi John, it's a pleasure. I'm Matt." I sat down next to him. "Maybe if you tell me about your day, you will be distracted enough to forget it." "I guess we aren't really going anywhere, are we." The doors to the subway car opened to dump out about half its contents. Those left in the car were otherwise enthralled in their phones or their headphones. "How many more stops do you have?" "Twelve." "Me too." He looked around the car, as the doors closed and the car lurched forward with the same barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum. I guess he adjudged the car private enough, so he began his story. It all started with a girl. Imagine that. "Ah, to be young again," I thought. Brown hair, decent looks, and smart, he said. He had dated her for four years. They had graduated college together, fallen in love, and moved in to a too-small-but-hey-we-are-achieving-our-dreams-and-living-in-the-big-city-oh-look-a-dead-rat-its-nothing-we-will-get-used-to-it apartment. They even got one of those stupid plant holders that hang out of window sills. You know the ones that kill about eight people a year in a city like the Big Apple. John had been the perfect boyfriend to Sally. He got her cute gifts that were within his budget, but not too within his budget, and he was nice to all of her friends. He even took her to a Giants game or two. Hell, he even ended up on the big screen for a kiss that ended up being televised on WFAN because of the quirky way he tossed the popcorn aside and did one of those "back from the war" kisses. They even got engaged. But last year, Sally was diagnosed with a cognitive disorder that changed her behavior. Sally was never the same again. She had flashes of anger, where she would insult John and his family. She would talk of other guys she had been with in the past, when she never did that before. She would even compare John to other guys that they had been around, telling him why they were better than him. This went on for a year. She demeaned him to the point of no return, yet he remained there with her. John kept her medication in order and cooked for her, because processes were lost at that point. After Sally lost control of her colon he cleaned their Murphy Bed in their too-small-but-hey-we-are-achieving-our-dreams-and-living-in-the-big-city-oh-look-a-dead-rat-its-nothing-we-will-get-used-to-it apartment. He sat with her in the hospital for two weeks and lost his accounting job due to it. He was there today when she died. Sally had looked up at him within her last hour and said she remembered the day they watched a dog in Central Park on a long leash literally wrap its owner up "101 Dalmatians" style and drag him a few yards. They laughed aloud, heads back like Peanuts characters, like they had many times before Sally became ill. She looked up at John, with tears welling in her eyes. For a brief moment, the old Sally was there. "I love you," she said. "I love you, too," he replied.	"Hey, how'd you get that scar?" "Told my parents that I brushed my teeth." "You are such a liar! That's way too big for that!" "Yea. I'm a liar, duh."
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	"Anything else?" the waitress asked me, as she smacked a cup of coffee on the table somewhat carelessly. I think her name was Darla. I shook my head a bit and watched her saunter back to the counter out of the corner of my eye. I knew she had judged me from the moment she saw me. She had given me the same look most everyone else does. It's funny how someone marked and nicked with little white scars on her hands and arms and neck and legs can look down on me for having more of them. To be fair to - whatever her name was... - Darla- ...to be fair to Darla, and to everyone else, I do have lots and lots of little scars. I looked out to the window to my right at a lamp post that illuminated the darkened streets. This was as asleep as the city gets at night. I started my scar collection as a kid. My mother meant well and might've been a decent parent if she didn't spend her days swigging vodka. My dad was never in the picture. A military man, apparently, who had to move to a base in Europe before I was born, although looking back I'm sure that wasn't true. My mother, now she had a lot of scars. A scar for every time she was going to quit drinking and "do right by me." The first scar I remember scratching its way onto my skin was when I was probably four or five. My teacher had asked me if I was going to be ok. My mother hadn't come to pick me up which was a semi-frequent event, and I had gotten up to walk home - I lived a 20-minute walk or so away from the school so it wasn't a problem for me. He asked me if I was going to have dinner at home, and I lied. I told him we were having company over and my mom probably just lost track of time cooking this big meal for us all. I don't even know why I lied about it because it was a pointless lie, but I felt the sting on the back of my shoulder as the words left my lips. Over the years the lies I told people, the lies I told my mother created a tapestry of scar tissue across my body. Sometimes I just wanted to get away from the house and I'd tell her I was staying with a friend. The marks were inconsequential to me. I'm a journalist now - a failed one - there's no use lying to you. It's funny really because none of my scars ever came from anything I've ever written. I'm stupid; I use my lies on bullshit, instead of making money. I looked down at my coffee and heard Darla telling a couple large patrons at the counter that she was planning on going back to school soon. I wondered if she got a scar for that or if she really meant it. It didn't really matter to me. I'm not interested in the lies people tell others. That's easy. It's recorded in the history of your body like the rings of a tree and even though they fade over time, more will always take their place - we can't help ourselves. No, what interests me are the lies people tell themselves. When people put makeup over their scars to cover up as many as they can, do they look into the mirror and pretend they are honest? A bell rang as the door opened. I glanced to my left and saw a young man walk in. And I froze. "Go ahead and sit where you'd like," Darla yelled out cheerily. "I'll be with you in just a sec." The newcomer walked towards a back booth, and my eyes stayed fixed on him the entire time. His skin was unmarred by any scar or blemish. I had looked over his face and neck and forearms, and not a mark there was on them. Bullshit. Everyone lies. That is the only consistent truth I have ever known, and I've known that as far back as my memory extends. Everyone is a liar - that is a universal truth. It's the universal truth. I found myself rising out of my seat. My feet carried me towards the man in the back, quickening with each step. My heart pounded. "Let me see your arms," I managed to squeeze out as I gripped his arm and turned it. My voice was nervous. I quickly jumped to the other arms and hurriedly looked it over. I rubbed his arm spastically to remove any makeup - but there was nothing. I looked up at his face. His eyes were those of a deer's caught in a headlight. What I was doing was crazy, I knew that. I had grabbed a random stranger but he couldn't be this honest. It wasn't possible. "Where are your scars?" I demanded. He was still taken aback. "Where are they?" I repeated a little more forcefully. "I- what scars?" he stammered out. I felt a surge of anger rise up in me. "Where are your fucking scars!" I yelled at the man and grabbed his shirt at his shoulders. His shocked silence only made me angrier. In an instant, I whipped his shirt up and dumbfoundedly stepped back. The entire front of his torso was one giant mass of scarred flesh. "How are they all there?" I breathed out. "That can't be from one lie..." He looked hurt. "There was an accident," he said dejectedly. "Bullshit!" I shot back. That was a lie everyone with an exceptional scar tried to get away with. That it wasn't from a lie, but some physical injury instead. I'd heard that one before. Sometimes a new mark was worth keeping the truth in the dark. But there was no new mark. I scanned over his body. "How did that happen?" "It was an accident!" he retorted, anger now growing in his voice. "There was a fire in my building! People died...and I was lucky enough to only be left with this at the end of the night." I looked over his body and watched as no new scars carved their way in. He threw his shirt back down and was clearly angry now. I stepped backward. The diner was silent. I could feel everyone's eyes on me. The man I accosted threw some money on the table and slid out of his booth. He moved passed me and I watched as the only honest man I had ever known walked out of the door. I was brought crashing back down to reality. I glanced towards the counter and saw the two patrons and the waitress staring at me. I walked back to my table and left some money there before walking out the door. I made it a few steps down the sidewalk before my legs went weak. I sat down on the curb and cried. It was only six months later when I saw the man's face again. This time on the news. His name was Robert Lewis, and he had been arrested for arson. He had set a fire in his apartment building that apparently grew out of control and wound up killing six people and sending dozens more to the hospital. He had been found there lying in the smoke by first responders. But here's the kicker. He hadn't suffered any burns when they found him. That scar only appeared after he had been questioned about the fire by a couple other firefighters before the cops even spoke to him. It took them a couple weeks to realize what happened and then months to find the guy. Everyone is a liar. He was just better at telling half truths. Edit: Grammatical	My mind boiled over with thoughts, it raced with many theories and ideas as to what it could be. What did they do? What did they lie about? In this world, for some foresaken reason, god had betrayed his people. I knew lying was wrong, most of the time. But for me? Oh no, my mother taught me well, as would any mother would with the markings a lie would give you. You use your words and your mind. You think before you speak. You work your way around and at some point those markings mean nothing. Absolutely nothing. We all had minor scars, we all told small lies here and there, it was over looked most of the time. You would be given a look of embarrassment and there would be a certain quietness in the room. It would go over looked but everyone still knew when it happened: You lied. It was blunt. It was a strong odor no one could control. Scars all over our bodies, in odd places that surely made you wonder; Can I trust you? Trust? What was trust in this world? The ones, the pure ones, who had no markings were sat upon a throne. You were good. You were clean, pure, holy, and surly too good to be true. But the others? The others with deep scars that showed their past? That showed the history of their mouth and what they had to offer? It was too much, just the sight of a deep scar was a very dangerous thing to behold. You wouldn't be trusted, you simply wouldn't be. It was an automatic detection of you being filthy, a filthy liar. We would bathe ourselves as children, confessing our sins and screaming out for God to make the markings go away. We would scrub our bodies until they'd bleed. We would put on creams and makeup, just to make it disappear. But the lie would still remain, and you couldn't take it back. The guilt would make you go mad and the scar would stay forever as a reminder. When I laid eyes upon this man, this man with the biggest and most deepest scar I had ever seen, I was over the edge with desire to know. Frantically twitching and trying to ease my way into a conversation with the young male, my efforts seemed worthless as I could tell he knew, his blank facial expression made a statement to fuck off. Right before I took a breath and spared a few words, I dwelled in my cowardness and froze. "What do you want?" he asked. And at that moment, that exact moment, was when I got my biggest scar. "Nothing".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	It's a mad world Nowadays you are asked to take your clothes off in a job interview for god's sake, even in court in some countries, I mean come on sometimes you actually need to lie goddamnit sometimes it actually does some real good but it literally scars you for life... I have my fair number of scars, mostly very light ones , I can take my shirt off when I go to the beach without most of them showing , heck I can have sex with a girl and they won't notice most, the more necessary you felt that the lie was the better hidden the scar is, so most of mine are in addition to very light on ... convenient spots. I have scars on the back of my thighs, I have two behind my ears, I have some on my armpits . I once heard of a guy who had one on his penis , it turns out how you feel about the lie makes a huge difference in what scar it will leave you and where, just imagine that guy getting undressed in front of a woman , or man whatever he is into anyway. Well at least some girls say scars are sexy, or so I’ve heard. You do get used to it but still... I once had a pretty long conversation with a war veteran about scars , now that was scarring. He took he shirt off to show me his body he was FULL. I first noticed two bullets scars , didn't think I could recognize them but damn do they look different. The bullet scars though , they were nice compared to the rest , they were in battle defending his country but the rest of his body was more scar tissue than actual skin, there were spots where I couldn't even make out how many scars he had. They formed one big pile of butchered up skin. During our conversation I found out that he actually got all the visible scars he had on his upper body in a single week , he was taken as a prisoner of war and trust me , the only countries that actually give even a single flying fuck about the Geneva convention are the ones that have already won the war. Long story short , pretty much all the scars were from the lies he told trying to lead the enemies away while they were torturing him instead of giving them real information , it's mad how they can torture you into treachery without leaving a scar on your body. It is true though , EVERYONE breaks given enough time. The war veteran story is my go-to example on why we shouldn't judge people by their scars. There is a whole other story that I just can't get myself to tell. Too goddamn sad , well probably not so when you just hear it as a story but you were not there talking with him you did not see the sorrow and the chaos on his face. His name was George. In my country he have to serve in the military , mandatory service . The military of course is purely defensive and the service is easier than professional militaries naturally. George was pretty much the nicest guy we all knew , he would never even lie. There had been a few occasions where others were mad at him because he would tell our officers about anything they asked and being the military there were consequences , he really , actually never lied. We also noticed after a couple of months that even though most would get out of bath completely naked since we were only men, he would get in and out always wearing a t-shirt, and whenever he had to change his t-shirt without taking a bath he hid, went to the bathroom or was alone someway. We all wondered but we thought that he just lied without us noticing and wanted to hide his scars , all the others still believe that but I know. George and I became friends over time. We would go out for a drink , we would even go to the gym or for a run together sometimes. The park where we run was closer to his home so one day when it started raining he told me to come take a shower at his place, he'd lend me some clothes and drive me home. He let me get in to take a shower first. I got in finished my shower and got out, he went in right after me. Seconds after he got in I realized a left my shoes in the bathroom and I sweat a lot so my shoes get smelly so I wanted to get them to the balcony. Being used to it from my service, who we had both finished some months prior to that day, where we didn't really care if someone saw us naked I just opened the door and went in without knocking. God I wish I hadn't. I saw George's back as he was getting in the shower, he just froze as he saw the awe in my face when I stared at his single scar, one single scar in the entirety of his body , it was a huge scar spanning diagonally on his whole back , it was so large it reminded me of video game characters , and so deep I thought it was see-through where the skin met the spine. I just looked at him and he knew, he got a look that was stuck in his face for the rest of the week and just said "Let me finish my shower and I'll explain". And so he finished , and so he explained , and so I was moved , then I processed what he said and I was devastated , and then I thought about it once more and I started to cry , then he let go and started to cry even more than I did. It was one of the saddest stories I had ever heard. Until you are 13-16 depending on the person you get no scars from lying, I mean come on who doesn’t lie as a kid. One day you wake up with an already fainted scar across your whole face which goes away in a day or two and that is how you know you now get scars from lying. So George was relatively lucky as he got his initiation scar a couple of weeks after he became sixteen. When George was 14 his mother got cancer. His 3 years younger sister got cancer too a year later, while his father had died in an accident when George was 9. His mother was given a 60% chance of getting rid of the cancer for good at the beginning with chemotherapy. She didn’t. A month after she learned that her cancer got too spread to be completely stopped, her daughter got cancer too. George said the doctor believed that his mother must have been exposed to radiation when pregnant with his sister else it was just a very tragic coincidence that they both got cancer in such a small time interval with his sister at such a young age. George’s mother stopped chemotherapy just before he became 15 since the doctor said it wouldn’t help anymore. His sister was never given much chance, a mere 10% that chemotherapy would even do anything. His mother couldn’t get out of bed just before George turned 16. At the same time the doctor told his sister that chemotherapy couldn’t do anything anymore and that she was giving her about another year and 6 to 8 months in a “good enough” health. Naturally George and his sister wanted their mother to die knowing her daughter at least would survive. So they thought they’d lie to her, tell her that her daughter was getting better. George learned how to do makeup and helped his sister so she would seem in good health no matter what happened. They told their mum that even though she had gotten past cancer she started paying attention to the details of life and that she wanted to start putting on make up to look better and her being 13 at the time her mother believed her. And so George kept lying, with a lie that started a few weeks after he got his first scar, he kept saying the same lie to his mother everyday. His mother got worse and so did his sister. His mother died 6 months after George got 16 years old, his sister one month after that, the doctor predicted wrong. The last two months that their mother was alive his sister couldn’t get out of bed and so every day he lied to his mother that his sister had to study , or that she didn’t get a very good grade on a test and didn’t want to disappoint her , or that she went out with friends whenever his mother asked why his sister didn't visit much. On the days his sister was feeling better she put on make-up, gathered all her strength and walked enough to go sit beside her mother’s bed. And so George kept lying so that his mother would die happy, every day for hours each day he lied to his dying mother that his dying sister was well, a few weeks before the end he told her that his sister had gotten fully rid of her tumor while his sister would faint trying to get up and see her mother. And George kept lying even the last few days when his mother could hardly see or talk and asked to see her daughter, so George said that she went abroad in a school program for students good in literature related subjects and she called him to relay her love for her mother to her, while she was in the hospital 20 meters away on the same floor, hanging on to life by a thread. Then his mother died and he couldn’t lie anymore, his sister died and he could hardly feel like he could live anymore. All that left him with one big scar, the same lie being told over and over and over again devastating him even more each time, killing him inside and out a bit more each time creating a scar that would never heal. Creating a scar that was bigger than anyone I and maybe anyone else living on this godforsaken planet has ever seen. Creating a scar that made every other evil, obstacle or problem seem redundant, turning George into the best person I had ever known, into the best person anyone that met him had ever known. It’s a mad world , and it’s mad to judge people by their scars , some carry them with sorrow , some with pride , some with regret some with happiness , some only need one , some have none , some can’t seem to get enough. . This is my first ever prompt , pretty much the first story i've ever written to be honest ( outside of school of course). Feedback is appreciated Also sorry if it got too sad too fast in the end I was listening to Tears in Heaven by Eric Clapton when I started writing , a very sad song who I only found out about yesterday, worth a listen. Edit: So I'm done with changes to the story , may edit in the future if I find any spelling or grammar mistakes	My mind boiled over with thoughts, it raced with many theories and ideas as to what it could be. What did they do? What did they lie about? In this world, for some foresaken reason, god had betrayed his people. I knew lying was wrong, most of the time. But for me? Oh no, my mother taught me well, as would any mother would with the markings a lie would give you. You use your words and your mind. You think before you speak. You work your way around and at some point those markings mean nothing. Absolutely nothing. We all had minor scars, we all told small lies here and there, it was over looked most of the time. You would be given a look of embarrassment and there would be a certain quietness in the room. It would go over looked but everyone still knew when it happened: You lied. It was blunt. It was a strong odor no one could control. Scars all over our bodies, in odd places that surely made you wonder; Can I trust you? Trust? What was trust in this world? The ones, the pure ones, who had no markings were sat upon a throne. You were good. You were clean, pure, holy, and surly too good to be true. But the others? The others with deep scars that showed their past? That showed the history of their mouth and what they had to offer? It was too much, just the sight of a deep scar was a very dangerous thing to behold. You wouldn't be trusted, you simply wouldn't be. It was an automatic detection of you being filthy, a filthy liar. We would bathe ourselves as children, confessing our sins and screaming out for God to make the markings go away. We would scrub our bodies until they'd bleed. We would put on creams and makeup, just to make it disappear. But the lie would still remain, and you couldn't take it back. The guilt would make you go mad and the scar would stay forever as a reminder. When I laid eyes upon this man, this man with the biggest and most deepest scar I had ever seen, I was over the edge with desire to know. Frantically twitching and trying to ease my way into a conversation with the young male, my efforts seemed worthless as I could tell he knew, his blank facial expression made a statement to fuck off. Right before I took a breath and spared a few words, I dwelled in my cowardness and froze. "What do you want?" he asked. And at that moment, that exact moment, was when I got my biggest scar. "Nothing".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	You want to know how I got these scars? Well, for one thing they aren’t ‘scars’, if you look closely you’ll see it’s one continuous scar that travels around my face, neck, down my body, all around wrapping itself around my arms, legs, fingers and toes. The only part of my body that isn’t scarred tissue is the inside of my body and even a bit of my mouth is still scarred. So the correct question you want to ask is how did I get this scar? Singular. Well, you know that old saying? About how a girl likes a guy with scars? It shows they’re a bad boy, that they kick a lot of ass or in my case lie. I didn’t kick anyone’s ass or get into a big crash, I lied. That’s pretty much what happened. I suppose you’ll want specifics. Well, years ago back when I was unblemished, face filled with pimples and a voice that didn’t quite want to go low I had a crush on a girl. A pretty girl, one that seemed to really like me with not a scar on her body as far as I could tell! So when she told me she loved me I believed her totally and without reservation. We went out, kissed and eventually I did find she had scars. I won’t share the details of how I found out but I’m sure your imagination can fill in the blanks. Anyways, her scars, they were here and there. Small ones mostly with two or three medium sized ones. I asked her about them and she told me she didn’t want to talk about them. She seemed ashamed. I wanted to tell her that she was human, that everyone had scars. Then she looked at me and asked if I had any? Well, I didn’t but I didn’t want her to feel bad so I said yes. Next thing I knew I felt something scratch my arm and there it was. A scar. Now that should’ve been the end of that but here’s the weird thing. It then sorta vanished. Then came back twice as bad as it realized I was sorta telling the truth but lying at the same time. It couldn’t decide what to do. So it just kept going. So here I was with my girlfriend in front of me with my eyes wide in horror as the scar kept scratching me, fading and growing again. By the time it all stopped I was still screaming. Honestly I had no idea when I started. And now we’re married.	My mind boiled over with thoughts, it raced with many theories and ideas as to what it could be. What did they do? What did they lie about? In this world, for some foresaken reason, god had betrayed his people. I knew lying was wrong, most of the time. But for me? Oh no, my mother taught me well, as would any mother would with the markings a lie would give you. You use your words and your mind. You think before you speak. You work your way around and at some point those markings mean nothing. Absolutely nothing. We all had minor scars, we all told small lies here and there, it was over looked most of the time. You would be given a look of embarrassment and there would be a certain quietness in the room. It would go over looked but everyone still knew when it happened: You lied. It was blunt. It was a strong odor no one could control. Scars all over our bodies, in odd places that surely made you wonder; Can I trust you? Trust? What was trust in this world? The ones, the pure ones, who had no markings were sat upon a throne. You were good. You were clean, pure, holy, and surly too good to be true. But the others? The others with deep scars that showed their past? That showed the history of their mouth and what they had to offer? It was too much, just the sight of a deep scar was a very dangerous thing to behold. You wouldn't be trusted, you simply wouldn't be. It was an automatic detection of you being filthy, a filthy liar. We would bathe ourselves as children, confessing our sins and screaming out for God to make the markings go away. We would scrub our bodies until they'd bleed. We would put on creams and makeup, just to make it disappear. But the lie would still remain, and you couldn't take it back. The guilt would make you go mad and the scar would stay forever as a reminder. When I laid eyes upon this man, this man with the biggest and most deepest scar I had ever seen, I was over the edge with desire to know. Frantically twitching and trying to ease my way into a conversation with the young male, my efforts seemed worthless as I could tell he knew, his blank facial expression made a statement to fuck off. Right before I took a breath and spared a few words, I dwelled in my cowardness and froze. "What do you want?" he asked. And at that moment, that exact moment, was when I got my biggest scar. "Nothing".
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	It's a mad world Nowadays you are asked to take your clothes off in a job interview for god's sake, even in court in some countries, I mean come on sometimes you actually need to lie goddamnit sometimes it actually does some real good but it literally scars you for life... I have my fair number of scars, mostly very light ones , I can take my shirt off when I go to the beach without most of them showing , heck I can have sex with a girl and they won't notice most, the more necessary you felt that the lie was the better hidden the scar is, so most of mine are in addition to very light on ... convenient spots. I have scars on the back of my thighs, I have two behind my ears, I have some on my armpits . I once heard of a guy who had one on his penis , it turns out how you feel about the lie makes a huge difference in what scar it will leave you and where, just imagine that guy getting undressed in front of a woman , or man whatever he is into anyway. Well at least some girls say scars are sexy, or so I’ve heard. You do get used to it but still... I once had a pretty long conversation with a war veteran about scars , now that was scarring. He took he shirt off to show me his body he was FULL. I first noticed two bullets scars , didn't think I could recognize them but damn do they look different. The bullet scars though , they were nice compared to the rest , they were in battle defending his country but the rest of his body was more scar tissue than actual skin, there were spots where I couldn't even make out how many scars he had. They formed one big pile of butchered up skin. During our conversation I found out that he actually got all the visible scars he had on his upper body in a single week , he was taken as a prisoner of war and trust me , the only countries that actually give even a single flying fuck about the Geneva convention are the ones that have already won the war. Long story short , pretty much all the scars were from the lies he told trying to lead the enemies away while they were torturing him instead of giving them real information , it's mad how they can torture you into treachery without leaving a scar on your body. It is true though , EVERYONE breaks given enough time. The war veteran story is my go-to example on why we shouldn't judge people by their scars. There is a whole other story that I just can't get myself to tell. Too goddamn sad , well probably not so when you just hear it as a story but you were not there talking with him you did not see the sorrow and the chaos on his face. His name was George. In my country he have to serve in the military , mandatory service . The military of course is purely defensive and the service is easier than professional militaries naturally. George was pretty much the nicest guy we all knew , he would never even lie. There had been a few occasions where others were mad at him because he would tell our officers about anything they asked and being the military there were consequences , he really , actually never lied. We also noticed after a couple of months that even though most would get out of bath completely naked since we were only men, he would get in and out always wearing a t-shirt, and whenever he had to change his t-shirt without taking a bath he hid, went to the bathroom or was alone someway. We all wondered but we thought that he just lied without us noticing and wanted to hide his scars , all the others still believe that but I know. George and I became friends over time. We would go out for a drink , we would even go to the gym or for a run together sometimes. The park where we run was closer to his home so one day when it started raining he told me to come take a shower at his place, he'd lend me some clothes and drive me home. He let me get in to take a shower first. I got in finished my shower and got out, he went in right after me. Seconds after he got in I realized a left my shoes in the bathroom and I sweat a lot so my shoes get smelly so I wanted to get them to the balcony. Being used to it from my service, who we had both finished some months prior to that day, where we didn't really care if someone saw us naked I just opened the door and went in without knocking. God I wish I hadn't. I saw George's back as he was getting in the shower, he just froze as he saw the awe in my face when I stared at his single scar, one single scar in the entirety of his body , it was a huge scar spanning diagonally on his whole back , it was so large it reminded me of video game characters , and so deep I thought it was see-through where the skin met the spine. I just looked at him and he knew, he got a look that was stuck in his face for the rest of the week and just said "Let me finish my shower and I'll explain". And so he finished , and so he explained , and so I was moved , then I processed what he said and I was devastated , and then I thought about it once more and I started to cry , then he let go and started to cry even more than I did. It was one of the saddest stories I had ever heard. Until you are 13-16 depending on the person you get no scars from lying, I mean come on who doesn’t lie as a kid. One day you wake up with an already fainted scar across your whole face which goes away in a day or two and that is how you know you now get scars from lying. So George was relatively lucky as he got his initiation scar a couple of weeks after he became sixteen. When George was 14 his mother got cancer. His 3 years younger sister got cancer too a year later, while his father had died in an accident when George was 9. His mother was given a 60% chance of getting rid of the cancer for good at the beginning with chemotherapy. She didn’t. A month after she learned that her cancer got too spread to be completely stopped, her daughter got cancer too. George said the doctor believed that his mother must have been exposed to radiation when pregnant with his sister else it was just a very tragic coincidence that they both got cancer in such a small time interval with his sister at such a young age. George’s mother stopped chemotherapy just before he became 15 since the doctor said it wouldn’t help anymore. His sister was never given much chance, a mere 10% that chemotherapy would even do anything. His mother couldn’t get out of bed just before George turned 16. At the same time the doctor told his sister that chemotherapy couldn’t do anything anymore and that she was giving her about another year and 6 to 8 months in a “good enough” health. Naturally George and his sister wanted their mother to die knowing her daughter at least would survive. So they thought they’d lie to her, tell her that her daughter was getting better. George learned how to do makeup and helped his sister so she would seem in good health no matter what happened. They told their mum that even though she had gotten past cancer she started paying attention to the details of life and that she wanted to start putting on make up to look better and her being 13 at the time her mother believed her. And so George kept lying, with a lie that started a few weeks after he got his first scar, he kept saying the same lie to his mother everyday. His mother got worse and so did his sister. His mother died 6 months after George got 16 years old, his sister one month after that, the doctor predicted wrong. The last two months that their mother was alive his sister couldn’t get out of bed and so every day he lied to his mother that his sister had to study , or that she didn’t get a very good grade on a test and didn’t want to disappoint her , or that she went out with friends whenever his mother asked why his sister didn't visit much. On the days his sister was feeling better she put on make-up, gathered all her strength and walked enough to go sit beside her mother’s bed. And so George kept lying so that his mother would die happy, every day for hours each day he lied to his dying mother that his dying sister was well, a few weeks before the end he told her that his sister had gotten fully rid of her tumor while his sister would faint trying to get up and see her mother. And George kept lying even the last few days when his mother could hardly see or talk and asked to see her daughter, so George said that she went abroad in a school program for students good in literature related subjects and she called him to relay her love for her mother to her, while she was in the hospital 20 meters away on the same floor, hanging on to life by a thread. Then his mother died and he couldn’t lie anymore, his sister died and he could hardly feel like he could live anymore. All that left him with one big scar, the same lie being told over and over and over again devastating him even more each time, killing him inside and out a bit more each time creating a scar that would never heal. Creating a scar that was bigger than anyone I and maybe anyone else living on this godforsaken planet has ever seen. Creating a scar that made every other evil, obstacle or problem seem redundant, turning George into the best person I had ever known, into the best person anyone that met him had ever known. It’s a mad world , and it’s mad to judge people by their scars , some carry them with sorrow , some with pride , some with regret some with happiness , some only need one , some have none , some can’t seem to get enough. . This is my first ever prompt , pretty much the first story i've ever written to be honest ( outside of school of course). Feedback is appreciated Also sorry if it got too sad too fast in the end I was listening to Tears in Heaven by Eric Clapton when I started writing , a very sad song who I only found out about yesterday, worth a listen. Edit: So I'm done with changes to the story , may edit in the future if I find any spelling or grammar mistakes	It was the middle of the January, one of the better times to lie if you had to. In the cold winter months, you could get away with hiding your secrets under an oversized, baggy sweater. There just enough snow in the air that to make the sky seem to sparkle, but it was nothing compared to the sparkle in her piercing green eyes when they first made contact with mine. I swear, it was love at first sight. Her hair was close cut, its raven black color a stark contrast to the white world which framed it. Her cheeks and nose had a splash of red from the cold. Fuzzy earmuffs, slightly oversized on her head, enveloped her ears. The cold steam of her breath escaped in short bursts from thin, pursed lips. She turned toward me a bit, wrapping her puffy red coat snugly around her body and drawing her arms over her chest for warmth. Skinny black jeans, the kind that showed off just enough of her curves, ran down into pristine white boots, the soles of which were almost obscured by the thin layer of snow on the ground. In short, she was perfect. Before I realized what I was doing, I hid my hands in my coat pockets self-consciously. I cursed myself for not having the foresight to wear gloves. Most of mine show up on my hands, and seeing all of them up front tends to give people the wrong first impression. See, the Scars have something of a twisted sense of humor. You tell a lie about some action you've taken, you get a scar on your arms or hands; tell a lie about somewhere you've been, you get a scar on your legs or feet; tell a lie about what you think, you get a scar somewhere on your head. Medical experts have been studying the scars for as far back as anyone can remember, but the best science can tell us is that they just... happen. For all science knows, the world could be home to legions of overly vigilant, painfully ironic fairies wielding pocket knives. Gathering my courage, I unzipped my coat and started walking in her direction. I nearly stopped myself and turned away a couple of times, but I'd promised myself long ago to always be truthful to my feelings. Nonetheless, I stalled awkwardly when I came close. Her green eyes watching me, the smell of her perfume drifting over to me, the cold wind blowing against my shirt... I took a deep breath. I probably looked like an idiot. But, now was not the time to panic. I laid my heart out on the line, in more ways than one. I told her she was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen, and that if she would allow me the opportunity, I wanted to take her somewhere special. That might seem a bit direct, but it helps your case a lot when a girl can simply watch your chest to see if your feelings are genuine. Sure enough, no bloodstain appeared. She looked down at the snowy ground, her cheeks growing even more red in the cold weather. "Alright," she said, her lips teasing into a slight smile. "What did you have in mind?" Good question. What did I have in mind? We ended up in a nearby restaurant, though I can't for the life of me remember how. I got really lucky is probably the best answer. As we took our seats in the booth, she took off her outer jacket, revealing a white sweater underneath. I didn't think anything of it at first. Slowly, as if unsure of herself, she unzipped the sweater too and pulled it down her arms, not fully off but not quite on either. Beneath it, she was wearing a rather tight shirt which revealed her slender arms and the fair skin of her midriff. I was caught completely off-guard by her drastic change of apparel. She shivered a bit and rubber her shoulders. I sat there speechless, transfixed by her beauty. Her skin was so... perfect. Not a single scar marred her arms, her stomach, her neck, or anything. I realized I must have been staring, and turned a way just a bit too quickly. "It's okay," she said softly, pulling her coat back on. "I wanted you to see that, since... I mean, you were so up front with me and... but not in a bad way, and... I guess I could've just told you outright..." She stared at the table a bit too pointedly. I smiled to myself. At least I wasn't the only one who was bad at this. ... That was three years ago, back when life was so much simpler. Back before the diagnosis, before the painful treatments which dragged on into weeks and then months. Before we learned about the cancer that was eating away, slowly but surely, at her brain. The doctors told us nothing could be done. They could treat her, give her drugs to ease the suffering and ultimately the transition, but she was never going to get better. They said she would be... gone... within a few months. I stared at them like a hawk as they spoke, scrutinizing every inch of skin as I processed each sentence, but no Scars came. It was the truth. We were both left to ask why it had to be her. She grew irritable and lashed out, though I could hardly blame her. They said it was pressing on her brain, altering her mood and her thoughts. I'm not ashamed to admit that I bawled my eyes out when I first heard the news. But I had to be strong, I had to keep going. I had to be a rock, no matter how hard that would be. As her time in the hospital grew, so did the doses they gave her. On one of her worse nights, I sat there with her as she tried to process all the built up frustration. I could see in her eyes that she didn't fully recognize me, a look I would never grow used to. With no other outlet, she turned it on me. "Why did this have to happen?" she suddenly screamed at me, choking back a sob. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "I... I hate you!" For a moment, neither of us said anything. We sat in near silence, interrupted only by the occasional sob. I watched her somberly, not daring to react. And that's when I saw it. A large pool of blood soaked into her hospital gown, just above her heart. The only Scar she would ever have. ... Thanks for reading! -ShutainzuGeito
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	You want to know how I got these scars? Well, for one thing they aren’t ‘scars’, if you look closely you’ll see it’s one continuous scar that travels around my face, neck, down my body, all around wrapping itself around my arms, legs, fingers and toes. The only part of my body that isn’t scarred tissue is the inside of my body and even a bit of my mouth is still scarred. So the correct question you want to ask is how did I get this scar? Singular. Well, you know that old saying? About how a girl likes a guy with scars? It shows they’re a bad boy, that they kick a lot of ass or in my case lie. I didn’t kick anyone’s ass or get into a big crash, I lied. That’s pretty much what happened. I suppose you’ll want specifics. Well, years ago back when I was unblemished, face filled with pimples and a voice that didn’t quite want to go low I had a crush on a girl. A pretty girl, one that seemed to really like me with not a scar on her body as far as I could tell! So when she told me she loved me I believed her totally and without reservation. We went out, kissed and eventually I did find she had scars. I won’t share the details of how I found out but I’m sure your imagination can fill in the blanks. Anyways, her scars, they were here and there. Small ones mostly with two or three medium sized ones. I asked her about them and she told me she didn’t want to talk about them. She seemed ashamed. I wanted to tell her that she was human, that everyone had scars. Then she looked at me and asked if I had any? Well, I didn’t but I didn’t want her to feel bad so I said yes. Next thing I knew I felt something scratch my arm and there it was. A scar. Now that should’ve been the end of that but here’s the weird thing. It then sorta vanished. Then came back twice as bad as it realized I was sorta telling the truth but lying at the same time. It couldn’t decide what to do. So it just kept going. So here I was with my girlfriend in front of me with my eyes wide in horror as the scar kept scratching me, fading and growing again. By the time it all stopped I was still screaming. Honestly I had no idea when I started. And now we’re married.	"Anything else?" the waitress asked me, as she smacked a cup of coffee on the table somewhat carelessly. I think her name was Darla. I shook my head a bit and watched her saunter back to the counter out of the corner of my eye. I knew she had judged me from the moment she saw me. She had given me the same look most everyone else does. It's funny how someone marked and nicked with little white scars on her hands and arms and neck and legs can look down on me for having more of them. To be fair to - whatever her name was... - Darla- ...to be fair to Darla, and to everyone else, I do have lots and lots of little scars. I looked out to the window to my right at a lamp post that illuminated the darkened streets. This was as asleep as the city gets at night. I started my scar collection as a kid. My mother meant well and might've been a decent parent if she didn't spend her days swigging vodka. My dad was never in the picture. A military man, apparently, who had to move to a base in Europe before I was born, although looking back I'm sure that wasn't true. My mother, now she had a lot of scars. A scar for every time she was going to quit drinking and "do right by me." The first scar I remember scratching its way onto my skin was when I was probably four or five. My teacher had asked me if I was going to be ok. My mother hadn't come to pick me up which was a semi-frequent event, and I had gotten up to walk home - I lived a 20-minute walk or so away from the school so it wasn't a problem for me. He asked me if I was going to have dinner at home, and I lied. I told him we were having company over and my mom probably just lost track of time cooking this big meal for us all. I don't even know why I lied about it because it was a pointless lie, but I felt the sting on the back of my shoulder as the words left my lips. Over the years the lies I told people, the lies I told my mother created a tapestry of scar tissue across my body. Sometimes I just wanted to get away from the house and I'd tell her I was staying with a friend. The marks were inconsequential to me. I'm a journalist now - a failed one - there's no use lying to you. It's funny really because none of my scars ever came from anything I've ever written. I'm stupid; I use my lies on bullshit, instead of making money. I looked down at my coffee and heard Darla telling a couple large patrons at the counter that she was planning on going back to school soon. I wondered if she got a scar for that or if she really meant it. It didn't really matter to me. I'm not interested in the lies people tell others. That's easy. It's recorded in the history of your body like the rings of a tree and even though they fade over time, more will always take their place - we can't help ourselves. No, what interests me are the lies people tell themselves. When people put makeup over their scars to cover up as many as they can, do they look into the mirror and pretend they are honest? A bell rang as the door opened. I glanced to my left and saw a young man walk in. And I froze. "Go ahead and sit where you'd like," Darla yelled out cheerily. "I'll be with you in just a sec." The newcomer walked towards a back booth, and my eyes stayed fixed on him the entire time. His skin was unmarred by any scar or blemish. I had looked over his face and neck and forearms, and not a mark there was on them. Bullshit. Everyone lies. That is the only consistent truth I have ever known, and I've known that as far back as my memory extends. Everyone is a liar - that is a universal truth. It's the universal truth. I found myself rising out of my seat. My feet carried me towards the man in the back, quickening with each step. My heart pounded. "Let me see your arms," I managed to squeeze out as I gripped his arm and turned it. My voice was nervous. I quickly jumped to the other arms and hurriedly looked it over. I rubbed his arm spastically to remove any makeup - but there was nothing. I looked up at his face. His eyes were those of a deer's caught in a headlight. What I was doing was crazy, I knew that. I had grabbed a random stranger but he couldn't be this honest. It wasn't possible. "Where are your scars?" I demanded. He was still taken aback. "Where are they?" I repeated a little more forcefully. "I- what scars?" he stammered out. I felt a surge of anger rise up in me. "Where are your fucking scars!" I yelled at the man and grabbed his shirt at his shoulders. His shocked silence only made me angrier. In an instant, I whipped his shirt up and dumbfoundedly stepped back. The entire front of his torso was one giant mass of scarred flesh. "How are they all there?" I breathed out. "That can't be from one lie..." He looked hurt. "There was an accident," he said dejectedly. "Bullshit!" I shot back. That was a lie everyone with an exceptional scar tried to get away with. That it wasn't from a lie, but some physical injury instead. I'd heard that one before. Sometimes a new mark was worth keeping the truth in the dark. But there was no new mark. I scanned over his body. "How did that happen?" "It was an accident!" he retorted, anger now growing in his voice. "There was a fire in my building! People died...and I was lucky enough to only be left with this at the end of the night." I looked over his body and watched as no new scars carved their way in. He threw his shirt back down and was clearly angry now. I stepped backward. The diner was silent. I could feel everyone's eyes on me. The man I accosted threw some money on the table and slid out of his booth. He moved passed me and I watched as the only honest man I had ever known walked out of the door. I was brought crashing back down to reality. I glanced towards the counter and saw the two patrons and the waitress staring at me. I walked back to my table and left some money there before walking out the door. I made it a few steps down the sidewalk before my legs went weak. I sat down on the curb and cried. It was only six months later when I saw the man's face again. This time on the news. His name was Robert Lewis, and he had been arrested for arson. He had set a fire in his apartment building that apparently grew out of control and wound up killing six people and sending dozens more to the hospital. He had been found there lying in the smoke by first responders. But here's the kicker. He hadn't suffered any burns when they found him. That scar only appeared after he had been questioned about the fire by a couple other firefighters before the cops even spoke to him. It took them a couple weeks to realize what happened and then months to find the guy. Everyone is a liar. He was just better at telling half truths. Edit: Grammatical
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	You want to know how I got these scars? Well, for one thing they aren’t ‘scars’, if you look closely you’ll see it’s one continuous scar that travels around my face, neck, down my body, all around wrapping itself around my arms, legs, fingers and toes. The only part of my body that isn’t scarred tissue is the inside of my body and even a bit of my mouth is still scarred. So the correct question you want to ask is how did I get this scar? Singular. Well, you know that old saying? About how a girl likes a guy with scars? It shows they’re a bad boy, that they kick a lot of ass or in my case lie. I didn’t kick anyone’s ass or get into a big crash, I lied. That’s pretty much what happened. I suppose you’ll want specifics. Well, years ago back when I was unblemished, face filled with pimples and a voice that didn’t quite want to go low I had a crush on a girl. A pretty girl, one that seemed to really like me with not a scar on her body as far as I could tell! So when she told me she loved me I believed her totally and without reservation. We went out, kissed and eventually I did find she had scars. I won’t share the details of how I found out but I’m sure your imagination can fill in the blanks. Anyways, her scars, they were here and there. Small ones mostly with two or three medium sized ones. I asked her about them and she told me she didn’t want to talk about them. She seemed ashamed. I wanted to tell her that she was human, that everyone had scars. Then she looked at me and asked if I had any? Well, I didn’t but I didn’t want her to feel bad so I said yes. Next thing I knew I felt something scratch my arm and there it was. A scar. Now that should’ve been the end of that but here’s the weird thing. It then sorta vanished. Then came back twice as bad as it realized I was sorta telling the truth but lying at the same time. It couldn’t decide what to do. So it just kept going. So here I was with my girlfriend in front of me with my eyes wide in horror as the scar kept scratching me, fading and growing again. By the time it all stopped I was still screaming. Honestly I had no idea when I started. And now we’re married.	My deepest cut? Easy. Upper right hip, curving from almost my navel to my asscrack. It's an unusual, but fortunately concealed, spot for me; usually I'm an arm guy, so my parents always dressed me in tshirts, for conveniences sake when asking if I'd done my homework. You'd think they'd have figured it out, after I was held back a grade... But this chick. Now, I'm a man who knows what I like. Short, curly hair, sundresses, enough scars to show a wild side, few enough scars that I know I won't get a 'git-scar. Happened to one of my buddies once; after his girlfriend found out his "I'm not cheating on you" mark was hidden under his beard, she cut more than hair in taking it off. I told him dating a girl with skin textured like prairie grass was bad news, but he just couldn't resist the crazies. Birds of a feather, I suppose... But back to this girl. She had it all. The dress. The hair. The... scar. Some chicks hide them, some showcase them. She was a shower, and damn, did she have a lot to show. The dress had to be custom tailored, for it framed and flattered the deep colors of the scar along her back perfectly. But other than that... flawless. Already I longed to stroke her smooth arms, kiss her milky neck, lift up her already short dress... I approached, and distracted by the juxtaposition of beauty and destruction, went with the lamest, most common of openings. I gestured towards her. "That's quite the display. Is it 'git?" Her laughter, as expected, sounded like the tinkling of bells. "But of course it's legit!" she said. "It was a tragic accident..." she looked solemn, for a moment, as if getting lost in a painful memory, but then her smile, refreshing as a spring shower, returned. "Though of course, that might not be the case. After all, I only ever speak in lies."
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	You want to know how I got these scars? Well, for one thing they aren’t ‘scars’, if you look closely you’ll see it’s one continuous scar that travels around my face, neck, down my body, all around wrapping itself around my arms, legs, fingers and toes. The only part of my body that isn’t scarred tissue is the inside of my body and even a bit of my mouth is still scarred. So the correct question you want to ask is how did I get this scar? Singular. Well, you know that old saying? About how a girl likes a guy with scars? It shows they’re a bad boy, that they kick a lot of ass or in my case lie. I didn’t kick anyone’s ass or get into a big crash, I lied. That’s pretty much what happened. I suppose you’ll want specifics. Well, years ago back when I was unblemished, face filled with pimples and a voice that didn’t quite want to go low I had a crush on a girl. A pretty girl, one that seemed to really like me with not a scar on her body as far as I could tell! So when she told me she loved me I believed her totally and without reservation. We went out, kissed and eventually I did find she had scars. I won’t share the details of how I found out but I’m sure your imagination can fill in the blanks. Anyways, her scars, they were here and there. Small ones mostly with two or three medium sized ones. I asked her about them and she told me she didn’t want to talk about them. She seemed ashamed. I wanted to tell her that she was human, that everyone had scars. Then she looked at me and asked if I had any? Well, I didn’t but I didn’t want her to feel bad so I said yes. Next thing I knew I felt something scratch my arm and there it was. A scar. Now that should’ve been the end of that but here’s the weird thing. It then sorta vanished. Then came back twice as bad as it realized I was sorta telling the truth but lying at the same time. It couldn’t decide what to do. So it just kept going. So here I was with my girlfriend in front of me with my eyes wide in horror as the scar kept scratching me, fading and growing again. By the time it all stopped I was still screaming. Honestly I had no idea when I started. And now we’re married.	They said we'd meet all kinds at university. I grew up in a small farming town and I can't tell you how right they were. With the recent election behind us, tensions were still high. The debates had been arduous. Should we deal with climate change via the solar route or reach out to newer frontiers of nuclear or wave power. I have to admit I was disappointed I missed the lottery for physics 570, which meant a free semester on one of the 17 lunar colonies, but if I was being honest with myself I knew my scores didn't merit more than a single ticket in the pool. I'd met several people who honestly believed we'd establish more than a foothold on mars, which I couldn't believe. I mean with the em drive version 4 we were pushing on to Europa, and water base station. Huge lead plates were already on the way with humans soon to follow. The abundance of food, advances in medicine, and lack of disease (thanks to vaccines and proper medication) meant I was honored to be taught English 104 by a professor that was alive when electric cars were just being invented. But I never thought to meet a heretic. She was pretty, excepting the large red scar that marred her face and neck. Almost half an inch across and running from her forehead down her face, over her jaw, and disappearing under her shirt the scar was open red raw, proof she repeated the lie again. Not that any of had to ask what it was, with the thin golden cross hanging from her necklace. I stayed away from her, like the others, as I focused on my studies and where I wanted to take not only my life but the human race, out among the stars.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	The subway rattled it's syncopated song, barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum. About twenty lonely people swayed back and forth in harmony within the car. There are usually a few homeless people at this hour. One typically sat in the far back corner, asleep. But tonight there was just a guy with puffy eyes in a white tee shirt with sleeves that came to around the middle of his bicep. He was thin, but not sickeningly so, moderately handsome, and utterly defeated judging by his posture. His most striking feature of all was a newly formed slash down his forearm. The largest I've ever seen, by far. Still wet, they would say. His second most striking feature was the absence of any other scars. Now usually, you get at least a few scars growing up. It's kind of like touching a burner as a kid. You just have to learn from experience. You might tell a fib at school about homework, and pets that have suddenly acquired an appetite for homework, and you collect a few scars along the way. I sure as hell did at least. But this guy had to have made it all the way here, in New York City of all places, without telling a single lie. Well, until today. I was intrigued. I mean, how could you not be? He was Mother-freaking-Teresa, but even she probably failed to disclose the secret location of her breadbasket base every now and then. "Dantooine...they're all on Dantooine," she might have said. I approached, with caution. I recognize this was selfish of me, but maybe the guy needed someone to talk to. "Hey, man. You doing ok?" I said, conveying empathy the best my socially awkward self could manage. "Yeah," the kid, who I just realized was only about 26, if that, said with such brevity that he may as well said nothing at all. "Look, I don't usually intrude on people's private affairs. It's just, usually a homeless guy who goes by Squirrel sits where you are now and I don't think the strongest constitution in the bowel department, if you get my meaning." The kid smiled at least, wiping his right eye with his scarless forearm, and moved to the bench seat next to where I was standing. "I'm John," he said. "Hi John, it's a pleasure. I'm Matt." I sat down next to him. "Maybe if you tell me about your day, you will be distracted enough to forget it." "I guess we aren't really going anywhere, are we." The doors to the subway car opened to dump out about half its contents. Those left in the car were otherwise enthralled in their phones or their headphones. "How many more stops do you have?" "Twelve." "Me too." He looked around the car, as the doors closed and the car lurched forward with the same barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum. I guess he adjudged the car private enough, so he began his story. It all started with a girl. Imagine that. "Ah, to be young again," I thought. Brown hair, decent looks, and smart, he said. He had dated her for four years. They had graduated college together, fallen in love, and moved in to a too-small-but-hey-we-are-achieving-our-dreams-and-living-in-the-big-city-oh-look-a-dead-rat-its-nothing-we-will-get-used-to-it apartment. They even got one of those stupid plant holders that hang out of window sills. You know the ones that kill about eight people a year in a city like the Big Apple. John had been the perfect boyfriend to Sally. He got her cute gifts that were within his budget, but not too within his budget, and he was nice to all of her friends. He even took her to a Giants game or two. Hell, he even ended up on the big screen for a kiss that ended up being televised on WFAN because of the quirky way he tossed the popcorn aside and did one of those "back from the war" kisses. They even got engaged. But last year, Sally was diagnosed with a cognitive disorder that changed her behavior. Sally was never the same again. She had flashes of anger, where she would insult John and his family. She would talk of other guys she had been with in the past, when she never did that before. She would even compare John to other guys that they had been around, telling him why they were better than him. This went on for a year. She demeaned him to the point of no return, yet he remained there with her. John kept her medication in order and cooked for her, because processes were lost at that point. After Sally lost control of her colon he cleaned their Murphy Bed in their too-small-but-hey-we-are-achieving-our-dreams-and-living-in-the-big-city-oh-look-a-dead-rat-its-nothing-we-will-get-used-to-it apartment. He sat with her in the hospital for two weeks and lost his accounting job due to it. He was there today when she died. Sally had looked up at him within her last hour and said she remembered the day they watched a dog in Central Park on a long leash literally wrap its owner up "101 Dalmatians" style and drag him a few yards. They laughed aloud, heads back like Peanuts characters, like they had many times before Sally became ill. She looked up at John, with tears welling in her eyes. For a brief moment, the old Sally was there. "I love you," she said. "I love you, too," he replied.	They said we'd meet all kinds at university. I grew up in a small farming town and I can't tell you how right they were. With the recent election behind us, tensions were still high. The debates had been arduous. Should we deal with climate change via the solar route or reach out to newer frontiers of nuclear or wave power. I have to admit I was disappointed I missed the lottery for physics 570, which meant a free semester on one of the 17 lunar colonies, but if I was being honest with myself I knew my scores didn't merit more than a single ticket in the pool. I'd met several people who honestly believed we'd establish more than a foothold on mars, which I couldn't believe. I mean with the em drive version 4 we were pushing on to Europa, and water base station. Huge lead plates were already on the way with humans soon to follow. The abundance of food, advances in medicine, and lack of disease (thanks to vaccines and proper medication) meant I was honored to be taught English 104 by a professor that was alive when electric cars were just being invented. But I never thought to meet a heretic. She was pretty, excepting the large red scar that marred her face and neck. Almost half an inch across and running from her forehead down her face, over her jaw, and disappearing under her shirt the scar was open red raw, proof she repeated the lie again. Not that any of had to ask what it was, with the thin golden cross hanging from her necklace. I stayed away from her, like the others, as I focused on my studies and where I wanted to take not only my life but the human race, out among the stars.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	The scar - singular, I must highlight - was so horrific, so deep, and so... extensive... It's either one huge lie, or... I had to look away as I realised I could take a full anatomy lesson just by looking at him naked. "I'm a software engineer, IT guy, and all round tech-guru," he murmured. "I keep skipping reading the sodding Terms and Conditions."	They said we'd meet all kinds at university. I grew up in a small farming town and I can't tell you how right they were. With the recent election behind us, tensions were still high. The debates had been arduous. Should we deal with climate change via the solar route or reach out to newer frontiers of nuclear or wave power. I have to admit I was disappointed I missed the lottery for physics 570, which meant a free semester on one of the 17 lunar colonies, but if I was being honest with myself I knew my scores didn't merit more than a single ticket in the pool. I'd met several people who honestly believed we'd establish more than a foothold on mars, which I couldn't believe. I mean with the em drive version 4 we were pushing on to Europa, and water base station. Huge lead plates were already on the way with humans soon to follow. The abundance of food, advances in medicine, and lack of disease (thanks to vaccines and proper medication) meant I was honored to be taught English 104 by a professor that was alive when electric cars were just being invented. But I never thought to meet a heretic. She was pretty, excepting the large red scar that marred her face and neck. Almost half an inch across and running from her forehead down her face, over her jaw, and disappearing under her shirt the scar was open red raw, proof she repeated the lie again. Not that any of had to ask what it was, with the thin golden cross hanging from her necklace. I stayed away from her, like the others, as I focused on my studies and where I wanted to take not only my life but the human race, out among the stars.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I had always been comfortable with my scars. Thin silver and white lines were strewn across my skin, but they were small enough that you could only see them if you were standing close to me. I tried my best not to lie to others, but sometimes there was an option worse than deception. My chemistry lab partner from my freshman year of college had flawless skin. He often seemed distant or tired, but he was kind, hardworking, and by the looks of his skin, incredibly honest. I had never seen anyone like him and was instantly intrigued. Between classwork, study sessions, and late night pizza runs, I found myself falling in love with him. When I asked him if he would ever give me a chance, he said yes. My eyes glanced over his skin to gauge his honesty, but alas, no scars appeared. Before long, that man was my husband. Mark was never close to his family and focused all his energy on me and making sure that we had an amazing life together. In his vows he told me he would always love me and that I brought a new light to his life. On our honeymoon, his skin was still as flawless as the day he was born, and I knew that he meant every word. One day I was fixing dinner for Mark and myself. He stepped through the front door after a long day of work and I rushed into his arms to kiss him and ask about his day. He set down his briefcase, loosened his tie, and sighed. "What's wrong baby?" I asked. With sad eyes, he ever so slightly lifted his head to look at me and mumbled "My father died." I had never met Mark's father. His parents divorced when he was young, and Mark had a spotty relationship with his father after the divorce. I wasn't sure how deeply this news was affecting my husband, but I grabbed his hand and stretched up to my tip toes to kiss his forehead. Using my free hand to lift up his chin, I looked into Mark's once brilliantly bright eyes and told him I would do whatever he needed me to do. Six days later, I tightened the tie Mark asked me to pick out for him. I slipped on my heels and told Mark that I would be right beside him as he said his final goodbyes to his father. He chose not to speak at the funeral, but before he left he placed one hand on the casket, closed his eyes, and whispered "I love you, Dad." That night, I climbed into the shower with Mark to hold him close and comfort him. Sprawled across Mark's back was the longest, deepest scar I had ever seen. My husband's skin had been flawless that morning, and the only thing he had said all day was that he had loved his father. Concerned, I called Mark's mother the next day while Mark was at work. It took some encouraging, but his mom finally spilled the only secret Mark had ever kept from me. "Hannah, Mark had an older sister. When Mark's father and I divorced, Mark stayed with me and his sister moved in with her dad. When Mark was 11, his dad was driving his sister to a friend's birthday party....only he was drunk. He ran a red light and a car crossing the intersection crashed into the passenger side of the car, killing Mark's sister. I don't think Mark ever saw his father sober after that, and he never fully forgave him." Disbelieving, I thanked Mark's mother for her time and hung up. I never mentioned the conversation or the new scar to Mark, but I held him a little tighter and kissed him a little longer that night. His skin would never be flawless again, but to me he was still perfect.	They said we'd meet all kinds at university. I grew up in a small farming town and I can't tell you how right they were. With the recent election behind us, tensions were still high. The debates had been arduous. Should we deal with climate change via the solar route or reach out to newer frontiers of nuclear or wave power. I have to admit I was disappointed I missed the lottery for physics 570, which meant a free semester on one of the 17 lunar colonies, but if I was being honest with myself I knew my scores didn't merit more than a single ticket in the pool. I'd met several people who honestly believed we'd establish more than a foothold on mars, which I couldn't believe. I mean with the em drive version 4 we were pushing on to Europa, and water base station. Huge lead plates were already on the way with humans soon to follow. The abundance of food, advances in medicine, and lack of disease (thanks to vaccines and proper medication) meant I was honored to be taught English 104 by a professor that was alive when electric cars were just being invented. But I never thought to meet a heretic. She was pretty, excepting the large red scar that marred her face and neck. Almost half an inch across and running from her forehead down her face, over her jaw, and disappearing under her shirt the scar was open red raw, proof she repeated the lie again. Not that any of had to ask what it was, with the thin golden cross hanging from her necklace. I stayed away from her, like the others, as I focused on my studies and where I wanted to take not only my life but the human race, out among the stars.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I'd... I'd never seen anything like it. It went through her body to the other side. I've seen murderers and heavily experienced con-men with shallower scars. This was... shocking. The moonlight reflected from her fair, creamy skin as we walked. I looked for more lies, but I could find none. Only the deep one across her chest, the one she showed but never explained. Even the last Pope had two scars, albeit quite shallow. She swept her silky amber hair to the side and showed a faint smile. She seemed happy, but I was not. I couldn't focus. I needed to know her lie. I had to know, but I didn't want to drive her away. I tried the subtle approach, but I'm not too good with subtlety. "Would you like to know how I got these scars?" I asked, like the Joker after a five-month hospital regimen. My shyness was showing, but I'm not sure she picked up on it. "Sure, if you want to tell. As long as it doesn't make you uncomfortable." I pointed to the one on my forearm. That was a... memorable one, to say the least. "This was when I lied about smoking weed and having sex. I was a dumb teenager who was too dependant on what people thought of me. I wanted to be cool, but I was just a sheltered brat." "You're a little hard on yourself. We all make mistakes." Very inspiring, but almost hollow coming from her. I gestured to the deep one on my neck. "This was when I lied about setting our garage on fire. I was playing around with my dad's lighter when I dropped it on the floor. For some reason, there was gas leaking from the car. The fumes ignited. The whole thing went up in flames. I said it was an electrical problem." "How much was the damage?" "100K, including the price of a new car. That drained our savings." "Wow..." I finished on my final one, my third one. A very deep one on my stomach. This was my least favorite. "This was when I lied about checking on grandma when she called our house. I ignored the call and told my parents she was fine. She'd called... she'd called us to say she fell and broke her back on the bathtub... she died the next day... I just... I feel so much guilt... and I told my parents it wasn't my fault..." "I'm sorry... that's horrible." "It's fine. The experience lead me to stop lying. I haven't told a lie in over 10 years." "Me too." An awkward silence hung over us. Would she talk about the scar? Would she ignore it? No, no no no we're nearing her apartment. I gotta say something! "I have a question, but you don't have to answer it if it makes you uncomfortable." "Shoot." "How did you get that scar across your chest?" She chuckled a bit, as if amused by my question. "LARP accident. Some guy brought a real claymore sword. He cut through my foam armor and went straight through my midsection, almost took my upper half off. The doctors say it was a miracle I survived." It... it wasn't a lie? It was an accident? That's so... relieving! My word, here I was thinking-- wait, is that a new scar on her arm? She laughed an unconvincing laugh. "I-I wasn't lying, that was true! I'm not a murderer or anything!" Another scar popped up. And I ran. ***** I ran so far awaaaaaay. I just raaaaan, I ran all night and daaaaay. I couldn't get away! /r/Picklestasteg00d.	They said we'd meet all kinds at university. I grew up in a small farming town and I can't tell you how right they were. With the recent election behind us, tensions were still high. The debates had been arduous. Should we deal with climate change via the solar route or reach out to newer frontiers of nuclear or wave power. I have to admit I was disappointed I missed the lottery for physics 570, which meant a free semester on one of the 17 lunar colonies, but if I was being honest with myself I knew my scores didn't merit more than a single ticket in the pool. I'd met several people who honestly believed we'd establish more than a foothold on mars, which I couldn't believe. I mean with the em drive version 4 we were pushing on to Europa, and water base station. Huge lead plates were already on the way with humans soon to follow. The abundance of food, advances in medicine, and lack of disease (thanks to vaccines and proper medication) meant I was honored to be taught English 104 by a professor that was alive when electric cars were just being invented. But I never thought to meet a heretic. She was pretty, excepting the large red scar that marred her face and neck. Almost half an inch across and running from her forehead down her face, over her jaw, and disappearing under her shirt the scar was open red raw, proof she repeated the lie again. Not that any of had to ask what it was, with the thin golden cross hanging from her necklace. I stayed away from her, like the others, as I focused on my studies and where I wanted to take not only my life but the human race, out among the stars.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	You want to know how I got these scars? Well, for one thing they aren’t ‘scars’, if you look closely you’ll see it’s one continuous scar that travels around my face, neck, down my body, all around wrapping itself around my arms, legs, fingers and toes. The only part of my body that isn’t scarred tissue is the inside of my body and even a bit of my mouth is still scarred. So the correct question you want to ask is how did I get this scar? Singular. Well, you know that old saying? About how a girl likes a guy with scars? It shows they’re a bad boy, that they kick a lot of ass or in my case lie. I didn’t kick anyone’s ass or get into a big crash, I lied. That’s pretty much what happened. I suppose you’ll want specifics. Well, years ago back when I was unblemished, face filled with pimples and a voice that didn’t quite want to go low I had a crush on a girl. A pretty girl, one that seemed to really like me with not a scar on her body as far as I could tell! So when she told me she loved me I believed her totally and without reservation. We went out, kissed and eventually I did find she had scars. I won’t share the details of how I found out but I’m sure your imagination can fill in the blanks. Anyways, her scars, they were here and there. Small ones mostly with two or three medium sized ones. I asked her about them and she told me she didn’t want to talk about them. She seemed ashamed. I wanted to tell her that she was human, that everyone had scars. Then she looked at me and asked if I had any? Well, I didn’t but I didn’t want her to feel bad so I said yes. Next thing I knew I felt something scratch my arm and there it was. A scar. Now that should’ve been the end of that but here’s the weird thing. It then sorta vanished. Then came back twice as bad as it realized I was sorta telling the truth but lying at the same time. It couldn’t decide what to do. So it just kept going. So here I was with my girlfriend in front of me with my eyes wide in horror as the scar kept scratching me, fading and growing again. By the time it all stopped I was still screaming. Honestly I had no idea when I started. And now we’re married.	One scar, started out small Each day, grew more and more It was a little lie at first But it wasn't any more A friend asked He answered The scar grew His mum called He replied The scar grew He asked himself He answered The scar grew As he made his fall
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	The subway rattled it's syncopated song, barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum. About twenty lonely people swayed back and forth in harmony within the car. There are usually a few homeless people at this hour. One typically sat in the far back corner, asleep. But tonight there was just a guy with puffy eyes in a white tee shirt with sleeves that came to around the middle of his bicep. He was thin, but not sickeningly so, moderately handsome, and utterly defeated judging by his posture. His most striking feature of all was a newly formed slash down his forearm. The largest I've ever seen, by far. Still wet, they would say. His second most striking feature was the absence of any other scars. Now usually, you get at least a few scars growing up. It's kind of like touching a burner as a kid. You just have to learn from experience. You might tell a fib at school about homework, and pets that have suddenly acquired an appetite for homework, and you collect a few scars along the way. I sure as hell did at least. But this guy had to have made it all the way here, in New York City of all places, without telling a single lie. Well, until today. I was intrigued. I mean, how could you not be? He was Mother-freaking-Teresa, but even she probably failed to disclose the secret location of her breadbasket base every now and then. "Dantooine...they're all on Dantooine," she might have said. I approached, with caution. I recognize this was selfish of me, but maybe the guy needed someone to talk to. "Hey, man. You doing ok?" I said, conveying empathy the best my socially awkward self could manage. "Yeah," the kid, who I just realized was only about 26, if that, said with such brevity that he may as well said nothing at all. "Look, I don't usually intrude on people's private affairs. It's just, usually a homeless guy who goes by Squirrel sits where you are now and I don't think the strongest constitution in the bowel department, if you get my meaning." The kid smiled at least, wiping his right eye with his scarless forearm, and moved to the bench seat next to where I was standing. "I'm John," he said. "Hi John, it's a pleasure. I'm Matt." I sat down next to him. "Maybe if you tell me about your day, you will be distracted enough to forget it." "I guess we aren't really going anywhere, are we." The doors to the subway car opened to dump out about half its contents. Those left in the car were otherwise enthralled in their phones or their headphones. "How many more stops do you have?" "Twelve." "Me too." He looked around the car, as the doors closed and the car lurched forward with the same barumm...bum, bum...barumm...bum, bum. I guess he adjudged the car private enough, so he began his story. It all started with a girl. Imagine that. "Ah, to be young again," I thought. Brown hair, decent looks, and smart, he said. He had dated her for four years. They had graduated college together, fallen in love, and moved in to a too-small-but-hey-we-are-achieving-our-dreams-and-living-in-the-big-city-oh-look-a-dead-rat-its-nothing-we-will-get-used-to-it apartment. They even got one of those stupid plant holders that hang out of window sills. You know the ones that kill about eight people a year in a city like the Big Apple. John had been the perfect boyfriend to Sally. He got her cute gifts that were within his budget, but not too within his budget, and he was nice to all of her friends. He even took her to a Giants game or two. Hell, he even ended up on the big screen for a kiss that ended up being televised on WFAN because of the quirky way he tossed the popcorn aside and did one of those "back from the war" kisses. They even got engaged. But last year, Sally was diagnosed with a cognitive disorder that changed her behavior. Sally was never the same again. She had flashes of anger, where she would insult John and his family. She would talk of other guys she had been with in the past, when she never did that before. She would even compare John to other guys that they had been around, telling him why they were better than him. This went on for a year. She demeaned him to the point of no return, yet he remained there with her. John kept her medication in order and cooked for her, because processes were lost at that point. After Sally lost control of her colon he cleaned their Murphy Bed in their too-small-but-hey-we-are-achieving-our-dreams-and-living-in-the-big-city-oh-look-a-dead-rat-its-nothing-we-will-get-used-to-it apartment. He sat with her in the hospital for two weeks and lost his accounting job due to it. He was there today when she died. Sally had looked up at him within her last hour and said she remembered the day they watched a dog in Central Park on a long leash literally wrap its owner up "101 Dalmatians" style and drag him a few yards. They laughed aloud, heads back like Peanuts characters, like they had many times before Sally became ill. She looked up at John, with tears welling in her eyes. For a brief moment, the old Sally was there. "I love you," she said. "I love you, too," he replied.	One scar, started out small Each day, grew more and more It was a little lie at first But it wasn't any more A friend asked He answered The scar grew His mum called He replied The scar grew He asked himself He answered The scar grew As he made his fall
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I pass the open door of my favourite cafe, a warm plume of caramel scented air greets me, inviting me and pulling me off the cold winter street. I let myself get carried over to the bar, expecting to see the usual waiter; a burly man in his 40s wearing the usual faded suit jacket and dark jeans. As I look up, my breath is plucked from my lungs. I aren't greeted by the thinning blond hair and piercing blue eyes I expected, but a girl. Soft hair, brown and untamed cascaded over her shoulders on to the pristine white shirt and onto her bust. Everything seems to be in slow motion as my eyes trace every contour and shape of her body in detail. Unlike me, or any of the other customers, who's hands are littered with small flecks of white, which was the cost of keeping face in today's society, she was completely pure. From her head to her toes, not a single blemish on her silk skin. She is the definition of beautiful. Her delicate, porcelain hands clasped together in front of that short black dress, which is formal but still very attractive. Green eyes flicked up with a look of coy and curiosity as a faint smile worked it's way onto her soft peach lips. I blush. Her voice resonated into my mind, cutting off my thought. Matching her appearance, her words are softly spoken and sweet. The type of voice that reminds you of home. "Hi, my name's Mei. What are you ordering today, sir" she asks with enthusiasm. "Uh... a.." I fumble through my speech like a nervous child on his first day of school "A number 7 please" I falter for a moment after realizing my mistake. There is no number 7 on the menu. As soon as the words leave me, her eyes narrow. The persona of before has left her and now, all I can think of is danger. She asks me to follow her in a quick and monotone voice. That voice reminded me of a killer. Her speech and her walking pattern, as she walks through to a separate room is ruthless and efficient. No wasted movement. I follow nervously, almost tripping over myself and take a seat opposite her in the exquisitely decorated room I now find myself in. A square table, wooden and stained dark, separates us. "So Mr.. Hudson. You requested a model 23, complete organ transplants. You've transferred 14 million, half of the payment and were ready to begin." I don't understand. I'm panicking. Did she just say organ transplant? I desperately try to think of a way out of this situation but I'm distracted by the sight of Mei taking her formal shirt off to reveal a very thin, white top underneath. She looks so damn perfect. I've gained momentary relief from my panic just by the mere sight of her. That's when the real Mr Hudson walks in. He is very old and withered, covered in long, deep scars, spiralling across his body. He must be about 80, and he speaks with a dry, raspy voice. "I'm here to see Mei" he says almost innocently. Mei walks to meet him and that's when I see it. A huge, deep purple scar under the thin shirt she's wearing, swimming from the top of her neck all the way down to the small of her back, and then way past where I can see. She approaches him calmly whispers something in his ear. He raises and eyebrow and they both smile. My sense of danger kicks in again, and adrenaline starts to course through my veins. I get it now. "Now then sir, as you are probably aware, there has been a confusion between you and Mr Hudson here" she says gesturing to the old man with an open palm. She doesn't have to tell the truth like the rest of us. "Don't worry sir." She walks towards me with a smile. A smile of malice. That's not her body. "You're going to be just fine." She smiles as her green eyes turn cold and run through me. That's not her fucking body.	One scar, started out small Each day, grew more and more It was a little lie at first But it wasn't any more A friend asked He answered The scar grew His mum called He replied The scar grew He asked himself He answered The scar grew As he made his fall
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I groan as I roll out of bed. Another day, trapped. Mom feeds me breakfast, smiling her usual smile as she talks about what the old ladies at church had been discussing. Heedless of the struggles going on in my head. I eat my eggs and bread in silence, trying to stay as small, as invisible as possible. I don’t say very much… perhaps that was why I didn’t have the usual scars that cover everyone else? I pass by the store on my way to school, making sure not to linger for too long, not let my brother get suspicious. I stare wistfully at the dresses and necklaces, so elegant and pretty. But my parents would never let me have such things. I glance down at my jeans and sweatshirt, hating how it made me appear masculine. My own body, betraying me. School passed by in a blur, like most days. My brother runs ahead, laughing as he bounds into our house without a care in the world. How nice it must be, to be born into the body you want. Father smiles at me, asks me the same question he’s asked every day since I started school. I noticed the scar that first night he asked, on my back as I took off my shirt to shower. It was the biggest I’d ever seen. I’ve never taken off my shirt in front of my family ever since. “Hey, kid! How’s life treating ya?” I pause, for a brief moment. “Fine, dad. I’m fine.”	One scar, started out small Each day, grew more and more It was a little lie at first But it wasn't any more A friend asked He answered The scar grew His mum called He replied The scar grew He asked himself He answered The scar grew As he made his fall
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	The scar - singular, I must highlight - was so horrific, so deep, and so... extensive... It's either one huge lie, or... I had to look away as I realised I could take a full anatomy lesson just by looking at him naked. "I'm a software engineer, IT guy, and all round tech-guru," he murmured. "I keep skipping reading the sodding Terms and Conditions."	One scar, started out small Each day, grew more and more It was a little lie at first But it wasn't any more A friend asked He answered The scar grew His mum called He replied The scar grew He asked himself He answered The scar grew As he made his fall
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I had always been comfortable with my scars. Thin silver and white lines were strewn across my skin, but they were small enough that you could only see them if you were standing close to me. I tried my best not to lie to others, but sometimes there was an option worse than deception. My chemistry lab partner from my freshman year of college had flawless skin. He often seemed distant or tired, but he was kind, hardworking, and by the looks of his skin, incredibly honest. I had never seen anyone like him and was instantly intrigued. Between classwork, study sessions, and late night pizza runs, I found myself falling in love with him. When I asked him if he would ever give me a chance, he said yes. My eyes glanced over his skin to gauge his honesty, but alas, no scars appeared. Before long, that man was my husband. Mark was never close to his family and focused all his energy on me and making sure that we had an amazing life together. In his vows he told me he would always love me and that I brought a new light to his life. On our honeymoon, his skin was still as flawless as the day he was born, and I knew that he meant every word. One day I was fixing dinner for Mark and myself. He stepped through the front door after a long day of work and I rushed into his arms to kiss him and ask about his day. He set down his briefcase, loosened his tie, and sighed. "What's wrong baby?" I asked. With sad eyes, he ever so slightly lifted his head to look at me and mumbled "My father died." I had never met Mark's father. His parents divorced when he was young, and Mark had a spotty relationship with his father after the divorce. I wasn't sure how deeply this news was affecting my husband, but I grabbed his hand and stretched up to my tip toes to kiss his forehead. Using my free hand to lift up his chin, I looked into Mark's once brilliantly bright eyes and told him I would do whatever he needed me to do. Six days later, I tightened the tie Mark asked me to pick out for him. I slipped on my heels and told Mark that I would be right beside him as he said his final goodbyes to his father. He chose not to speak at the funeral, but before he left he placed one hand on the casket, closed his eyes, and whispered "I love you, Dad." That night, I climbed into the shower with Mark to hold him close and comfort him. Sprawled across Mark's back was the longest, deepest scar I had ever seen. My husband's skin had been flawless that morning, and the only thing he had said all day was that he had loved his father. Concerned, I called Mark's mother the next day while Mark was at work. It took some encouraging, but his mom finally spilled the only secret Mark had ever kept from me. "Hannah, Mark had an older sister. When Mark's father and I divorced, Mark stayed with me and his sister moved in with her dad. When Mark was 11, his dad was driving his sister to a friend's birthday party....only he was drunk. He ran a red light and a car crossing the intersection crashed into the passenger side of the car, killing Mark's sister. I don't think Mark ever saw his father sober after that, and he never fully forgave him." Disbelieving, I thanked Mark's mother for her time and hung up. I never mentioned the conversation or the new scar to Mark, but I held him a little tighter and kissed him a little longer that night. His skin would never be flawless again, but to me he was still perfect.	One scar, started out small Each day, grew more and more It was a little lie at first But it wasn't any more A friend asked He answered The scar grew His mum called He replied The scar grew He asked himself He answered The scar grew As he made his fall
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I'd... I'd never seen anything like it. It went through her body to the other side. I've seen murderers and heavily experienced con-men with shallower scars. This was... shocking. The moonlight reflected from her fair, creamy skin as we walked. I looked for more lies, but I could find none. Only the deep one across her chest, the one she showed but never explained. Even the last Pope had two scars, albeit quite shallow. She swept her silky amber hair to the side and showed a faint smile. She seemed happy, but I was not. I couldn't focus. I needed to know her lie. I had to know, but I didn't want to drive her away. I tried the subtle approach, but I'm not too good with subtlety. "Would you like to know how I got these scars?" I asked, like the Joker after a five-month hospital regimen. My shyness was showing, but I'm not sure she picked up on it. "Sure, if you want to tell. As long as it doesn't make you uncomfortable." I pointed to the one on my forearm. That was a... memorable one, to say the least. "This was when I lied about smoking weed and having sex. I was a dumb teenager who was too dependant on what people thought of me. I wanted to be cool, but I was just a sheltered brat." "You're a little hard on yourself. We all make mistakes." Very inspiring, but almost hollow coming from her. I gestured to the deep one on my neck. "This was when I lied about setting our garage on fire. I was playing around with my dad's lighter when I dropped it on the floor. For some reason, there was gas leaking from the car. The fumes ignited. The whole thing went up in flames. I said it was an electrical problem." "How much was the damage?" "100K, including the price of a new car. That drained our savings." "Wow..." I finished on my final one, my third one. A very deep one on my stomach. This was my least favorite. "This was when I lied about checking on grandma when she called our house. I ignored the call and told my parents she was fine. She'd called... she'd called us to say she fell and broke her back on the bathtub... she died the next day... I just... I feel so much guilt... and I told my parents it wasn't my fault..." "I'm sorry... that's horrible." "It's fine. The experience lead me to stop lying. I haven't told a lie in over 10 years." "Me too." An awkward silence hung over us. Would she talk about the scar? Would she ignore it? No, no no no we're nearing her apartment. I gotta say something! "I have a question, but you don't have to answer it if it makes you uncomfortable." "Shoot." "How did you get that scar across your chest?" She chuckled a bit, as if amused by my question. "LARP accident. Some guy brought a real claymore sword. He cut through my foam armor and went straight through my midsection, almost took my upper half off. The doctors say it was a miracle I survived." It... it wasn't a lie? It was an accident? That's so... relieving! My word, here I was thinking-- wait, is that a new scar on her arm? She laughed an unconvincing laugh. "I-I wasn't lying, that was true! I'm not a murderer or anything!" Another scar popped up. And I ran. ***** I ran so far awaaaaaay. I just raaaaan, I ran all night and daaaaay. I couldn't get away! /r/Picklestasteg00d.	One scar, started out small Each day, grew more and more It was a little lie at first But it wasn't any more A friend asked He answered The scar grew His mum called He replied The scar grew He asked himself He answered The scar grew As he made his fall
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I groan as I roll out of bed. Another day, trapped. Mom feeds me breakfast, smiling her usual smile as she talks about what the old ladies at church had been discussing. Heedless of the struggles going on in my head. I eat my eggs and bread in silence, trying to stay as small, as invisible as possible. I don’t say very much… perhaps that was why I didn’t have the usual scars that cover everyone else? I pass by the store on my way to school, making sure not to linger for too long, not let my brother get suspicious. I stare wistfully at the dresses and necklaces, so elegant and pretty. But my parents would never let me have such things. I glance down at my jeans and sweatshirt, hating how it made me appear masculine. My own body, betraying me. School passed by in a blur, like most days. My brother runs ahead, laughing as he bounds into our house without a care in the world. How nice it must be, to be born into the body you want. Father smiles at me, asks me the same question he’s asked every day since I started school. I noticed the scar that first night he asked, on my back as I took off my shirt to shower. It was the biggest I’d ever seen. I’ve never taken off my shirt in front of my family ever since. “Hey, kid! How’s life treating ya?” I pause, for a brief moment. “Fine, dad. I’m fine.”	I pass the open door of my favourite cafe, a warm plume of caramel scented air greets me, inviting me and pulling me off the cold winter street. I let myself get carried over to the bar, expecting to see the usual waiter; a burly man in his 40s wearing the usual faded suit jacket and dark jeans. As I look up, my breath is plucked from my lungs. I aren't greeted by the thinning blond hair and piercing blue eyes I expected, but a girl. Soft hair, brown and untamed cascaded over her shoulders on to the pristine white shirt and onto her bust. Everything seems to be in slow motion as my eyes trace every contour and shape of her body in detail. Unlike me, or any of the other customers, who's hands are littered with small flecks of white, which was the cost of keeping face in today's society, she was completely pure. From her head to her toes, not a single blemish on her silk skin. She is the definition of beautiful. Her delicate, porcelain hands clasped together in front of that short black dress, which is formal but still very attractive. Green eyes flicked up with a look of coy and curiosity as a faint smile worked it's way onto her soft peach lips. I blush. Her voice resonated into my mind, cutting off my thought. Matching her appearance, her words are softly spoken and sweet. The type of voice that reminds you of home. "Hi, my name's Mei. What are you ordering today, sir" she asks with enthusiasm. "Uh... a.." I fumble through my speech like a nervous child on his first day of school "A number 7 please" I falter for a moment after realizing my mistake. There is no number 7 on the menu. As soon as the words leave me, her eyes narrow. The persona of before has left her and now, all I can think of is danger. She asks me to follow her in a quick and monotone voice. That voice reminded me of a killer. Her speech and her walking pattern, as she walks through to a separate room is ruthless and efficient. No wasted movement. I follow nervously, almost tripping over myself and take a seat opposite her in the exquisitely decorated room I now find myself in. A square table, wooden and stained dark, separates us. "So Mr.. Hudson. You requested a model 23, complete organ transplants. You've transferred 14 million, half of the payment and were ready to begin." I don't understand. I'm panicking. Did she just say organ transplant? I desperately try to think of a way out of this situation but I'm distracted by the sight of Mei taking her formal shirt off to reveal a very thin, white top underneath. She looks so damn perfect. I've gained momentary relief from my panic just by the mere sight of her. That's when the real Mr Hudson walks in. He is very old and withered, covered in long, deep scars, spiralling across his body. He must be about 80, and he speaks with a dry, raspy voice. "I'm here to see Mei" he says almost innocently. Mei walks to meet him and that's when I see it. A huge, deep purple scar under the thin shirt she's wearing, swimming from the top of her neck all the way down to the small of her back, and then way past where I can see. She approaches him calmly whispers something in his ear. He raises and eyebrow and they both smile. My sense of danger kicks in again, and adrenaline starts to course through my veins. I get it now. "Now then sir, as you are probably aware, there has been a confusion between you and Mr Hudson here" she says gesturing to the old man with an open palm. She doesn't have to tell the truth like the rest of us. "Don't worry sir." She walks towards me with a smile. A smile of malice. That's not her body. "You're going to be just fine." She smiles as her green eyes turn cold and run through me. That's not her fucking body.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	The scar - singular, I must highlight - was so horrific, so deep, and so... extensive... It's either one huge lie, or... I had to look away as I realised I could take a full anatomy lesson just by looking at him naked. "I'm a software engineer, IT guy, and all round tech-guru," he murmured. "I keep skipping reading the sodding Terms and Conditions."	I pass the open door of my favourite cafe, a warm plume of caramel scented air greets me, inviting me and pulling me off the cold winter street. I let myself get carried over to the bar, expecting to see the usual waiter; a burly man in his 40s wearing the usual faded suit jacket and dark jeans. As I look up, my breath is plucked from my lungs. I aren't greeted by the thinning blond hair and piercing blue eyes I expected, but a girl. Soft hair, brown and untamed cascaded over her shoulders on to the pristine white shirt and onto her bust. Everything seems to be in slow motion as my eyes trace every contour and shape of her body in detail. Unlike me, or any of the other customers, who's hands are littered with small flecks of white, which was the cost of keeping face in today's society, she was completely pure. From her head to her toes, not a single blemish on her silk skin. She is the definition of beautiful. Her delicate, porcelain hands clasped together in front of that short black dress, which is formal but still very attractive. Green eyes flicked up with a look of coy and curiosity as a faint smile worked it's way onto her soft peach lips. I blush. Her voice resonated into my mind, cutting off my thought. Matching her appearance, her words are softly spoken and sweet. The type of voice that reminds you of home. "Hi, my name's Mei. What are you ordering today, sir" she asks with enthusiasm. "Uh... a.." I fumble through my speech like a nervous child on his first day of school "A number 7 please" I falter for a moment after realizing my mistake. There is no number 7 on the menu. As soon as the words leave me, her eyes narrow. The persona of before has left her and now, all I can think of is danger. She asks me to follow her in a quick and monotone voice. That voice reminded me of a killer. Her speech and her walking pattern, as she walks through to a separate room is ruthless and efficient. No wasted movement. I follow nervously, almost tripping over myself and take a seat opposite her in the exquisitely decorated room I now find myself in. A square table, wooden and stained dark, separates us. "So Mr.. Hudson. You requested a model 23, complete organ transplants. You've transferred 14 million, half of the payment and were ready to begin." I don't understand. I'm panicking. Did she just say organ transplant? I desperately try to think of a way out of this situation but I'm distracted by the sight of Mei taking her formal shirt off to reveal a very thin, white top underneath. She looks so damn perfect. I've gained momentary relief from my panic just by the mere sight of her. That's when the real Mr Hudson walks in. He is very old and withered, covered in long, deep scars, spiralling across his body. He must be about 80, and he speaks with a dry, raspy voice. "I'm here to see Mei" he says almost innocently. Mei walks to meet him and that's when I see it. A huge, deep purple scar under the thin shirt she's wearing, swimming from the top of her neck all the way down to the small of her back, and then way past where I can see. She approaches him calmly whispers something in his ear. He raises and eyebrow and they both smile. My sense of danger kicks in again, and adrenaline starts to course through my veins. I get it now. "Now then sir, as you are probably aware, there has been a confusion between you and Mr Hudson here" she says gesturing to the old man with an open palm. She doesn't have to tell the truth like the rest of us. "Don't worry sir." She walks towards me with a smile. A smile of malice. That's not her body. "You're going to be just fine." She smiles as her green eyes turn cold and run through me. That's not her fucking body.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I had always been comfortable with my scars. Thin silver and white lines were strewn across my skin, but they were small enough that you could only see them if you were standing close to me. I tried my best not to lie to others, but sometimes there was an option worse than deception. My chemistry lab partner from my freshman year of college had flawless skin. He often seemed distant or tired, but he was kind, hardworking, and by the looks of his skin, incredibly honest. I had never seen anyone like him and was instantly intrigued. Between classwork, study sessions, and late night pizza runs, I found myself falling in love with him. When I asked him if he would ever give me a chance, he said yes. My eyes glanced over his skin to gauge his honesty, but alas, no scars appeared. Before long, that man was my husband. Mark was never close to his family and focused all his energy on me and making sure that we had an amazing life together. In his vows he told me he would always love me and that I brought a new light to his life. On our honeymoon, his skin was still as flawless as the day he was born, and I knew that he meant every word. One day I was fixing dinner for Mark and myself. He stepped through the front door after a long day of work and I rushed into his arms to kiss him and ask about his day. He set down his briefcase, loosened his tie, and sighed. "What's wrong baby?" I asked. With sad eyes, he ever so slightly lifted his head to look at me and mumbled "My father died." I had never met Mark's father. His parents divorced when he was young, and Mark had a spotty relationship with his father after the divorce. I wasn't sure how deeply this news was affecting my husband, but I grabbed his hand and stretched up to my tip toes to kiss his forehead. Using my free hand to lift up his chin, I looked into Mark's once brilliantly bright eyes and told him I would do whatever he needed me to do. Six days later, I tightened the tie Mark asked me to pick out for him. I slipped on my heels and told Mark that I would be right beside him as he said his final goodbyes to his father. He chose not to speak at the funeral, but before he left he placed one hand on the casket, closed his eyes, and whispered "I love you, Dad." That night, I climbed into the shower with Mark to hold him close and comfort him. Sprawled across Mark's back was the longest, deepest scar I had ever seen. My husband's skin had been flawless that morning, and the only thing he had said all day was that he had loved his father. Concerned, I called Mark's mother the next day while Mark was at work. It took some encouraging, but his mom finally spilled the only secret Mark had ever kept from me. "Hannah, Mark had an older sister. When Mark's father and I divorced, Mark stayed with me and his sister moved in with her dad. When Mark was 11, his dad was driving his sister to a friend's birthday party....only he was drunk. He ran a red light and a car crossing the intersection crashed into the passenger side of the car, killing Mark's sister. I don't think Mark ever saw his father sober after that, and he never fully forgave him." Disbelieving, I thanked Mark's mother for her time and hung up. I never mentioned the conversation or the new scar to Mark, but I held him a little tighter and kissed him a little longer that night. His skin would never be flawless again, but to me he was still perfect.	I pass the open door of my favourite cafe, a warm plume of caramel scented air greets me, inviting me and pulling me off the cold winter street. I let myself get carried over to the bar, expecting to see the usual waiter; a burly man in his 40s wearing the usual faded suit jacket and dark jeans. As I look up, my breath is plucked from my lungs. I aren't greeted by the thinning blond hair and piercing blue eyes I expected, but a girl. Soft hair, brown and untamed cascaded over her shoulders on to the pristine white shirt and onto her bust. Everything seems to be in slow motion as my eyes trace every contour and shape of her body in detail. Unlike me, or any of the other customers, who's hands are littered with small flecks of white, which was the cost of keeping face in today's society, she was completely pure. From her head to her toes, not a single blemish on her silk skin. She is the definition of beautiful. Her delicate, porcelain hands clasped together in front of that short black dress, which is formal but still very attractive. Green eyes flicked up with a look of coy and curiosity as a faint smile worked it's way onto her soft peach lips. I blush. Her voice resonated into my mind, cutting off my thought. Matching her appearance, her words are softly spoken and sweet. The type of voice that reminds you of home. "Hi, my name's Mei. What are you ordering today, sir" she asks with enthusiasm. "Uh... a.." I fumble through my speech like a nervous child on his first day of school "A number 7 please" I falter for a moment after realizing my mistake. There is no number 7 on the menu. As soon as the words leave me, her eyes narrow. The persona of before has left her and now, all I can think of is danger. She asks me to follow her in a quick and monotone voice. That voice reminded me of a killer. Her speech and her walking pattern, as she walks through to a separate room is ruthless and efficient. No wasted movement. I follow nervously, almost tripping over myself and take a seat opposite her in the exquisitely decorated room I now find myself in. A square table, wooden and stained dark, separates us. "So Mr.. Hudson. You requested a model 23, complete organ transplants. You've transferred 14 million, half of the payment and were ready to begin." I don't understand. I'm panicking. Did she just say organ transplant? I desperately try to think of a way out of this situation but I'm distracted by the sight of Mei taking her formal shirt off to reveal a very thin, white top underneath. She looks so damn perfect. I've gained momentary relief from my panic just by the mere sight of her. That's when the real Mr Hudson walks in. He is very old and withered, covered in long, deep scars, spiralling across his body. He must be about 80, and he speaks with a dry, raspy voice. "I'm here to see Mei" he says almost innocently. Mei walks to meet him and that's when I see it. A huge, deep purple scar under the thin shirt she's wearing, swimming from the top of her neck all the way down to the small of her back, and then way past where I can see. She approaches him calmly whispers something in his ear. He raises and eyebrow and they both smile. My sense of danger kicks in again, and adrenaline starts to course through my veins. I get it now. "Now then sir, as you are probably aware, there has been a confusion between you and Mr Hudson here" she says gesturing to the old man with an open palm. She doesn't have to tell the truth like the rest of us. "Don't worry sir." She walks towards me with a smile. A smile of malice. That's not her body. "You're going to be just fine." She smiles as her green eyes turn cold and run through me. That's not her fucking body.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I'd... I'd never seen anything like it. It went through her body to the other side. I've seen murderers and heavily experienced con-men with shallower scars. This was... shocking. The moonlight reflected from her fair, creamy skin as we walked. I looked for more lies, but I could find none. Only the deep one across her chest, the one she showed but never explained. Even the last Pope had two scars, albeit quite shallow. She swept her silky amber hair to the side and showed a faint smile. She seemed happy, but I was not. I couldn't focus. I needed to know her lie. I had to know, but I didn't want to drive her away. I tried the subtle approach, but I'm not too good with subtlety. "Would you like to know how I got these scars?" I asked, like the Joker after a five-month hospital regimen. My shyness was showing, but I'm not sure she picked up on it. "Sure, if you want to tell. As long as it doesn't make you uncomfortable." I pointed to the one on my forearm. That was a... memorable one, to say the least. "This was when I lied about smoking weed and having sex. I was a dumb teenager who was too dependant on what people thought of me. I wanted to be cool, but I was just a sheltered brat." "You're a little hard on yourself. We all make mistakes." Very inspiring, but almost hollow coming from her. I gestured to the deep one on my neck. "This was when I lied about setting our garage on fire. I was playing around with my dad's lighter when I dropped it on the floor. For some reason, there was gas leaking from the car. The fumes ignited. The whole thing went up in flames. I said it was an electrical problem." "How much was the damage?" "100K, including the price of a new car. That drained our savings." "Wow..." I finished on my final one, my third one. A very deep one on my stomach. This was my least favorite. "This was when I lied about checking on grandma when she called our house. I ignored the call and told my parents she was fine. She'd called... she'd called us to say she fell and broke her back on the bathtub... she died the next day... I just... I feel so much guilt... and I told my parents it wasn't my fault..." "I'm sorry... that's horrible." "It's fine. The experience lead me to stop lying. I haven't told a lie in over 10 years." "Me too." An awkward silence hung over us. Would she talk about the scar? Would she ignore it? No, no no no we're nearing her apartment. I gotta say something! "I have a question, but you don't have to answer it if it makes you uncomfortable." "Shoot." "How did you get that scar across your chest?" She chuckled a bit, as if amused by my question. "LARP accident. Some guy brought a real claymore sword. He cut through my foam armor and went straight through my midsection, almost took my upper half off. The doctors say it was a miracle I survived." It... it wasn't a lie? It was an accident? That's so... relieving! My word, here I was thinking-- wait, is that a new scar on her arm? She laughed an unconvincing laugh. "I-I wasn't lying, that was true! I'm not a murderer or anything!" Another scar popped up. And I ran. ***** I ran so far awaaaaaay. I just raaaaan, I ran all night and daaaaay. I couldn't get away! /r/Picklestasteg00d.	I pass the open door of my favourite cafe, a warm plume of caramel scented air greets me, inviting me and pulling me off the cold winter street. I let myself get carried over to the bar, expecting to see the usual waiter; a burly man in his 40s wearing the usual faded suit jacket and dark jeans. As I look up, my breath is plucked from my lungs. I aren't greeted by the thinning blond hair and piercing blue eyes I expected, but a girl. Soft hair, brown and untamed cascaded over her shoulders on to the pristine white shirt and onto her bust. Everything seems to be in slow motion as my eyes trace every contour and shape of her body in detail. Unlike me, or any of the other customers, who's hands are littered with small flecks of white, which was the cost of keeping face in today's society, she was completely pure. From her head to her toes, not a single blemish on her silk skin. She is the definition of beautiful. Her delicate, porcelain hands clasped together in front of that short black dress, which is formal but still very attractive. Green eyes flicked up with a look of coy and curiosity as a faint smile worked it's way onto her soft peach lips. I blush. Her voice resonated into my mind, cutting off my thought. Matching her appearance, her words are softly spoken and sweet. The type of voice that reminds you of home. "Hi, my name's Mei. What are you ordering today, sir" she asks with enthusiasm. "Uh... a.." I fumble through my speech like a nervous child on his first day of school "A number 7 please" I falter for a moment after realizing my mistake. There is no number 7 on the menu. As soon as the words leave me, her eyes narrow. The persona of before has left her and now, all I can think of is danger. She asks me to follow her in a quick and monotone voice. That voice reminded me of a killer. Her speech and her walking pattern, as she walks through to a separate room is ruthless and efficient. No wasted movement. I follow nervously, almost tripping over myself and take a seat opposite her in the exquisitely decorated room I now find myself in. A square table, wooden and stained dark, separates us. "So Mr.. Hudson. You requested a model 23, complete organ transplants. You've transferred 14 million, half of the payment and were ready to begin." I don't understand. I'm panicking. Did she just say organ transplant? I desperately try to think of a way out of this situation but I'm distracted by the sight of Mei taking her formal shirt off to reveal a very thin, white top underneath. She looks so damn perfect. I've gained momentary relief from my panic just by the mere sight of her. That's when the real Mr Hudson walks in. He is very old and withered, covered in long, deep scars, spiralling across his body. He must be about 80, and he speaks with a dry, raspy voice. "I'm here to see Mei" he says almost innocently. Mei walks to meet him and that's when I see it. A huge, deep purple scar under the thin shirt she's wearing, swimming from the top of her neck all the way down to the small of her back, and then way past where I can see. She approaches him calmly whispers something in his ear. He raises and eyebrow and they both smile. My sense of danger kicks in again, and adrenaline starts to course through my veins. I get it now. "Now then sir, as you are probably aware, there has been a confusion between you and Mr Hudson here" she says gesturing to the old man with an open palm. She doesn't have to tell the truth like the rest of us. "Don't worry sir." She walks towards me with a smile. A smile of malice. That's not her body. "You're going to be just fine." She smiles as her green eyes turn cold and run through me. That's not her fucking body.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	The scar - singular, I must highlight - was so horrific, so deep, and so... extensive... It's either one huge lie, or... I had to look away as I realised I could take a full anatomy lesson just by looking at him naked. "I'm a software engineer, IT guy, and all round tech-guru," he murmured. "I keep skipping reading the sodding Terms and Conditions."	I groan as I roll out of bed. Another day, trapped. Mom feeds me breakfast, smiling her usual smile as she talks about what the old ladies at church had been discussing. Heedless of the struggles going on in my head. I eat my eggs and bread in silence, trying to stay as small, as invisible as possible. I don’t say very much… perhaps that was why I didn’t have the usual scars that cover everyone else? I pass by the store on my way to school, making sure not to linger for too long, not let my brother get suspicious. I stare wistfully at the dresses and necklaces, so elegant and pretty. But my parents would never let me have such things. I glance down at my jeans and sweatshirt, hating how it made me appear masculine. My own body, betraying me. School passed by in a blur, like most days. My brother runs ahead, laughing as he bounds into our house without a care in the world. How nice it must be, to be born into the body you want. Father smiles at me, asks me the same question he’s asked every day since I started school. I noticed the scar that first night he asked, on my back as I took off my shirt to shower. It was the biggest I’d ever seen. I’ve never taken off my shirt in front of my family ever since. “Hey, kid! How’s life treating ya?” I pause, for a brief moment. “Fine, dad. I’m fine.”
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I had always been comfortable with my scars. Thin silver and white lines were strewn across my skin, but they were small enough that you could only see them if you were standing close to me. I tried my best not to lie to others, but sometimes there was an option worse than deception. My chemistry lab partner from my freshman year of college had flawless skin. He often seemed distant or tired, but he was kind, hardworking, and by the looks of his skin, incredibly honest. I had never seen anyone like him and was instantly intrigued. Between classwork, study sessions, and late night pizza runs, I found myself falling in love with him. When I asked him if he would ever give me a chance, he said yes. My eyes glanced over his skin to gauge his honesty, but alas, no scars appeared. Before long, that man was my husband. Mark was never close to his family and focused all his energy on me and making sure that we had an amazing life together. In his vows he told me he would always love me and that I brought a new light to his life. On our honeymoon, his skin was still as flawless as the day he was born, and I knew that he meant every word. One day I was fixing dinner for Mark and myself. He stepped through the front door after a long day of work and I rushed into his arms to kiss him and ask about his day. He set down his briefcase, loosened his tie, and sighed. "What's wrong baby?" I asked. With sad eyes, he ever so slightly lifted his head to look at me and mumbled "My father died." I had never met Mark's father. His parents divorced when he was young, and Mark had a spotty relationship with his father after the divorce. I wasn't sure how deeply this news was affecting my husband, but I grabbed his hand and stretched up to my tip toes to kiss his forehead. Using my free hand to lift up his chin, I looked into Mark's once brilliantly bright eyes and told him I would do whatever he needed me to do. Six days later, I tightened the tie Mark asked me to pick out for him. I slipped on my heels and told Mark that I would be right beside him as he said his final goodbyes to his father. He chose not to speak at the funeral, but before he left he placed one hand on the casket, closed his eyes, and whispered "I love you, Dad." That night, I climbed into the shower with Mark to hold him close and comfort him. Sprawled across Mark's back was the longest, deepest scar I had ever seen. My husband's skin had been flawless that morning, and the only thing he had said all day was that he had loved his father. Concerned, I called Mark's mother the next day while Mark was at work. It took some encouraging, but his mom finally spilled the only secret Mark had ever kept from me. "Hannah, Mark had an older sister. When Mark's father and I divorced, Mark stayed with me and his sister moved in with her dad. When Mark was 11, his dad was driving his sister to a friend's birthday party....only he was drunk. He ran a red light and a car crossing the intersection crashed into the passenger side of the car, killing Mark's sister. I don't think Mark ever saw his father sober after that, and he never fully forgave him." Disbelieving, I thanked Mark's mother for her time and hung up. I never mentioned the conversation or the new scar to Mark, but I held him a little tighter and kissed him a little longer that night. His skin would never be flawless again, but to me he was still perfect.	I groan as I roll out of bed. Another day, trapped. Mom feeds me breakfast, smiling her usual smile as she talks about what the old ladies at church had been discussing. Heedless of the struggles going on in my head. I eat my eggs and bread in silence, trying to stay as small, as invisible as possible. I don’t say very much… perhaps that was why I didn’t have the usual scars that cover everyone else? I pass by the store on my way to school, making sure not to linger for too long, not let my brother get suspicious. I stare wistfully at the dresses and necklaces, so elegant and pretty. But my parents would never let me have such things. I glance down at my jeans and sweatshirt, hating how it made me appear masculine. My own body, betraying me. School passed by in a blur, like most days. My brother runs ahead, laughing as he bounds into our house without a care in the world. How nice it must be, to be born into the body you want. Father smiles at me, asks me the same question he’s asked every day since I started school. I noticed the scar that first night he asked, on my back as I took off my shirt to shower. It was the biggest I’d ever seen. I’ve never taken off my shirt in front of my family ever since. “Hey, kid! How’s life treating ya?” I pause, for a brief moment. “Fine, dad. I’m fine.”
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I'd... I'd never seen anything like it. It went through her body to the other side. I've seen murderers and heavily experienced con-men with shallower scars. This was... shocking. The moonlight reflected from her fair, creamy skin as we walked. I looked for more lies, but I could find none. Only the deep one across her chest, the one she showed but never explained. Even the last Pope had two scars, albeit quite shallow. She swept her silky amber hair to the side and showed a faint smile. She seemed happy, but I was not. I couldn't focus. I needed to know her lie. I had to know, but I didn't want to drive her away. I tried the subtle approach, but I'm not too good with subtlety. "Would you like to know how I got these scars?" I asked, like the Joker after a five-month hospital regimen. My shyness was showing, but I'm not sure she picked up on it. "Sure, if you want to tell. As long as it doesn't make you uncomfortable." I pointed to the one on my forearm. That was a... memorable one, to say the least. "This was when I lied about smoking weed and having sex. I was a dumb teenager who was too dependant on what people thought of me. I wanted to be cool, but I was just a sheltered brat." "You're a little hard on yourself. We all make mistakes." Very inspiring, but almost hollow coming from her. I gestured to the deep one on my neck. "This was when I lied about setting our garage on fire. I was playing around with my dad's lighter when I dropped it on the floor. For some reason, there was gas leaking from the car. The fumes ignited. The whole thing went up in flames. I said it was an electrical problem." "How much was the damage?" "100K, including the price of a new car. That drained our savings." "Wow..." I finished on my final one, my third one. A very deep one on my stomach. This was my least favorite. "This was when I lied about checking on grandma when she called our house. I ignored the call and told my parents she was fine. She'd called... she'd called us to say she fell and broke her back on the bathtub... she died the next day... I just... I feel so much guilt... and I told my parents it wasn't my fault..." "I'm sorry... that's horrible." "It's fine. The experience lead me to stop lying. I haven't told a lie in over 10 years." "Me too." An awkward silence hung over us. Would she talk about the scar? Would she ignore it? No, no no no we're nearing her apartment. I gotta say something! "I have a question, but you don't have to answer it if it makes you uncomfortable." "Shoot." "How did you get that scar across your chest?" She chuckled a bit, as if amused by my question. "LARP accident. Some guy brought a real claymore sword. He cut through my foam armor and went straight through my midsection, almost took my upper half off. The doctors say it was a miracle I survived." It... it wasn't a lie? It was an accident? That's so... relieving! My word, here I was thinking-- wait, is that a new scar on her arm? She laughed an unconvincing laugh. "I-I wasn't lying, that was true! I'm not a murderer or anything!" Another scar popped up. And I ran. ***** I ran so far awaaaaaay. I just raaaaan, I ran all night and daaaaay. I couldn't get away! /r/Picklestasteg00d.	I groan as I roll out of bed. Another day, trapped. Mom feeds me breakfast, smiling her usual smile as she talks about what the old ladies at church had been discussing. Heedless of the struggles going on in my head. I eat my eggs and bread in silence, trying to stay as small, as invisible as possible. I don’t say very much… perhaps that was why I didn’t have the usual scars that cover everyone else? I pass by the store on my way to school, making sure not to linger for too long, not let my brother get suspicious. I stare wistfully at the dresses and necklaces, so elegant and pretty. But my parents would never let me have such things. I glance down at my jeans and sweatshirt, hating how it made me appear masculine. My own body, betraying me. School passed by in a blur, like most days. My brother runs ahead, laughing as he bounds into our house without a care in the world. How nice it must be, to be born into the body you want. Father smiles at me, asks me the same question he’s asked every day since I started school. I noticed the scar that first night he asked, on my back as I took off my shirt to shower. It was the biggest I’d ever seen. I’ve never taken off my shirt in front of my family ever since. “Hey, kid! How’s life treating ya?” I pause, for a brief moment. “Fine, dad. I’m fine.”
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I had always been comfortable with my scars. Thin silver and white lines were strewn across my skin, but they were small enough that you could only see them if you were standing close to me. I tried my best not to lie to others, but sometimes there was an option worse than deception. My chemistry lab partner from my freshman year of college had flawless skin. He often seemed distant or tired, but he was kind, hardworking, and by the looks of his skin, incredibly honest. I had never seen anyone like him and was instantly intrigued. Between classwork, study sessions, and late night pizza runs, I found myself falling in love with him. When I asked him if he would ever give me a chance, he said yes. My eyes glanced over his skin to gauge his honesty, but alas, no scars appeared. Before long, that man was my husband. Mark was never close to his family and focused all his energy on me and making sure that we had an amazing life together. In his vows he told me he would always love me and that I brought a new light to his life. On our honeymoon, his skin was still as flawless as the day he was born, and I knew that he meant every word. One day I was fixing dinner for Mark and myself. He stepped through the front door after a long day of work and I rushed into his arms to kiss him and ask about his day. He set down his briefcase, loosened his tie, and sighed. "What's wrong baby?" I asked. With sad eyes, he ever so slightly lifted his head to look at me and mumbled "My father died." I had never met Mark's father. His parents divorced when he was young, and Mark had a spotty relationship with his father after the divorce. I wasn't sure how deeply this news was affecting my husband, but I grabbed his hand and stretched up to my tip toes to kiss his forehead. Using my free hand to lift up his chin, I looked into Mark's once brilliantly bright eyes and told him I would do whatever he needed me to do. Six days later, I tightened the tie Mark asked me to pick out for him. I slipped on my heels and told Mark that I would be right beside him as he said his final goodbyes to his father. He chose not to speak at the funeral, but before he left he placed one hand on the casket, closed his eyes, and whispered "I love you, Dad." That night, I climbed into the shower with Mark to hold him close and comfort him. Sprawled across Mark's back was the longest, deepest scar I had ever seen. My husband's skin had been flawless that morning, and the only thing he had said all day was that he had loved his father. Concerned, I called Mark's mother the next day while Mark was at work. It took some encouraging, but his mom finally spilled the only secret Mark had ever kept from me. "Hannah, Mark had an older sister. When Mark's father and I divorced, Mark stayed with me and his sister moved in with her dad. When Mark was 11, his dad was driving his sister to a friend's birthday party....only he was drunk. He ran a red light and a car crossing the intersection crashed into the passenger side of the car, killing Mark's sister. I don't think Mark ever saw his father sober after that, and he never fully forgave him." Disbelieving, I thanked Mark's mother for her time and hung up. I never mentioned the conversation or the new scar to Mark, but I held him a little tighter and kissed him a little longer that night. His skin would never be flawless again, but to me he was still perfect.	I was flirting with being deemed a "Marked One" with my most recent scars. The Marked Ones had a lot of trouble fitting into society. It was an accepted form of prejudice. After all, you weren't judging someone based on race, creed, sexual orientation, hell even college football team allegiance. No, it was purely a judgement based on lies. I had quite a few, but never any big ones. Kept me from getting a job in finance, but I landed plenty of manual labor. Most recently, I had earned myself a spot recycling concrete. I lined up next to a few ex-cons, and a few that I knew were illegal immigrants. George, he had a scar from his eye to his chest...I knew not to ask him about that one. I was off kilter today. Everything was irritating me, despite my awareness that what I was getting upset over was unimportant to me, my better angels were silent. Finally the boss called us on break for lunch after a tough day on the line. I took a tumble head first and nearly hit my face on an exposed road sign post. I looked down at my squished peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and also George's hammer that he had left out. I got up with rage in my eyes. "Awww Honey, that's the saddest little sandwich I've ever seen" she said, before I could let out a holler at a giant ex-con. "You'll have to let me make you some lunch" I looked over and recognized her. It was the boss's daughter Scarlet. She had come through a few times, and the crew did their best to avert their eyes and hold in their whistles. She was just out of high school, but damn if she wasn't the curviest woman I'd ever seen. Jet black hair, green eyes, freckles, and a ridiculously tight bod. I guess she did gymnastics or something? It was the first time I'd seen her and it wasn't 40 below. She had come by during the winter and brought soup to her dad a few times. She was wearing a tank top and some silly-tight jeans. She was a "Pure One"...no surprise there. I'm sure her dad provided everything to her, and she didn't have to lie very often. In fact, I didn't see any at all. That was until she turned around to head back to the boss's trailer. It was the longest and most hideous scar I'd ever seen. I could barely catch pieces of it between her shirt and her pants, but God...it was so wide and deep. "There's not much here, but I can reheat some of last nights dinner" she caught eyes with me, and I could tell I wasn't hiding my shocked face very well. A nervousness came over her, and she began to tear up. She quickly wiped the tear away and turned to change the subject back to the roast and potatoes she was getting for me. She laid it out on the desk where I was sitting, and chimed in, "I saw George's hammer, and I saw you about to get yourself killed--" she looked up. She could tell I was still fixated on her mark. She paused, "Johnny right? Your name's Johnny?" I nodded. "...Listen, if I tell you what it was, you have to promise that you won't tell anyone, and forget you ever saw it." I nodded, slower this time. "My Dad, he's been too close to me ever since I could remember." My face of shock and awe turned to a sympathetic one. The pain in her eyes and voice echoed to the bottom of my gut. "He's abused me and my sister the whole time we've been in the house since Mom went to prison." She began to cry. "My little sister Vanessa, she told the police about everything. He was going to be locked away finally. They came to me to corroborate her story, and I...I" She pointed to the scar. "He beat her so bad that night, the police chalked it up to her having a creative imagination...That's what I told them, that she had a creative imagination...with all of those little scars on her body. Now she has real ones." She let out a flurry of tears and sobs. I already hated Jim, her father. It didn't surprise me that he abused anyone. He worked us like slaves and threw shit around the work site constantly. He fired Tony when his wife got cancer and he couldn't come in. I already wanted to shove my foot up his pretentious ass. How could he do that to his own kids? It was something I pondered over for the rest of the day. The rest of the day went by quicker. I worked with a rage. A rage of injustice. The chime rang for the end of the day. I felt a little relief. I started to walk off and tripped head first and this time I wasn't so lucky. I fell right into an exposed road sign post and it made it's way into bloodying my eye. I looked back, squinting through one good eye. It was George's hammer again. He looked at me nervously as if to say I'm sorry with his eyes. I took a deep breath and went over and picked it up to hand to him. "You clumsy motherfucker. Don't think you're getting any time off for your own bullshit" It was Jim. I looked up at his face with a blind rage. In a flash I looked down at a bloody hammer. My eye widened. I had just struck him. I looked down at him convulsing as blood shot out of his head. Then it stopped. George looked down with his hand on his neck. "He's dead Johnny" he said solemnly. I saw a figure walking slowly off the work site. It was Scarlet. She turned towards me. A scar ripped her face, all the way down to her legs.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I'd... I'd never seen anything like it. It went through her body to the other side. I've seen murderers and heavily experienced con-men with shallower scars. This was... shocking. The moonlight reflected from her fair, creamy skin as we walked. I looked for more lies, but I could find none. Only the deep one across her chest, the one she showed but never explained. Even the last Pope had two scars, albeit quite shallow. She swept her silky amber hair to the side and showed a faint smile. She seemed happy, but I was not. I couldn't focus. I needed to know her lie. I had to know, but I didn't want to drive her away. I tried the subtle approach, but I'm not too good with subtlety. "Would you like to know how I got these scars?" I asked, like the Joker after a five-month hospital regimen. My shyness was showing, but I'm not sure she picked up on it. "Sure, if you want to tell. As long as it doesn't make you uncomfortable." I pointed to the one on my forearm. That was a... memorable one, to say the least. "This was when I lied about smoking weed and having sex. I was a dumb teenager who was too dependant on what people thought of me. I wanted to be cool, but I was just a sheltered brat." "You're a little hard on yourself. We all make mistakes." Very inspiring, but almost hollow coming from her. I gestured to the deep one on my neck. "This was when I lied about setting our garage on fire. I was playing around with my dad's lighter when I dropped it on the floor. For some reason, there was gas leaking from the car. The fumes ignited. The whole thing went up in flames. I said it was an electrical problem." "How much was the damage?" "100K, including the price of a new car. That drained our savings." "Wow..." I finished on my final one, my third one. A very deep one on my stomach. This was my least favorite. "This was when I lied about checking on grandma when she called our house. I ignored the call and told my parents she was fine. She'd called... she'd called us to say she fell and broke her back on the bathtub... she died the next day... I just... I feel so much guilt... and I told my parents it wasn't my fault..." "I'm sorry... that's horrible." "It's fine. The experience lead me to stop lying. I haven't told a lie in over 10 years." "Me too." An awkward silence hung over us. Would she talk about the scar? Would she ignore it? No, no no no we're nearing her apartment. I gotta say something! "I have a question, but you don't have to answer it if it makes you uncomfortable." "Shoot." "How did you get that scar across your chest?" She chuckled a bit, as if amused by my question. "LARP accident. Some guy brought a real claymore sword. He cut through my foam armor and went straight through my midsection, almost took my upper half off. The doctors say it was a miracle I survived." It... it wasn't a lie? It was an accident? That's so... relieving! My word, here I was thinking-- wait, is that a new scar on her arm? She laughed an unconvincing laugh. "I-I wasn't lying, that was true! I'm not a murderer or anything!" Another scar popped up. And I ran. ***** I ran so far awaaaaaay. I just raaaaan, I ran all night and daaaaay. I couldn't get away! /r/Picklestasteg00d.	I was flirting with being deemed a "Marked One" with my most recent scars. The Marked Ones had a lot of trouble fitting into society. It was an accepted form of prejudice. After all, you weren't judging someone based on race, creed, sexual orientation, hell even college football team allegiance. No, it was purely a judgement based on lies. I had quite a few, but never any big ones. Kept me from getting a job in finance, but I landed plenty of manual labor. Most recently, I had earned myself a spot recycling concrete. I lined up next to a few ex-cons, and a few that I knew were illegal immigrants. George, he had a scar from his eye to his chest...I knew not to ask him about that one. I was off kilter today. Everything was irritating me, despite my awareness that what I was getting upset over was unimportant to me, my better angels were silent. Finally the boss called us on break for lunch after a tough day on the line. I took a tumble head first and nearly hit my face on an exposed road sign post. I looked down at my squished peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and also George's hammer that he had left out. I got up with rage in my eyes. "Awww Honey, that's the saddest little sandwich I've ever seen" she said, before I could let out a holler at a giant ex-con. "You'll have to let me make you some lunch" I looked over and recognized her. It was the boss's daughter Scarlet. She had come through a few times, and the crew did their best to avert their eyes and hold in their whistles. She was just out of high school, but damn if she wasn't the curviest woman I'd ever seen. Jet black hair, green eyes, freckles, and a ridiculously tight bod. I guess she did gymnastics or something? It was the first time I'd seen her and it wasn't 40 below. She had come by during the winter and brought soup to her dad a few times. She was wearing a tank top and some silly-tight jeans. She was a "Pure One"...no surprise there. I'm sure her dad provided everything to her, and she didn't have to lie very often. In fact, I didn't see any at all. That was until she turned around to head back to the boss's trailer. It was the longest and most hideous scar I'd ever seen. I could barely catch pieces of it between her shirt and her pants, but God...it was so wide and deep. "There's not much here, but I can reheat some of last nights dinner" she caught eyes with me, and I could tell I wasn't hiding my shocked face very well. A nervousness came over her, and she began to tear up. She quickly wiped the tear away and turned to change the subject back to the roast and potatoes she was getting for me. She laid it out on the desk where I was sitting, and chimed in, "I saw George's hammer, and I saw you about to get yourself killed--" she looked up. She could tell I was still fixated on her mark. She paused, "Johnny right? Your name's Johnny?" I nodded. "...Listen, if I tell you what it was, you have to promise that you won't tell anyone, and forget you ever saw it." I nodded, slower this time. "My Dad, he's been too close to me ever since I could remember." My face of shock and awe turned to a sympathetic one. The pain in her eyes and voice echoed to the bottom of my gut. "He's abused me and my sister the whole time we've been in the house since Mom went to prison." She began to cry. "My little sister Vanessa, she told the police about everything. He was going to be locked away finally. They came to me to corroborate her story, and I...I" She pointed to the scar. "He beat her so bad that night, the police chalked it up to her having a creative imagination...That's what I told them, that she had a creative imagination...with all of those little scars on her body. Now she has real ones." She let out a flurry of tears and sobs. I already hated Jim, her father. It didn't surprise me that he abused anyone. He worked us like slaves and threw shit around the work site constantly. He fired Tony when his wife got cancer and he couldn't come in. I already wanted to shove my foot up his pretentious ass. How could he do that to his own kids? It was something I pondered over for the rest of the day. The rest of the day went by quicker. I worked with a rage. A rage of injustice. The chime rang for the end of the day. I felt a little relief. I started to walk off and tripped head first and this time I wasn't so lucky. I fell right into an exposed road sign post and it made it's way into bloodying my eye. I looked back, squinting through one good eye. It was George's hammer again. He looked at me nervously as if to say I'm sorry with his eyes. I took a deep breath and went over and picked it up to hand to him. "You clumsy motherfucker. Don't think you're getting any time off for your own bullshit" It was Jim. I looked up at his face with a blind rage. In a flash I looked down at a bloody hammer. My eye widened. I had just struck him. I looked down at him convulsing as blood shot out of his head. Then it stopped. George looked down with his hand on his neck. "He's dead Johnny" he said solemnly. I saw a figure walking slowly off the work site. It was Scarlet. She turned towards me. A scar ripped her face, all the way down to her legs.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	Everyone has scars, there's no denying it and if someone does they're just going to get another scar. The scars we get from telling lies don't hurt us physically, hell, we can hardly even feel them. Some scars are deep, some are hardly noticeable, but they are still there and there's no such thing as a scarless body. The only person that I have met who came close only had one scar, but it was the worst scar I have ever seen. His name is Harold and when I met him all I could see of his scar was the part that went over his eye and down his face and neck into his shirt. It wasn't until we got to know each other better that he showed me it's true extent. A scar that continued down past his heart and wrapped all the way to his back. I met Harold at a bar a few years after I graduated college, we talked over drinks and found we had a lot in common. Harold was ten years older than me, but we both had a son that was in grade school, they even went to the same school. We met more frequently at the bar and eventually started to spend time together outside of the bar. As the time passed our friendship grew stronger, we did so much together with our children that most people thought that we were related. Our children became best friends as they grew up. We were both single fathers. I had my son with a girlfriend from college who dropped him off with me one day and never came back. Harold's wife left him when his son was only a few years old. I've never been one to hide my scars. I talk about most of my scars when the topic comes up, but there are some that only Harold knows the reasoning behind. Harold never talked about his scar and that was fine, I knew when the time was right he would. I never asked because it isn't polite to ask someone about their scars. I tied to not talk about scars around Harold because I knew it made him uncomfortable considering the size of his. The only thing that I know about Harold's scar is that he didn't get it all that long ago. I asked Harold how he could go his whole life only telling one lie and he would always say he didn't ever feel the need to lie. Even if we didn't get scars with every lie, I don't think that Harold would be able to lie. He was always the first to admit he was wrong or that he screwed up. He was down to earth and everyone loved him. Harold was always putting others first, he was always the one with the loudest laugh or the biggest smile. He always seemed to be the happiest person in the room and it was hard to be sad around him. He always lifted everyone's spirits when things seemed bleak. One day when Harold and I were with our kids at the local swimming pool Harold fainted. We rushed him to the hospital where they ran some tests on him. I waited with him in hours of agony before they brought back results. Cancer. That's the only word I heard. My mind went blank and I sat in shock with my best friend as the doctor told him there wasn't much treatment available because of how far along it was. I spent the next few weeks visiting the hospital every day. I spent hours with him at a time and we would talk about everything under the sun and reminisce about all the time we spent together. As his body grew weaker I spent more time at the hospital. I didn't want to lose my friend yet and I knew I needed to be there for the time that he did have left. One day he told me that he wanted to tell me about his scar. He said he knew that I always wanted to ask about it. A scar appeared across my hand as I told him that wasn't true and we both laughed. He told me that his scar came with one single word. It happened one morning at home while he was laying in bed with his wife. She was admiring his scarless body and they were talking about the life he led up to this point. He told stories about the times that he thought about accepting a scar but he couldn't bring himself to lie. His wife stared at him a while, then asked him if he was happy. Harold said yes and smiled, as the scar tore through his body. He said it was the most painful scar imaginable. When he was done with his story, he simply said he was going to miss me. I told him I would miss him every day as he closed his eyes for the last time.	I was flirting with being deemed a "Marked One" with my most recent scars. The Marked Ones had a lot of trouble fitting into society. It was an accepted form of prejudice. After all, you weren't judging someone based on race, creed, sexual orientation, hell even college football team allegiance. No, it was purely a judgement based on lies. I had quite a few, but never any big ones. Kept me from getting a job in finance, but I landed plenty of manual labor. Most recently, I had earned myself a spot recycling concrete. I lined up next to a few ex-cons, and a few that I knew were illegal immigrants. George, he had a scar from his eye to his chest...I knew not to ask him about that one. I was off kilter today. Everything was irritating me, despite my awareness that what I was getting upset over was unimportant to me, my better angels were silent. Finally the boss called us on break for lunch after a tough day on the line. I took a tumble head first and nearly hit my face on an exposed road sign post. I looked down at my squished peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and also George's hammer that he had left out. I got up with rage in my eyes. "Awww Honey, that's the saddest little sandwich I've ever seen" she said, before I could let out a holler at a giant ex-con. "You'll have to let me make you some lunch" I looked over and recognized her. It was the boss's daughter Scarlet. She had come through a few times, and the crew did their best to avert their eyes and hold in their whistles. She was just out of high school, but damn if she wasn't the curviest woman I'd ever seen. Jet black hair, green eyes, freckles, and a ridiculously tight bod. I guess she did gymnastics or something? It was the first time I'd seen her and it wasn't 40 below. She had come by during the winter and brought soup to her dad a few times. She was wearing a tank top and some silly-tight jeans. She was a "Pure One"...no surprise there. I'm sure her dad provided everything to her, and she didn't have to lie very often. In fact, I didn't see any at all. That was until she turned around to head back to the boss's trailer. It was the longest and most hideous scar I'd ever seen. I could barely catch pieces of it between her shirt and her pants, but God...it was so wide and deep. "There's not much here, but I can reheat some of last nights dinner" she caught eyes with me, and I could tell I wasn't hiding my shocked face very well. A nervousness came over her, and she began to tear up. She quickly wiped the tear away and turned to change the subject back to the roast and potatoes she was getting for me. She laid it out on the desk where I was sitting, and chimed in, "I saw George's hammer, and I saw you about to get yourself killed--" she looked up. She could tell I was still fixated on her mark. She paused, "Johnny right? Your name's Johnny?" I nodded. "...Listen, if I tell you what it was, you have to promise that you won't tell anyone, and forget you ever saw it." I nodded, slower this time. "My Dad, he's been too close to me ever since I could remember." My face of shock and awe turned to a sympathetic one. The pain in her eyes and voice echoed to the bottom of my gut. "He's abused me and my sister the whole time we've been in the house since Mom went to prison." She began to cry. "My little sister Vanessa, she told the police about everything. He was going to be locked away finally. They came to me to corroborate her story, and I...I" She pointed to the scar. "He beat her so bad that night, the police chalked it up to her having a creative imagination...That's what I told them, that she had a creative imagination...with all of those little scars on her body. Now she has real ones." She let out a flurry of tears and sobs. I already hated Jim, her father. It didn't surprise me that he abused anyone. He worked us like slaves and threw shit around the work site constantly. He fired Tony when his wife got cancer and he couldn't come in. I already wanted to shove my foot up his pretentious ass. How could he do that to his own kids? It was something I pondered over for the rest of the day. The rest of the day went by quicker. I worked with a rage. A rage of injustice. The chime rang for the end of the day. I felt a little relief. I started to walk off and tripped head first and this time I wasn't so lucky. I fell right into an exposed road sign post and it made it's way into bloodying my eye. I looked back, squinting through one good eye. It was George's hammer again. He looked at me nervously as if to say I'm sorry with his eyes. I took a deep breath and went over and picked it up to hand to him. "You clumsy motherfucker. Don't think you're getting any time off for your own bullshit" It was Jim. I looked up at his face with a blind rage. In a flash I looked down at a bloody hammer. My eye widened. I had just struck him. I looked down at him convulsing as blood shot out of his head. Then it stopped. George looked down with his hand on his neck. "He's dead Johnny" he said solemnly. I saw a figure walking slowly off the work site. It was Scarlet. She turned towards me. A scar ripped her face, all the way down to her legs.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	"What's your secret?" I asked a twinkle in my eye. Never had I seen such pristine skin. Sure a lot of people had the tiniest scars for their white lies but here before me was someone without a single one, only a handful of people in my lifetime ever came close to that sort of honesty. He smiled sadly and began to remove his shirt. The mark ran diagonally across his back and circled clear around to his front the largest single scar I'd seen... but the rest was pristine. He simply replied. "I don't lie." I stared dumbfounded as no new scar appeared. "How is that possible?" He responded simply "There is more than one way to earn a scar." and walked away.	I was flirting with being deemed a "Marked One" with my most recent scars. The Marked Ones had a lot of trouble fitting into society. It was an accepted form of prejudice. After all, you weren't judging someone based on race, creed, sexual orientation, hell even college football team allegiance. No, it was purely a judgement based on lies. I had quite a few, but never any big ones. Kept me from getting a job in finance, but I landed plenty of manual labor. Most recently, I had earned myself a spot recycling concrete. I lined up next to a few ex-cons, and a few that I knew were illegal immigrants. George, he had a scar from his eye to his chest...I knew not to ask him about that one. I was off kilter today. Everything was irritating me, despite my awareness that what I was getting upset over was unimportant to me, my better angels were silent. Finally the boss called us on break for lunch after a tough day on the line. I took a tumble head first and nearly hit my face on an exposed road sign post. I looked down at my squished peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and also George's hammer that he had left out. I got up with rage in my eyes. "Awww Honey, that's the saddest little sandwich I've ever seen" she said, before I could let out a holler at a giant ex-con. "You'll have to let me make you some lunch" I looked over and recognized her. It was the boss's daughter Scarlet. She had come through a few times, and the crew did their best to avert their eyes and hold in their whistles. She was just out of high school, but damn if she wasn't the curviest woman I'd ever seen. Jet black hair, green eyes, freckles, and a ridiculously tight bod. I guess she did gymnastics or something? It was the first time I'd seen her and it wasn't 40 below. She had come by during the winter and brought soup to her dad a few times. She was wearing a tank top and some silly-tight jeans. She was a "Pure One"...no surprise there. I'm sure her dad provided everything to her, and she didn't have to lie very often. In fact, I didn't see any at all. That was until she turned around to head back to the boss's trailer. It was the longest and most hideous scar I'd ever seen. I could barely catch pieces of it between her shirt and her pants, but God...it was so wide and deep. "There's not much here, but I can reheat some of last nights dinner" she caught eyes with me, and I could tell I wasn't hiding my shocked face very well. A nervousness came over her, and she began to tear up. She quickly wiped the tear away and turned to change the subject back to the roast and potatoes she was getting for me. She laid it out on the desk where I was sitting, and chimed in, "I saw George's hammer, and I saw you about to get yourself killed--" she looked up. She could tell I was still fixated on her mark. She paused, "Johnny right? Your name's Johnny?" I nodded. "...Listen, if I tell you what it was, you have to promise that you won't tell anyone, and forget you ever saw it." I nodded, slower this time. "My Dad, he's been too close to me ever since I could remember." My face of shock and awe turned to a sympathetic one. The pain in her eyes and voice echoed to the bottom of my gut. "He's abused me and my sister the whole time we've been in the house since Mom went to prison." She began to cry. "My little sister Vanessa, she told the police about everything. He was going to be locked away finally. They came to me to corroborate her story, and I...I" She pointed to the scar. "He beat her so bad that night, the police chalked it up to her having a creative imagination...That's what I told them, that she had a creative imagination...with all of those little scars on her body. Now she has real ones." She let out a flurry of tears and sobs. I already hated Jim, her father. It didn't surprise me that he abused anyone. He worked us like slaves and threw shit around the work site constantly. He fired Tony when his wife got cancer and he couldn't come in. I already wanted to shove my foot up his pretentious ass. How could he do that to his own kids? It was something I pondered over for the rest of the day. The rest of the day went by quicker. I worked with a rage. A rage of injustice. The chime rang for the end of the day. I felt a little relief. I started to walk off and tripped head first and this time I wasn't so lucky. I fell right into an exposed road sign post and it made it's way into bloodying my eye. I looked back, squinting through one good eye. It was George's hammer again. He looked at me nervously as if to say I'm sorry with his eyes. I took a deep breath and went over and picked it up to hand to him. "You clumsy motherfucker. Don't think you're getting any time off for your own bullshit" It was Jim. I looked up at his face with a blind rage. In a flash I looked down at a bloody hammer. My eye widened. I had just struck him. I looked down at him convulsing as blood shot out of his head. Then it stopped. George looked down with his hand on his neck. "He's dead Johnny" he said solemnly. I saw a figure walking slowly off the work site. It was Scarlet. She turned towards me. A scar ripped her face, all the way down to her legs.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I was on the phone with my wife at the time, sitting at a patio table with my half-eaten sandwich in front of me. "I'll be home at five. I promise." The thin line stretched across my index finger and I dabbed the blood away with a napkin discreetly. A couple walked by, hand in hand. I glanced over for half of a second. She didn't look like anything. I gave him a second look as he walked past, obviously. He'd have to be used to it by now. He had the fair complexion we'd all coveted in grade school but long since abandoned with the convenience of lying. I wondered for a moment how he'd done it, been so honest in such a dishonest world. This train of thought was abandoned shortly after, when I'd taken up scrolling through my facebook feed until I had to get back to the office. "I love you," I half-heard the man say say. Then I heard her scream. I glanced up attentively, as did everyone. His shirt stuck to his chest, blood coming to the surface. "Please. I mean it." "If you mean it, why this? Why lie about something like that?!?" "I love you," he repeated. A wet, tearing sound accompanied his words and the blood was soaking his shirt. "I don't know why this happens." Tears formed in his eyes. She got up from her seat. Her face shown a mixture of anger and pity. "You don't need to lie. I'm sorry." She walked out. I got up and walked over to the man, shaken. "Dude, are you alright?" I asked, picking the napkins up off the table and handing them to him. "I don't lie." He said, face pale from blood loss. "But this happens everytime I say it. Even to my own mother."	I was flirting with being deemed a "Marked One" with my most recent scars. The Marked Ones had a lot of trouble fitting into society. It was an accepted form of prejudice. After all, you weren't judging someone based on race, creed, sexual orientation, hell even college football team allegiance. No, it was purely a judgement based on lies. I had quite a few, but never any big ones. Kept me from getting a job in finance, but I landed plenty of manual labor. Most recently, I had earned myself a spot recycling concrete. I lined up next to a few ex-cons, and a few that I knew were illegal immigrants. George, he had a scar from his eye to his chest...I knew not to ask him about that one. I was off kilter today. Everything was irritating me, despite my awareness that what I was getting upset over was unimportant to me, my better angels were silent. Finally the boss called us on break for lunch after a tough day on the line. I took a tumble head first and nearly hit my face on an exposed road sign post. I looked down at my squished peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and also George's hammer that he had left out. I got up with rage in my eyes. "Awww Honey, that's the saddest little sandwich I've ever seen" she said, before I could let out a holler at a giant ex-con. "You'll have to let me make you some lunch" I looked over and recognized her. It was the boss's daughter Scarlet. She had come through a few times, and the crew did their best to avert their eyes and hold in their whistles. She was just out of high school, but damn if she wasn't the curviest woman I'd ever seen. Jet black hair, green eyes, freckles, and a ridiculously tight bod. I guess she did gymnastics or something? It was the first time I'd seen her and it wasn't 40 below. She had come by during the winter and brought soup to her dad a few times. She was wearing a tank top and some silly-tight jeans. She was a "Pure One"...no surprise there. I'm sure her dad provided everything to her, and she didn't have to lie very often. In fact, I didn't see any at all. That was until she turned around to head back to the boss's trailer. It was the longest and most hideous scar I'd ever seen. I could barely catch pieces of it between her shirt and her pants, but God...it was so wide and deep. "There's not much here, but I can reheat some of last nights dinner" she caught eyes with me, and I could tell I wasn't hiding my shocked face very well. A nervousness came over her, and she began to tear up. She quickly wiped the tear away and turned to change the subject back to the roast and potatoes she was getting for me. She laid it out on the desk where I was sitting, and chimed in, "I saw George's hammer, and I saw you about to get yourself killed--" she looked up. She could tell I was still fixated on her mark. She paused, "Johnny right? Your name's Johnny?" I nodded. "...Listen, if I tell you what it was, you have to promise that you won't tell anyone, and forget you ever saw it." I nodded, slower this time. "My Dad, he's been too close to me ever since I could remember." My face of shock and awe turned to a sympathetic one. The pain in her eyes and voice echoed to the bottom of my gut. "He's abused me and my sister the whole time we've been in the house since Mom went to prison." She began to cry. "My little sister Vanessa, she told the police about everything. He was going to be locked away finally. They came to me to corroborate her story, and I...I" She pointed to the scar. "He beat her so bad that night, the police chalked it up to her having a creative imagination...That's what I told them, that she had a creative imagination...with all of those little scars on her body. Now she has real ones." She let out a flurry of tears and sobs. I already hated Jim, her father. It didn't surprise me that he abused anyone. He worked us like slaves and threw shit around the work site constantly. He fired Tony when his wife got cancer and he couldn't come in. I already wanted to shove my foot up his pretentious ass. How could he do that to his own kids? It was something I pondered over for the rest of the day. The rest of the day went by quicker. I worked with a rage. A rage of injustice. The chime rang for the end of the day. I felt a little relief. I started to walk off and tripped head first and this time I wasn't so lucky. I fell right into an exposed road sign post and it made it's way into bloodying my eye. I looked back, squinting through one good eye. It was George's hammer again. He looked at me nervously as if to say I'm sorry with his eyes. I took a deep breath and went over and picked it up to hand to him. "You clumsy motherfucker. Don't think you're getting any time off for your own bullshit" It was Jim. I looked up at his face with a blind rage. In a flash I looked down at a bloody hammer. My eye widened. I had just struck him. I looked down at him convulsing as blood shot out of his head. Then it stopped. George looked down with his hand on his neck. "He's dead Johnny" he said solemnly. I saw a figure walking slowly off the work site. It was Scarlet. She turned towards me. A scar ripped her face, all the way down to her legs.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I was on the phone with my wife at the time, sitting at a patio table with my half-eaten sandwich in front of me. "I'll be home at five. I promise." The thin line stretched across my index finger and I dabbed the blood away with a napkin discreetly. A couple walked by, hand in hand. I glanced over for half of a second. She didn't look like anything. I gave him a second look as he walked past, obviously. He'd have to be used to it by now. He had the fair complexion we'd all coveted in grade school but long since abandoned with the convenience of lying. I wondered for a moment how he'd done it, been so honest in such a dishonest world. This train of thought was abandoned shortly after, when I'd taken up scrolling through my facebook feed until I had to get back to the office. "I love you," I half-heard the man say say. Then I heard her scream. I glanced up attentively, as did everyone. His shirt stuck to his chest, blood coming to the surface. "Please. I mean it." "If you mean it, why this? Why lie about something like that?!?" "I love you," he repeated. A wet, tearing sound accompanied his words and the blood was soaking his shirt. "I don't know why this happens." Tears formed in his eyes. She got up from her seat. Her face shown a mixture of anger and pity. "You don't need to lie. I'm sorry." She walked out. I got up and walked over to the man, shaken. "Dude, are you alright?" I asked, picking the napkins up off the table and handing them to him. "I don't lie." He said, face pale from blood loss. "But this happens everytime I say it. Even to my own mother."	Everyone has scars, there's no denying it and if someone does they're just going to get another scar. The scars we get from telling lies don't hurt us physically, hell, we can hardly even feel them. Some scars are deep, some are hardly noticeable, but they are still there and there's no such thing as a scarless body. The only person that I have met who came close only had one scar, but it was the worst scar I have ever seen. His name is Harold and when I met him all I could see of his scar was the part that went over his eye and down his face and neck into his shirt. It wasn't until we got to know each other better that he showed me it's true extent. A scar that continued down past his heart and wrapped all the way to his back. I met Harold at a bar a few years after I graduated college, we talked over drinks and found we had a lot in common. Harold was ten years older than me, but we both had a son that was in grade school, they even went to the same school. We met more frequently at the bar and eventually started to spend time together outside of the bar. As the time passed our friendship grew stronger, we did so much together with our children that most people thought that we were related. Our children became best friends as they grew up. We were both single fathers. I had my son with a girlfriend from college who dropped him off with me one day and never came back. Harold's wife left him when his son was only a few years old. I've never been one to hide my scars. I talk about most of my scars when the topic comes up, but there are some that only Harold knows the reasoning behind. Harold never talked about his scar and that was fine, I knew when the time was right he would. I never asked because it isn't polite to ask someone about their scars. I tied to not talk about scars around Harold because I knew it made him uncomfortable considering the size of his. The only thing that I know about Harold's scar is that he didn't get it all that long ago. I asked Harold how he could go his whole life only telling one lie and he would always say he didn't ever feel the need to lie. Even if we didn't get scars with every lie, I don't think that Harold would be able to lie. He was always the first to admit he was wrong or that he screwed up. He was down to earth and everyone loved him. Harold was always putting others first, he was always the one with the loudest laugh or the biggest smile. He always seemed to be the happiest person in the room and it was hard to be sad around him. He always lifted everyone's spirits when things seemed bleak. One day when Harold and I were with our kids at the local swimming pool Harold fainted. We rushed him to the hospital where they ran some tests on him. I waited with him in hours of agony before they brought back results. Cancer. That's the only word I heard. My mind went blank and I sat in shock with my best friend as the doctor told him there wasn't much treatment available because of how far along it was. I spent the next few weeks visiting the hospital every day. I spent hours with him at a time and we would talk about everything under the sun and reminisce about all the time we spent together. As his body grew weaker I spent more time at the hospital. I didn't want to lose my friend yet and I knew I needed to be there for the time that he did have left. One day he told me that he wanted to tell me about his scar. He said he knew that I always wanted to ask about it. A scar appeared across my hand as I told him that wasn't true and we both laughed. He told me that his scar came with one single word. It happened one morning at home while he was laying in bed with his wife. She was admiring his scarless body and they were talking about the life he led up to this point. He told stories about the times that he thought about accepting a scar but he couldn't bring himself to lie. His wife stared at him a while, then asked him if he was happy. Harold said yes and smiled, as the scar tore through his body. He said it was the most painful scar imaginable. When he was done with his story, he simply said he was going to miss me. I told him I would miss him every day as he closed his eyes for the last time.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I was on the phone with my wife at the time, sitting at a patio table with my half-eaten sandwich in front of me. "I'll be home at five. I promise." The thin line stretched across my index finger and I dabbed the blood away with a napkin discreetly. A couple walked by, hand in hand. I glanced over for half of a second. She didn't look like anything. I gave him a second look as he walked past, obviously. He'd have to be used to it by now. He had the fair complexion we'd all coveted in grade school but long since abandoned with the convenience of lying. I wondered for a moment how he'd done it, been so honest in such a dishonest world. This train of thought was abandoned shortly after, when I'd taken up scrolling through my facebook feed until I had to get back to the office. "I love you," I half-heard the man say say. Then I heard her scream. I glanced up attentively, as did everyone. His shirt stuck to his chest, blood coming to the surface. "Please. I mean it." "If you mean it, why this? Why lie about something like that?!?" "I love you," he repeated. A wet, tearing sound accompanied his words and the blood was soaking his shirt. "I don't know why this happens." Tears formed in his eyes. She got up from her seat. Her face shown a mixture of anger and pity. "You don't need to lie. I'm sorry." She walked out. I got up and walked over to the man, shaken. "Dude, are you alright?" I asked, picking the napkins up off the table and handing them to him. "I don't lie." He said, face pale from blood loss. "But this happens everytime I say it. Even to my own mother."	"What's your secret?" I asked a twinkle in my eye. Never had I seen such pristine skin. Sure a lot of people had the tiniest scars for their white lies but here before me was someone without a single one, only a handful of people in my lifetime ever came close to that sort of honesty. He smiled sadly and began to remove his shirt. The mark ran diagonally across his back and circled clear around to his front the largest single scar I'd seen... but the rest was pristine. He simply replied. "I don't lie." I stared dumbfounded as no new scar appeared. "How is that possible?" He responded simply "There is more than one way to earn a scar." and walked away.
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	A living Barbie doll, complete with a bleached-blonde bun hairdo, bubble-gum pink lips, and matching nails, stormed into the green room. She wore a light grey suit with a skirt that was just a bit too short for a businesswoman, but certainly gave her an excuse to show off those legs. Not wearing tights was bold, but her legs only had one or two scars. Her eyes surveyed the room through a harsh squint, examining every aspect of the décor and furnishings. She even ran one finger over the top of the mirror to make sure there was no dust. Finally her eyes settled on me with that same look, and for a moment I thought she was going to check me for dust too. “You must be the new makeup girl,” she surmised. “Yes, Ma’am.” I’d been doing makeup for celebrities, politicians, and glamorous wealthy women for a decade, but somehow her tone still made me feel like a just-out-of-beauty-school fuckup who could barely dye hair correctly. “I see.” She looked me up and down, noting with just a hint of surprise that I wore a sleeveless shirt. By my age, most people go to great lengths to cover up their lying scars; I was fortunate enough to have relatively unblemished skin. I had the average number of little fibs and white lies, of course, but nothing deep. “Well, you’ll do, I guess.” She took a seat on the nearby couch while I remained standing. “Now. The first thing you need to know is that he is very sensitive about his skin, all right? So the very first rule is do not comment on it. That is the quickest way to get fired, and we'll have your ass in court so fast it'll make your head spin.” I nodded. Most people were self-conscious about scars, and I’d learned that pretty quickly. I’d made it my hallmark to cover up even the worst of the worst. I guess that was why I’d been hired. And discretion was always the name of the game with big-name talent. Her phone buzzed, and she dug through her purse to find it. “He’s on his way into the building,” she informed me. “Get ready.” There wasn’t much to do; it’s not like I needed to have my makeup brush in hand the moment the door opened or something. So I just stood there awkwardly. The door banged open a few moments later, and a tuxedoed security guard entered. He swept the room from behind dark glasses, then nodded to the blonde woman. “All clear,” he spoke into his sleeve cuff. Two more security guards came over the threshold, and then my client entered the room. I’d seen him on TV a hundred times, but never without makeup. And as he took off his shirt so that the makeup on his wrists and neck would match, I could instantly see why. It took all of my willpower to remain rooted to my spot instead of running to the bathroom and vomiting. It wasn’t that he had a ton of scars all over like most people. It was that his body was pretty much one giant scar. I tried not to stare, but I desperately wanted to just to see if there was any real skin left amidst all the scar tissue. I couldn’t even imagine the whopper he must have told to get that. “This is your new makeup girl,” the blonde woman said from the couch. “It’s… ummm…” “Anne,” I informed him, looking him straight in the eyes so that my gaze wouldn’t drift south. He just nodded at me, then went back to typing something on his phone. “Well?” the blonde woman hissed at me. “Get to it!” Right. I was so focused on not staring that I had forgotten all about doing his makeup. I jumped to life and opened up my kit like a doctor choosing his tools for surgery. I’d never had to do something like this. Normal skin tone cover-up was pretty much out of the picture here, because scars at that level would still be visible. So instead I grabbed the darkest shade I’d brought and began to apply it to his cheeks. It took me at least half an hour, but I managed to perfectly conceal every single part of the scar by pretty much painting over his entire skin. The whole time I wondered why they needed me when they could have gotten one of those good special effects artists from out in Hollywood. But finally I put on the last touches, held up the mirror, and waited for some sign of approval. He looked up from his phone, which he’d been on through the whole session. His lips, naturally thin but made even thinner by the amount of makeup on the surrounding parts of his face, pursed into a thin smile. “Fine. I look great.” he said, then looked back down. But at least the blonde woman beamed. “Great! Let’s get you out on stage, then!” He stood from the chair and put on his suit; I was worried that some of the makeup might come off onto the crisp white shirt, but it seemed to be holding strong as he marched out the door with his retinue of security. “You did a good job…” The woman said. I could tell that she’d forgotten my name again, but I was too shell-shocked to remind her. “I think this is the first time he hasn’t found fault with the new girls.” “How did that happen?” I whispered, afraid that he might still be able to hear me, even though I knew he was walking out in front of the cameras right now. I could even hear the distant din of the audience clapping. “What lie did that to him?” I’d expected her to be outraged or something. But she wasn’t; she actually laughed. “That” she scoffed. “From one lie? Please.” She clicked on the television to watch the show. “He’s just lied so much that he’s run out of room on his body for more scars.” On TV, the show’s host stood from his desk and shook the man’s hand. “So glad to have you on the show, Mr. President!”	The air moved in circles as the fans tried to cool the bank in a vain effort. I rolled up the sleeves to my white button down and loosened my tie, already uncomfortable with the day. Regardless I worked closely with clients in securing loans or otherwise declining their offers. Not long after my lunch break, where I sought the refuge of a nearby ice-cream shop, a woman walked into my office. With large brown locks hanging across her face, I greeted her with a genial smile, while rolling down my sleeves to conceal countless little nicks on my arms. Her complexion, however, shocked me. Her skin was like porcelain: completely flawless and smooth, besides one deep scar which ran from her neck to her right forearm. The scar ran deep as if it had been burned deeply inside her flesh. She must have caught my gaze and crossed her arms to obscure the sight of her scar, already conscious of how it might affect her business. I immediately made eye contact and tried to keep my vision focused solely on either my computer screen or her luscious green pupils while she requested a car loan. “Why don’t you do some financing with the dealership?” I asked as I typed her information into the computer. “It’s a private seller,” she replied. “Besides the dealerships treat me like I don’t understand cars. It’s condescending as hell.” “I certainly understand,” I responded. Before I could make eye contact, my gaze briefly lingered on her scar then back to her face. I tried to smile the best I could. “Well it looks like your credit is good. You’re in the eightieth percentile for your age group, which is great. You have a relatively large average account balance, which is good sign of financial security. There’s just one more issue I need to clear up before I can grant you your loan.” “The scar?” she sighed. “Yes, unfortunately,” I answered. “The bank has a policy to deny loans to individuals with numerous or particularly deep scars since it’s a huge red flag that you may not be using the loan as you claim. With that said, if you can adequately explain your scar, I can use my discretion to grant you the loan.” “Goddamnit,” she remarked. “I really need this car.” “Ms. Grant,” I tried to comfort her. “Just be honest with me. I’m not here to judge you. I want you to have this loan, but you need to communicate with me.” “Alright, alright,” she conceded. “My ex-husband was a piece of work. He used to beat me and my daughter. Always careful to never leave a mark, that son-of-a-bitch. I always wanted to report him, but I just…I could never find the courage. I always convinced myself that he would change or realize what he had become, but he…never changed. He just drank and slept and worked and made himself miserable. I don’t know if he was disappointed in me or himself, but he always liked to take his frustrations out on me. “One day, I took our…my…daughter to her grandmother’s. My mom had been asking for her for ages and I decided she could spend the night. When I got home, he was there. Drinking. Yelling. Screaming at the top of his lungs, because I forgot to tell him. He waved around his gun with reckless abandon and refused to let me out of his sight. He just drank straight liquor at the table while he forced me to watch. When he seemed dazed, I got up from the table and dug through the cutlery drawer. Apparently I made too much noise for his drunken stupor. When he rose from the table, gun in hand, I had a knife and threatened him with it. “He just told me, ‘Marie, put down the goddamn knife. Marie. Put down the goddamn knife.’ While he did, he slowly lumbered over to my corner and…and I did what I had to. It was self-defense. That night, I called my daughter and told the first and only lie of my life. I told her she had to stay with grandma since her dad ran away and my work wanted to send me away for a while. I did it for her. I needed to protect her.” She fell silent and I approved her loan. ***** More stories at r/Andrew__Wells
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I was on the phone with my wife at the time, sitting at a patio table with my half-eaten sandwich in front of me. "I'll be home at five. I promise." The thin line stretched across my index finger and I dabbed the blood away with a napkin discreetly. A couple walked by, hand in hand. I glanced over for half of a second. She didn't look like anything. I gave him a second look as he walked past, obviously. He'd have to be used to it by now. He had the fair complexion we'd all coveted in grade school but long since abandoned with the convenience of lying. I wondered for a moment how he'd done it, been so honest in such a dishonest world. This train of thought was abandoned shortly after, when I'd taken up scrolling through my facebook feed until I had to get back to the office. "I love you," I half-heard the man say say. Then I heard her scream. I glanced up attentively, as did everyone. His shirt stuck to his chest, blood coming to the surface. "Please. I mean it." "If you mean it, why this? Why lie about something like that?!?" "I love you," he repeated. A wet, tearing sound accompanied his words and the blood was soaking his shirt. "I don't know why this happens." Tears formed in his eyes. She got up from her seat. Her face shown a mixture of anger and pity. "You don't need to lie. I'm sorry." She walked out. I got up and walked over to the man, shaken. "Dude, are you alright?" I asked, picking the napkins up off the table and handing them to him. "I don't lie." He said, face pale from blood loss. "But this happens everytime I say it. Even to my own mother."	The air moved in circles as the fans tried to cool the bank in a vain effort. I rolled up the sleeves to my white button down and loosened my tie, already uncomfortable with the day. Regardless I worked closely with clients in securing loans or otherwise declining their offers. Not long after my lunch break, where I sought the refuge of a nearby ice-cream shop, a woman walked into my office. With large brown locks hanging across her face, I greeted her with a genial smile, while rolling down my sleeves to conceal countless little nicks on my arms. Her complexion, however, shocked me. Her skin was like porcelain: completely flawless and smooth, besides one deep scar which ran from her neck to her right forearm. The scar ran deep as if it had been burned deeply inside her flesh. She must have caught my gaze and crossed her arms to obscure the sight of her scar, already conscious of how it might affect her business. I immediately made eye contact and tried to keep my vision focused solely on either my computer screen or her luscious green pupils while she requested a car loan. “Why don’t you do some financing with the dealership?” I asked as I typed her information into the computer. “It’s a private seller,” she replied. “Besides the dealerships treat me like I don’t understand cars. It’s condescending as hell.” “I certainly understand,” I responded. Before I could make eye contact, my gaze briefly lingered on her scar then back to her face. I tried to smile the best I could. “Well it looks like your credit is good. You’re in the eightieth percentile for your age group, which is great. You have a relatively large average account balance, which is good sign of financial security. There’s just one more issue I need to clear up before I can grant you your loan.” “The scar?” she sighed. “Yes, unfortunately,” I answered. “The bank has a policy to deny loans to individuals with numerous or particularly deep scars since it’s a huge red flag that you may not be using the loan as you claim. With that said, if you can adequately explain your scar, I can use my discretion to grant you the loan.” “Goddamnit,” she remarked. “I really need this car.” “Ms. Grant,” I tried to comfort her. “Just be honest with me. I’m not here to judge you. I want you to have this loan, but you need to communicate with me.” “Alright, alright,” she conceded. “My ex-husband was a piece of work. He used to beat me and my daughter. Always careful to never leave a mark, that son-of-a-bitch. I always wanted to report him, but I just…I could never find the courage. I always convinced myself that he would change or realize what he had become, but he…never changed. He just drank and slept and worked and made himself miserable. I don’t know if he was disappointed in me or himself, but he always liked to take his frustrations out on me. “One day, I took our…my…daughter to her grandmother’s. My mom had been asking for her for ages and I decided she could spend the night. When I got home, he was there. Drinking. Yelling. Screaming at the top of his lungs, because I forgot to tell him. He waved around his gun with reckless abandon and refused to let me out of his sight. He just drank straight liquor at the table while he forced me to watch. When he seemed dazed, I got up from the table and dug through the cutlery drawer. Apparently I made too much noise for his drunken stupor. When he rose from the table, gun in hand, I had a knife and threatened him with it. “He just told me, ‘Marie, put down the goddamn knife. Marie. Put down the goddamn knife.’ While he did, he slowly lumbered over to my corner and…and I did what I had to. It was self-defense. That night, I called my daughter and told the first and only lie of my life. I told her she had to stay with grandma since her dad ran away and my work wanted to send me away for a while. I did it for her. I needed to protect her.” She fell silent and I approved her loan. ***** More stories at r/Andrew__Wells
	[WP] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.	I was on the phone with my wife at the time, sitting at a patio table with my half-eaten sandwich in front of me. "I'll be home at five. I promise." The thin line stretched across my index finger and I dabbed the blood away with a napkin discreetly. A couple walked by, hand in hand. I glanced over for half of a second. She didn't look like anything. I gave him a second look as he walked past, obviously. He'd have to be used to it by now. He had the fair complexion we'd all coveted in grade school but long since abandoned with the convenience of lying. I wondered for a moment how he'd done it, been so honest in such a dishonest world. This train of thought was abandoned shortly after, when I'd taken up scrolling through my facebook feed until I had to get back to the office. "I love you," I half-heard the man say say. Then I heard her scream. I glanced up attentively, as did everyone. His shirt stuck to his chest, blood coming to the surface. "Please. I mean it." "If you mean it, why this? Why lie about something like that?!?" "I love you," he repeated. A wet, tearing sound accompanied his words and the blood was soaking his shirt. "I don't know why this happens." Tears formed in his eyes. She got up from her seat. Her face shown a mixture of anger and pity. "You don't need to lie. I'm sorry." She walked out. I got up and walked over to the man, shaken. "Dude, are you alright?" I asked, picking the napkins up off the table and handing them to him. "I don't lie." He said, face pale from blood loss. "But this happens everytime I say it. Even to my own mother."	A living Barbie doll, complete with a bleached-blonde bun hairdo, bubble-gum pink lips, and matching nails, stormed into the green room. She wore a light grey suit with a skirt that was just a bit too short for a businesswoman, but certainly gave her an excuse to show off those legs. Not wearing tights was bold, but her legs only had one or two scars. Her eyes surveyed the room through a harsh squint, examining every aspect of the décor and furnishings. She even ran one finger over the top of the mirror to make sure there was no dust. Finally her eyes settled on me with that same look, and for a moment I thought she was going to check me for dust too. “You must be the new makeup girl,” she surmised. “Yes, Ma’am.” I’d been doing makeup for celebrities, politicians, and glamorous wealthy women for a decade, but somehow her tone still made me feel like a just-out-of-beauty-school fuckup who could barely dye hair correctly. “I see.” She looked me up and down, noting with just a hint of surprise that I wore a sleeveless shirt. By my age, most people go to great lengths to cover up their lying scars; I was fortunate enough to have relatively unblemished skin. I had the average number of little fibs and white lies, of course, but nothing deep. “Well, you’ll do, I guess.” She took a seat on the nearby couch while I remained standing. “Now. The first thing you need to know is that he is very sensitive about his skin, all right? So the very first rule is do not comment on it. That is the quickest way to get fired, and we'll have your ass in court so fast it'll make your head spin.” I nodded. Most people were self-conscious about scars, and I’d learned that pretty quickly. I’d made it my hallmark to cover up even the worst of the worst. I guess that was why I’d been hired. And discretion was always the name of the game with big-name talent. Her phone buzzed, and she dug through her purse to find it. “He’s on his way into the building,” she informed me. “Get ready.” There wasn’t much to do; it’s not like I needed to have my makeup brush in hand the moment the door opened or something. So I just stood there awkwardly. The door banged open a few moments later, and a tuxedoed security guard entered. He swept the room from behind dark glasses, then nodded to the blonde woman. “All clear,” he spoke into his sleeve cuff. Two more security guards came over the threshold, and then my client entered the room. I’d seen him on TV a hundred times, but never without makeup. And as he took off his shirt so that the makeup on his wrists and neck would match, I could instantly see why. It took all of my willpower to remain rooted to my spot instead of running to the bathroom and vomiting. It wasn’t that he had a ton of scars all over like most people. It was that his body was pretty much one giant scar. I tried not to stare, but I desperately wanted to just to see if there was any real skin left amidst all the scar tissue. I couldn’t even imagine the whopper he must have told to get that. “This is your new makeup girl,” the blonde woman said from the couch. “It’s… ummm…” “Anne,” I informed him, looking him straight in the eyes so that my gaze wouldn’t drift south. He just nodded at me, then went back to typing something on his phone. “Well?” the blonde woman hissed at me. “Get to it!” Right. I was so focused on not staring that I had forgotten all about doing his makeup. I jumped to life and opened up my kit like a doctor choosing his tools for surgery. I’d never had to do something like this. Normal skin tone cover-up was pretty much out of the picture here, because scars at that level would still be visible. So instead I grabbed the darkest shade I’d brought and began to apply it to his cheeks. It took me at least half an hour, but I managed to perfectly conceal every single part of the scar by pretty much painting over his entire skin. The whole time I wondered why they needed me when they could have gotten one of those good special effects artists from out in Hollywood. But finally I put on the last touches, held up the mirror, and waited for some sign of approval. He looked up from his phone, which he’d been on through the whole session. His lips, naturally thin but made even thinner by the amount of makeup on the surrounding parts of his face, pursed into a thin smile. “Fine. I look great.” he said, then looked back down. But at least the blonde woman beamed. “Great! Let’s get you out on stage, then!” He stood from the chair and put on his suit; I was worried that some of the makeup might come off onto the crisp white shirt, but it seemed to be holding strong as he marched out the door with his retinue of security. “You did a good job…” The woman said. I could tell that she’d forgotten my name again, but I was too shell-shocked to remind her. “I think this is the first time he hasn’t found fault with the new girls.” “How did that happen?” I whispered, afraid that he might still be able to hear me, even though I knew he was walking out in front of the cameras right now. I could even hear the distant din of the audience clapping. “What lie did that to him?” I’d expected her to be outraged or something. But she wasn’t; she actually laughed. “That” she scoffed. “From one lie? Please.” She clicked on the television to watch the show. “He’s just lied so much that he’s run out of room on his body for more scars.” On TV, the show’s host stood from his desk and shook the man’s hand. “So glad to have you on the show, Mr. President!”
	[WP] Amazon's flying warehouse delivery system is in full effect all over the world. You are a sky pirate, about to strike the biggest goldmine in your life.	"How far is it?" the Captain asked suddenly, breaking the silence like a bullet through glass. The eight men around him looked up and shifted from where they stood, leaning restlessly against the dusty walls of the old farmhouse. I looked down at the GPS in my hand, screen centered around a pulsating red dot. "About 20 miles away. But on course, like you said." "Alright," the Captain nodded, and walked over to peer out of the windowpane, "check your packs. It's almost time." I ran my hands over the cold steel clamps which secured the the jetpack to my body. I could hear the others doing the same, pulling taut the straps around their chests, checking the clips in their rifles, tightening boots and headbands. Dust billowed up from the floorboards in the commotion, casting a stale haze throughout the room. After the checks were done, the Captain walked outside, and we followed suit, one by one. As we exited the broken down farmhouse to stare across the dry Texas plain, I felt a nudge and a gruff voice from the side. "You ready?" I didn't have to look over to know that Solomon was smiling through his painted face and wild hair, eyes wide with anticipation. Crazy fuck. I glanced at the Captain, and the others coming around to stand in a semicircle on the cracked ground. Less than half the men we had last time. Solomon was the only one smiling. I shook my head. "Remember last time we tried to hit a guarded shipment?" I said. Solomon laughed. "Most of those guys were recruits, not even true Screamers. Dead weight. 'Member how that one sandy-haired bastard tried to desert on us?" Solomon spit. "Shot that one myself. Watched him fall." Just then, one of the other men raised his arm and pointed at a speck across the gray sky. Everyone looked. Within a few moments, the men began to rise off the ground, as the shrieking sound of their jetpacks filled the air. I turned on my own, and felt the machine reverberate throughout my entire body. "Besides," Solomon shouted over the din, as we lifted into the sky, "We steal this machine, we will never run out of water again. Think about that! We steal this machine, your son will never go thirsty again!" Below me, the farmhouse became smaller and smaller in the distance, blending in with the dying land. As the Amazon shipment and several figures began to take shape in the sky ahead of us, I ran a dry tongue over my cracked and bloody lips. I tightened my grip on my rifle.	"Mark?" Eleanor made her way down the deck. The british navigator stumbled and staggered, the ship shuddering and shaking on its journey through the sky. It was a rougher flight than usual, the vessel running at top speed to intercept the Warehouse. The Skipper was designed for speed and agility, but even it was struggling to match the required velocity. The view was fantastic, so long as you were looking away from the sun. Depending on where they were, it swapped from mountain ranges to sprawling deserts. She often spent hours staring at the twinkling lights of a metropolis or the stars in the night sky. But she didn't have the time to look now. Pity, today they were hovering over a splendid lake. She continued along the deck. There was a wood finish to both the furniture and much of the structure, a callback to the pirates of yore. It was all for show. Underneath the wood was actual aluminium, and the outer hull of the skipper was metal armour. There was some glamour to the pirate life. "Mark?" she pulled the door to the captain's quarters. The Bridge didn't make any pretense, decked out in LCD screens and holographic displays. "That's Captain Mark to you, Eleanor," he glanced up from the display, but didn't stop typing. "Right, sure," she walked around the room and placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning over him to look at the plans. "You ready for this?" "Bit late to back down now, hm?" he flicked up his 'eyepatch'. A glass lens connected to the ship's systems or the team's, as needed. More often, he was watching illegally downloaded episodes of The Walking Dead. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Your dream score... we'll be set for life, etcetera." "What, you don't believe me?" Mark pretending to be offended. "Sure I believe you. It's a grand adventure, and we'll be so rich we can do anything we want. I just don't think you'll be able to give up this life," Eleanor rubbed his shoulder gently. "Adventure, adrenaline, and action. Mark Roberts is going to give all of that up?" she chuckled. "Not happening." "Oh, we'll see," Mark shrugged noncommittally. "For now, how about you round up the rest of the crew? ETA is an hour, we'd better do the briefing soon." "Aye aye, captain," she pecked Mark on the cheek. There were two other members of the crew. Mark preferred a smaller crew, to divide the take more profitably, and retain more control over the group. Mark was the commander of both the ship, and the boarding party. Eleanor navigated the Skipper, and maintained communications in the boarding team. The other two were... less organised. "You going to make me go up there, Robin?" she called up towards the crow's nest. Her voice struggled upwards, torn and shredded by the screaming gale. No response returned. She pulled the coat a little tighter around her body, flipped her goggles down, and grasped for the first rung on the ladder. --- Uhh, thus concludes Steampunk Sky Pirates Vol. I?
	[WP] Amazon's flying warehouse delivery system is in full effect all over the world. You are a sky pirate, about to strike the biggest goldmine in your life.	"It's a goldmine, in the sky." "This one's pretty light, Artemus." "Wait till we get it open." They hacked the drone to pieces, while scanning the horizon for the Sky Police. You never knew when they were going to make that a thing. "Artemus, there's nothing in here. Just the packing slip. It's a decoy!" "Calm down, Tark,look under the slip." "Nothing." "The back then." "There's a message." "Well, what does it say?" "'The bearer of this invoice has 20,000 Amazon coins (R) to his name.' Artemus, we screwed up." "I told you it was a goldmine, Tark!" "For Amazon, maybe." "These are as good as cash!" "Really? Can you spend them in stores?" "You can buy in-game items in mobile apps!" "What?" "And you save 25% off retail by using the coins!" "Artemus, are you all right?" "They're practically paying us to take their stuff!" "Moonlighting, huh?" "Digital piracy is harder than it used to be, Tark." r/GubbinalWrites	"Mark?" Eleanor made her way down the deck. The british navigator stumbled and staggered, the ship shuddering and shaking on its journey through the sky. It was a rougher flight than usual, the vessel running at top speed to intercept the Warehouse. The Skipper was designed for speed and agility, but even it was struggling to match the required velocity. The view was fantastic, so long as you were looking away from the sun. Depending on where they were, it swapped from mountain ranges to sprawling deserts. She often spent hours staring at the twinkling lights of a metropolis or the stars in the night sky. But she didn't have the time to look now. Pity, today they were hovering over a splendid lake. She continued along the deck. There was a wood finish to both the furniture and much of the structure, a callback to the pirates of yore. It was all for show. Underneath the wood was actual aluminium, and the outer hull of the skipper was metal armour. There was some glamour to the pirate life. "Mark?" she pulled the door to the captain's quarters. The Bridge didn't make any pretense, decked out in LCD screens and holographic displays. "That's Captain Mark to you, Eleanor," he glanced up from the display, but didn't stop typing. "Right, sure," she walked around the room and placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning over him to look at the plans. "You ready for this?" "Bit late to back down now, hm?" he flicked up his 'eyepatch'. A glass lens connected to the ship's systems or the team's, as needed. More often, he was watching illegally downloaded episodes of The Walking Dead. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Your dream score... we'll be set for life, etcetera." "What, you don't believe me?" Mark pretending to be offended. "Sure I believe you. It's a grand adventure, and we'll be so rich we can do anything we want. I just don't think you'll be able to give up this life," Eleanor rubbed his shoulder gently. "Adventure, adrenaline, and action. Mark Roberts is going to give all of that up?" she chuckled. "Not happening." "Oh, we'll see," Mark shrugged noncommittally. "For now, how about you round up the rest of the crew? ETA is an hour, we'd better do the briefing soon." "Aye aye, captain," she pecked Mark on the cheek. There were two other members of the crew. Mark preferred a smaller crew, to divide the take more profitably, and retain more control over the group. Mark was the commander of both the ship, and the boarding party. Eleanor navigated the Skipper, and maintained communications in the boarding team. The other two were... less organised. "You going to make me go up there, Robin?" she called up towards the crow's nest. Her voice struggled upwards, torn and shredded by the screaming gale. No response returned. She pulled the coat a little tighter around her body, flipped her goggles down, and grasped for the first rung on the ladder. --- Uhh, thus concludes Steampunk Sky Pirates Vol. I?
	[WP] Amazon's flying warehouse delivery system is in full effect all over the world. You are a sky pirate, about to strike the biggest goldmine in your life.	"Well fuck me. That ain't one of them shake weights, that's for sure." Dante, the captain's right-hand collapsed his telescope (19.95 with Prime membership) and headed to the drone ships lower deck to tell his superior of his findings. "Sir. There's a hefty package 3 nautical miles North, headed towards Green Bay." Captain Flute was a man that did not take kindly to being bothered. Especially when he was reading e-books on his Kindle Fire (89.99 with Prime membership). "This best be a worthy treasure Dante. I'm 5 chapters into Amy Schumer's memoir (14.99 with Prime membership), and I'm eager to hear more of her smelly pubes. That wretched whore. But you know, she's aware of it and that makes her kind of likable." "Yes captain. I have heard the tales. But there is not much time to retrieve this bountiful shipment." The Captain stepped up to the bow of the great drone ship, reached into his deep pocket, and retrieved his remote control. "All hands on deck. We should be there in like five, maybe seven if there's traffic. Adam Levine's in town, so you know how it is." The Captain's assessment proved most accurate. Adam Levine was in town, and the trip took 7 minutes. They arrived next to the package. Dante, who was a Princeton educated physicist, obviously, calculated the velocity of the package and programmed the ship to match it. The package now appeared still as a photo beside the ship. A still photo I mean, not one of those moving ones on the new iPhones. What's the point of those anyway? Isn't that what videos are for? "Okay Dante. Now use the giant claw to retrieve our prize." "The Giant Claw" was an apt name for the device Dante had built to retrieve packages because not only was it a claw, it was also giant. The package was also giant, but not quite as giant as the Giant Claw so the package was retrieved with ease. As the captain stared at another day's bounty, he wondered if one day he might try his hand at a more noble profession, like an office manager. Then, he can order supplies from Amazon Prime, with an office credit card. He'd be able to open boxes aplenty everyday, and break no laws. The captain closed his eyes and for a moment this became his truth. He felt fine with himself for the first time since he was a boy. In a moment, this fantasy disappeared as Dante ripped open the box that encased his stolen fortune. It was a dinette set (234.99 with Prime Membership).	"Mark?" Eleanor made her way down the deck. The british navigator stumbled and staggered, the ship shuddering and shaking on its journey through the sky. It was a rougher flight than usual, the vessel running at top speed to intercept the Warehouse. The Skipper was designed for speed and agility, but even it was struggling to match the required velocity. The view was fantastic, so long as you were looking away from the sun. Depending on where they were, it swapped from mountain ranges to sprawling deserts. She often spent hours staring at the twinkling lights of a metropolis or the stars in the night sky. But she didn't have the time to look now. Pity, today they were hovering over a splendid lake. She continued along the deck. There was a wood finish to both the furniture and much of the structure, a callback to the pirates of yore. It was all for show. Underneath the wood was actual aluminium, and the outer hull of the skipper was metal armour. There was some glamour to the pirate life. "Mark?" she pulled the door to the captain's quarters. The Bridge didn't make any pretense, decked out in LCD screens and holographic displays. "That's Captain Mark to you, Eleanor," he glanced up from the display, but didn't stop typing. "Right, sure," she walked around the room and placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning over him to look at the plans. "You ready for this?" "Bit late to back down now, hm?" he flicked up his 'eyepatch'. A glass lens connected to the ship's systems or the team's, as needed. More often, he was watching illegally downloaded episodes of The Walking Dead. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Your dream score... we'll be set for life, etcetera." "What, you don't believe me?" Mark pretending to be offended. "Sure I believe you. It's a grand adventure, and we'll be so rich we can do anything we want. I just don't think you'll be able to give up this life," Eleanor rubbed his shoulder gently. "Adventure, adrenaline, and action. Mark Roberts is going to give all of that up?" she chuckled. "Not happening." "Oh, we'll see," Mark shrugged noncommittally. "For now, how about you round up the rest of the crew? ETA is an hour, we'd better do the briefing soon." "Aye aye, captain," she pecked Mark on the cheek. There were two other members of the crew. Mark preferred a smaller crew, to divide the take more profitably, and retain more control over the group. Mark was the commander of both the ship, and the boarding party. Eleanor navigated the Skipper, and maintained communications in the boarding team. The other two were... less organised. "You going to make me go up there, Robin?" she called up towards the crow's nest. Her voice struggled upwards, torn and shredded by the screaming gale. No response returned. She pulled the coat a little tighter around her body, flipped her goggles down, and grasped for the first rung on the ladder. --- Uhh, thus concludes Steampunk Sky Pirates Vol. I?
	[WP] You are the worlds most famous fortune teller. You've successfully predicted huge world events and even smaller important events for friend and families. What no one knows is that you are actually a time-traveller from the year 2100 who owns a simple history book. Your friend is catching on.	"Hey man, what ya got there?" Alan looked up from his book and caught the gaze of his roommate. "Oh, hey Louis, I'm just studying for a test that's coming up." "I don't get you. You are in your late 20's, and yet you come to a university to get a history degree? What would you do with such a useless degree? Not only that, but you are already bringing in a ton of money with your online fortune telling business. The revenue you bring in from views alone is staggering." Alan looked up at Louis. "We have already been over this. I really like history. I want to be a curator at a museum some day so that I can surround myself with as many artifacts of the past that I can. While I can see the future, it bores me to no end. Besides, if we don't learn from our past, how can we properly move forward?" Louis just sulked, "Listen, that's noble of you and everything, but you aren't going to be making any kind of income like that. If you want a happy life with money, just stay the course with the fortune telling gig. It's that easy." Alan just smiled. "If only it was that easy..." He began to think of the future he came from, the war-torn world that was filled with human ruins. "The human race is petty in that regard. We only think of ourselves and mark my words, it will be our undoing as a species if we continue this selfish path." Louis just shook his head. "Whatever you say, man. By the way, what's the next big event you are predicting?" Alan looked at his watch, he knew what it was, but he didn't want to freak out anyone. It was a terrorist attack on the very campus they were on. Strangely enough, though, the attack would take place on a Saturday, and there was only one death in the explosion. Authorities were unable to find the cause of the explosion. Some historians believed though that this death was somehow linked to the dark future Alan came from. Was it a professor who was killed? A student who was on the verge of a breakthrough? Alan lied to his friend. "I don't know man, nothing's coming to me right now." Louis just shook his head. "I guess fortune tellers can't see everything all the time, huh? You got plans this weekend?" "Not really, just some more studies for the test that is coming up." Louis continued to shake his head, "Man, don't study too hard, alright? Learn to have some fun too." ---------------------------------------------------- Alan had just finished putting signs in all of the entrances to the chemistry building saying it was closed for renovations. He was hoping that the person who was supposed to die in the explosion would be turned away if the building was closed. His phone then began to ring, he looked down and the number belonged to Louis. "Louis? Where are you? You weren't at the apartment when I woke up this morning." Louis kind of chuckled. "Yeah man, your studies got me inspired, so I went to the chemistry building this morning to get some early morning quiet time in. Imagine me, going to a study room on a Saturday morning, right? Hey man, I gotta go, someone else is trying to call me alright? See ya back at the apartment later." Alan froze. The person who would die was Louis? "Louis, get out of the building right now!" He was greeted by silence, Louis had already hung up. Alan tried to call him back, but there was no answer, and it continued to go straight to voice mail no matter how many times he tried to call. "Damn it, Louis!" Alan ran into the building to look for his friend, hoping that he wasn't too late. --------------------------------------------- Louis watched through the binoculars as Alan tore into the building. He smiled as he pressed the button, and watched the building go into flames. He reached over to the book that he stole out of Alan's bedroom earlier that morning. "Only one death in this explosion, huh? This book is gonna make me a fortune." ----------------------------------------------- If you are interested in more of my stories, you can read more at r/vintnerwrites.	“Hey, Joseph, can you do the whole fortune telling thing again?” Trish asked. “I think I know how you do it.” “Sure, whatever,” I laughed nervously. “But you know the drill; I must consult my crystal ball.” Together we filed into my office, filled with incense, curtains, and, of course, a table in the middle of the room with a large crystal ball sitting on top of it. Grabbing my turban and robes, I dimmed the lights and immediately the crystal flashed with colorful lights. I still couldn’t believe that these Neanderthals believed that a cheap child’s toy I brought along could predict the future. “What is your question, child?” I spoke, using my fortune-teller persona. “Drop the act,” Trish replied. “Tell me on Swami, where do you see yourself in the future?” “Er…” I stuttered. “I can’t say. Fortune tellers are prohibited from looking at their own future.” “Says who?” Trish answered indignantly. “The…uh…timeforce.” I was grasping at straws. “It’s a lot like the speedforce, but real.” “Are you really comparing your magic to a plot device in a comic book?” Trish replied. “I…uh…hey do you have any, better questions I can answer. Like the next president? Or major legislation in the next year? Or perhaps you’d like to know about any technological advancements in the near future?” I hurriedly tried to change the subject. “Oh, I suppose,” Trish sighed. “Tell me who the next Democratic president will be.” “Certainly,” I responded, relieved. “Now stare into the crystal ball. Let the colors and shades fade into your eyes and try to uncover the subtle messages they send from the fut-” “What are you looking at?” Trish interrupted. “Pardon?” I asked. “Yeah, whenever you get into your whole crystal ball act, you’re looking into your lap,” she observed. “No I’m not,” I replied immediately while pushing my chair under the table. “Trish, the magic doesn’t work if you’re looking at me.” “Says who? The timeforce?” she gently mocked. “Besides, I think I’m far more interested in what’s going on in your lap than the future.” “Fine, you caught me,” I conceded. “I masturbate when I fortune tell. I know it’s weird and awkward, but as soon as we can move past this-hey!” Before I could continue to execute my poorly chosen lie, Trish moved from the table and pulled my chair revealing the textbook in my lap. Grabbing it before she could lay a finger on it, I held it tightly in my arms as she approached my like a predator approaches it meal. “I knew it,” she proclaimed. “You have something to help you tell the future. Let me see it.” “Trish, no,” I replied. “Seeing this book could mean irreparable damage to the time line.” “That didn’t stop you from becoming a world-famous prophet,” Trish fired back. She had a point, but I couldn’t let her know that. “Nostradamus started it!” I defended myself. “So wait, you’re worried about the time line?” she began thinking out loud. “Does that mean you’re from the future? Is that a history book about the 21st century?” With her accusations weighing down on me, I finally conceded my secret. I let her see the book and read its contents as she grew amazed about the fate of mankind. “Wow,” she concluded after reading it. “I guess we don’t have to worry about the Chinese as much as Trump thought, huh?” “Trish, listen,” I spoke. “You have to keep this a secret.” “Oh course,” she winked. “I’m just disappointed you didn’t tell me earlier. Together, we’re going to have a blast with this thing.” ***** More Stories at r/Andrew__Wells
	[WP] Fear. They were made of pure fear.	Humans can be vermin when the chips are down. Forged by their destiny, each one is made of the same thing. Fear. They were made out of pure fear. Crawling, biting and screaming their way away from their fears is all they know. The fear of hunger lets them beat and kill each other. The fear of their neighbour has them make weapons. Fear of being alone clusters them together in filthy sores called cities. It is their greatest weakness, and also their greatest strength. Those without fear stagnate. When they're frightened, humans brute force their way through any barrier. Fear of the dark had them harness fire. Fear of each other gave them treaties of brotherhood. Terror in the face of the unknown sent them to the moon. Truly, they are a curious race. Cursed with knowledge and fear, they walk a doomed path to paradise.	"You have to admire them in a foul, hated sort of way." Faith Alathir gave Flint a querying look. "What do you mean?" Hilary Flint gestured to the bloody remains before them, a mass of black fur and razor claws. A narrow mouth held dozens of yellowed fangs in gums corrupted with disease, bits of gore and dried flesh still clinging between them. It was vaguely lupine in shape, though on a scale which defied normal means. It was bipedal, its arms lanky and lean, its legs wrapped in layered muscles and built for bursts of speed. But it was its eyes that were the most disturbing, pale and human-like. "It's a Loup-Garou," he explained. "Werewolves can transform between monster and man, but Garous are trapped in one form, their true form. A werewolf might have a Man's intellect, but a Garou has a bestial cunning that no sentient being can compare to. More than a Dire Wolf and more than a Man, a Loup-Garou is something which is neither beast nor being. It exists on the border of what think we understand, and in doing so makes us question what we truly know. "We don't know where they come, if they even breed or reproduce at all. There's some who believe that Garous arise from corrupted beings, transforming and infecting them until they evolve into something not Human. Others dismiss this, calling it as nonsense and that we've merely haven't seen offspring or breeding. And then there's a scant few like myself who believe they come from another source altogether, a notion too dark and terrible for the masses to accept." "And what's that?" Faith asked. Flint turned towards her, his eyes dull with jadedness. "That these... abominations are not biological at all, that they're the manifestation of death and fear, and every negative emotion which has filled this world since the Arrival. You Fae knew nothing about them before then, which suggests that they are a product of the borders between the physical and metaphysical being torn and sundered. And if that's the case, then there is very little either Man or Fae can do to stop them. For every act of anger or fear or sadness will breed more of these creatures, and in doing sow the seeds of our own destruction."
	[WP] write the epilogue to the story you have always wanted to write.	As 38-J stood before the firing squad he was surprised at how calm he felt. His thoughts drifted back to Helen. His discovery of the record player. His band. 46-C, 51-K had both been executed days before him, he was unsure if 24-L had been killed when they raided the club or if he was still out there somewhere. If it was the latter he would be found soon enough. He hoped 24 died well, or at least quickly. He heard the crunch of the warden's boots on the gravel as she walked towards him. Measured and proud. She was one of the ones who enjoyed it, a true believer. You could always tell when they enjoyed it. "Does the accused have anything to say?" The blindfold was hot. He could hear a smirk in her voice. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of cursing her. "I lived well. I had music and I knew happiness." Though he couldn't see her he hoped that she was dissatisfied with his last words. He heard he spin on her heel and walk wordlessly back towards the firing squad. The breeze carried the smell of cut grass and dogwood flowers. He heard the warden call for the executioners to aim.	I made it. Standing beside me was her. What still amazes me is to think that if it weren't for the emerald stone, things would have turned out differently. Here we were, on top of a mountain in Italy. Emily's funeral had been yesterday. Speaking of her funeral, Jassline and I had to get back down to town. Tomorrow was the day that all of Emily's belongings would be carefully sorted through. After her things were cleaned, her house would be put up for sale. All that would remain of her was her stone necklace. "Ready to leave now, Mason?" Jassline asked me. "Yeah, let's go." And with that, we started our trek back home. The day had already darkened a bit. As we came back into town, we passed the cemetery. It was a little disorienting to pass the cemetery after the recent events. But the cemetery was bathed in the light from the last rays of sun.
	[WP] Whisked away to a fantasy world by the hands of a magical creature, you take in your surroundings - only to find your position in this world is not quite what you'd hoped...	I met an injured Pegasus that could talk as I was strolling through the park one day. Flash past a few weeks, I now live with this talking Pegasus. No one knows about Pterose, the same pegasus I saved, the knowledge of Pterose is one of my closest guarded secrets. One day, Pterose asked a strange question, "How would you like to visit the realm where I was born?" I replied, "Why are you suddenly asking such a question?" "Well, after living with you for so long, I noticed that you always seem to want something more, like your life was empty." Pterose replied. "Don't worry. My original realm, Ethania, is filled with things that you can only dream of. Kings and queens, dragons and gods, magic and sorcery. You can be a hero there, with riches and fame that other's would die for." "I... I...-- Surely this is all too good to be true. I don't even know how to fight!" I say, feigning a weak punch. "There are people who train heroes. They will gladly train you and the king will gladly give you plently of coins to start off your journey. Rarely do heroes come from outside realms, the ones who do usually are the ones mentioned in prophecy. Pegasi, like me, is the only race able to bring outsiders into our realm. Come with me." Pterose says as she walks through a swirling blue vortex of mystical energy in the middle of my apartment. Here goes nothing, I say as I jump into the portal, forgetting about all my earthly troubles. It was nothing I had ever experienced. It felt like I was submerged underwater, but I could breathe and open my eyes freely. I swam upwards trying to move towards the light at the top. I shot upwards, emerging from the pond. It was the most beautiful view I had ever seen. The sunlight fracturing against the water. The tall alpine trees along the mountains that lined the river. Strange animals eating grass peacefully, recognizable ones like cows also among them. Only... Pterose was nowhere to be found. I hear footsteps, the clang of armor, and the neighing of horses. I look behind me and see a long road in the forest. I hear them get nearer to the pond I was resting in. Until the sounds stopped. "Look sir, isn't that a man I see laying in the pond?" I hear someone say. "You there, why are you in this pond of all places? You do realize this is a sacred pond dedicated to our gods. To rest here is to commit blasphemy!" Said an armored man as he approached me. "Sorry, sorry, I had no idea! I was whisked here from another world by a pegasus to become a hero. Please, you must take me to the king!" I pleaded. "You think we haven't heard that before? Where is the pegasus? Many people have tried to claim to be heroes from another world. You will see the king, but not in the way you expect, you are to be taken to be tried. Men, arrest this prisoner." He says, gesturing towards me as two of his men grabbed me and threw me into a cage. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- "You have been tried and judged guilty. Not only did you dare defile a sacred pond, you also tried to claim to be a hero from another world. You are hereby sentenced to be a slave for the rest of your life." The old man said, shaking his head with disapproval. His crown sparkling in the dimly lit hall. Guards surrounding every exit. "No! No! There has to be something wrong! I was sent here by a pegasus! I am to be a hero! You must believe me!" I say pleading, my eyes becoming heavy with tears. "Take this man away, I don't want his unbearable presence to be in my court any longer!" The king says as he turns away, his guards following closely behind him. I was thrown into the dungeons by a guard. "How long will I be in here?" I ask the guard, as he was leaving. "Forever, or until someone buys you." He says as he walks away, leaving me alone in this rotting cell in a beautiful world. ~~~Shall I continue?~~~ Part 2 in comments	EDIT: Contains swear words I was sat in an old dingy bar throwing darts at a dartboard in-between gulps of my pint. Along the bar stools sat your usual cliche down in the dumps bar types; the old man who was alone in his life and looking like he would drop dead any second now, the gruff looking man who hadn't bothered to keep his beard tidy and looked as if he was going through a mid life crisis, the young man who had probably just come from a high stakes bet and lost it all who somehow still had the money to drink all night. Damn, I may as well take a seat next to one these not-so hopefuls. I had recently lost my wife and subsequently my daughter in a court battle for her custody, needless to say I had no chance, an alcohol and recovering drug addict like me. Perhaps it was better for her. There and then I decided that I needed to leave and think about my life, perhaps I could still salvage something of my dignity. "Cya Pat" I said to the bartender as I walked out, he gave me a half-assed wave back as if he was too busy to give me a proper goodbye, he knew I'd be back, they all did. Being a Wednesday night the streets were not too busy, it was only midnight. Hell that was a record for me, I'll only be as half hungover for work as I was this morning. Work, damn that place. Having to smile as If I gave a crap, ungrateful bastards, never work retail. I walked solemnly down the street half expecting some depressing voice to start narrating my thoughts with artistic monologue, it started snowing. I stuck my tongue out to taste the snow and a few drops landed on it, instantly melting. "Hey mister!" I turned to see 4 kids looking menacingly at me. "What? Shouldn't you kids be in bed right now?" I casually glanced at them and kept on walking. "Shouldn't you?" I turned as the kids voice had turned sinister. He had pulled out a switch knife and flipped it open for dramatic effect, what the hell. "What? You're like 12" The kid smiled at me. "13 actually, bitch" I couldn't believe it, a 13 year old kid had just called me a bitch. "Get lost brat" I carried on walking but I heard scurries behind me. All 3 of them had charged at me and the talker stuck me in the gut with his knife, the pain was unbearable. "What the hell you little shit!" I groaned in the midst of the pain, pain was all I knew right now as I fell to my knees and then onto my side. The other 2 kids started kicking me as the talker took my wallet, my only concern was defending my wound. No. I won't let 13 year old dictate whether I get to live or not. I kicked the legs of the talker and he fell to the ground hitting his face as he met the pavement, the other two stopped kicking out of fear. I sat up over the talker and started punching him in the face, not hard enough to do any serious damage. Now you may be thinking I'm a monster right now, but I have done far, far worse I can assure you. Hell, I've probably done even worse in one of my infamous drug-addled states. I stopped before I let my rage carry me the rest of the way. The kid jumped up like he was strapped to a bungee cord in reverse and ran in the first direction he could find, he wouldn't be so eager to attack anyone now. "Run you little shit! Run!" The adrenaline had diminished the pain, but the thought of it brought it all back. I looked down and noticed I had bled quite a lot, my tshirt now forever stained rain with a huge splotch of blood. I couldn't go to the hospital now, I had quite a reputation already and there would no doubt be an investigation. If the police found out I beat on a 13 year old boy they would do their best to put me behind bars, even if it was in self defense I had done enough damage to make them not care what I did as long as I was out of civilization. I clambered up onto my feet and began walking in the direction of home, I didn't know if I would make it but right now all I could think was thank god, thank god that this is happening, just let it be done already. A glint caught the corner of my eye. Looking up to the roof of a building I saw something gleeming in the moonlight, with one hand putting pressure on my wound and the other shadowing my eyes I tried to make out the strange looking object on the roof, suddenly it dashed away. "what the...?" Probably nothing, I kept on walking. I heard a little laugh, was that bastard back again? The laugh again, it came from inside the building through the window. I looked in, it was just a dark and damp abandoned building with nothing but tin cans and graffiti'd walls. That laugh, this time from the direction I was walking. I turned, a face was in my face; it had big eyes, a long pointy nose that curved down and ran down past its chin, ears that looked like they were stolen from an elf and two curvy tufts of hair next to them. It was only for a split second but it freaked the hell out of me, the next thing I knew was darkness. I awoke to find myself shivering, I was freezing. I opened my eyes and looked around, black clouds surrounded me and rain drenched me as if I had gone for a swim. I started screaming, hoping to get the attention of whoever. I then noticed claws had grabbed me by my clothes, the thing with the claws owned that face from before, it laughed. "What? Who are you? WHAT are you?" "You are Francis, yes?" Its voice was like that of an imp, but with a slightly deeper tone and more sinister, as if everything it said was a clue to what it was going to do you. "Y-Yes" It turned its gaze back forward and laughed again. "I am taking you to a magical place" It laughed. "A magical place full of mushrooms and unicorns, long green grass and walls dripping with tasteful liquids as healthy as water" It kept on flying as normal, as if what it just said didnt sound crazy at all. "What?! Put me down damnit!" I couldn't feel pain from my wound at all, it had somehow vanished. "Soon, soon, I must get you there first" Its voice sounded ever more sinister now. "Put me down! this is nonsense! I don't know how you are doing this or what you are but I swear to god if you don't put me down right now I am going to rip that nose off your face and shove it in your damn eye!" I made sure to sound extra angry to show it just how serious I am. It looked back at me. "Have it your way" It laughed, then it let go. I fell into the clouds, through the clouds as the imp elf whatever laughed and laughed, its laughs becoming quieter the further I fell. Well, I guess this is it. I came out of the clouds and came into a grand view of the city below, few lights were on and the small red and white dots of cars meandered along in the distance. I started to panic, seeing the city come closer and closer only dawned on me just how screwed I was. All I could do was scream. Just then a black... thing opened up, a hole. A hole in the middle of the air with swirling ripples and a blue hue, I fell into the hole.
	[WP] You were born with wings. Everyone wants to know about your amazing adventures, but you're too unfit and lazy to use them. One day, however, you need them for the first time...	They say your life flashes before your eyes before you die, but that's horseshit. I can recall the exact words I thought when I honestly believed I was about to kick the bucket. Why the fuck didn't I learn to use these wings? I mean, people dream about flying. Literally. While asleep and awake. I had the ability, I just never did. Never had a good enough reason to. They were really good as a talking point with the ladies, though. I was quite popular, and the stories I would tell were complete bullshit but seemed captivating enough. But this latest girl... Well. I didn't know she had a fiance. He was quite mad when he came back in the middle of the night, they guy obviously had anger issues when he kicked her to the ground and threw me out the 13th floor window as we fought. Didn't he notice my wings? He must have been really angry. Anyway, that's right. I was saying I thought I was dead. You'd think at some point during the past 20 years I would have flown once, right? Yeah, me too. But here I was, hurtling downwards wishing like fuck I had. They were literally my only chance at not dying, I had to try. The headlines would have painted me as a the idiot I was - 'Winged man falls to death'. So I tried. I spread them as wide as I could, thinking to use them like a parachute. That didn't work, I must have done it wrong and ended up tumbling. I barely managed to right myself before trying again, and I got extremely lucky. This time I managed a semblance of controlled flight. Well, dive would be more accurate, since I was still going downwards. Instinct lead me to try and 'pull up', as it were, so I leaned back trying anything to slow myself down. It worked - for a few seconds. Unfit and never used, my left wing buckled under pressure first and snapped. I howled in pain, that fucking hurt, and then hit the ground. Thankfully, I was knocked out by the impact. Yeah, knocked out. Didn't die. I almost wish I had. Now, because I'm unique, I have both doctors and veterinarians trying to help me rehabilitate. It's really embarrassing to pretend like I remember how to fly, but I just can't right now. I'm scared they'll find out I'm a fraud. But I won't let them find out. I'm going to fly. These wings are a gift, I should use them.	"Look I don't know how to do this." Jason just doesn't believe me. "You've had those wings for way over 20 years. Wings." You weren't overweight, so you can't use that as an excuse. Could the wings be deformed? "They were deformed." "For 26 years? No way to repair them? Why didn't you get them removed?" Why wouldn't I? "My dad could never afford them." "Your dad, your rich industrialist dad. Right. He can afford to gold-plate your wings and let them dispense caviar from the air, but he can't help with a surgery." Maybe they didn't- "Maybe they didn't discover a cure yet." "Why do you need them today anyway?" "I woke up late for a class."
Edit: Well this blew up. First of all, I'd like to thank all the talented writers for taking the time to share their gift with us. Secondly, the prompt is definitely inspired by my favorite story I've read here. https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2ns30z/wp_you_are_a_teenager_with_the_ability_to_measure/cmgetim/?utm_content=permalink&utm_medium=front&utm_source=reddit&utm_name=WritingPrompts	[WP] You see numbers above people, telling how many people they will kill given they keep on the same track. Last month you met a seemingly ordinary person with the number 7,431,323,210, or the total population of the Earth.	Dylan did a double take as the man in the suit passed by. 7,431,323,210. That couldn't be right, could it? By now, he had become used to seeing the numbers above peoples' heads, the number of people that person would kill in their lifetime. Shit. That had to be a fluke, it had to be. But no, in his line of work, he had confirmed the function of those numbers multiple times. As an FBI hostage negotiator, Dylan had seen his share of would-be perps and murders. It was only after the first few times the numbers started to appear that he put two and two together. Dylan set down his coffee and pushed back his chair. He had to stop this man. As Dylan quickly strode to catch up, he looked into the window of a passing shop. He paused for only a moment as he saw the number above his own head in the reflection: 1. It had been 0 that morning when he was brushing his teeth. What had to be done, had to be done. He had entered his line of work to protect others, hadn't he? As he came within a few paces of the suited man with the number to end the world, Dylan brushed his jacket to the side, reached into his waistband, drew the backup gun that he carried while off duty from its holster. Dylan took aim, and then fired. That awful number dropped to 0.	7,431,323,210. Hey, that's a pretty big number. I knew he's only four. And that he didn't seem like a bad person. (How bad can a four year old be, anyway?) That he was young and innocent. And that number was probably going to be caused by a chain of accidents, no matter what he could have done. Well, I figured that explained the one floating above my head. So I went ahead and did it. Mistake. Now both his parents have 7,431,323,211 on their heads. And I can't help it.
Edit: Well this blew up. First of all, I'd like to thank all the talented writers for taking the time to share their gift with us. Secondly, the prompt is definitely inspired by my favorite story I've read here. https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2ns30z/wp_you_are_a_teenager_with_the_ability_to_measure/cmgetim/?utm_content=permalink&utm_medium=front&utm_source=reddit&utm_name=WritingPrompts	[WP] You see numbers above people, telling how many people they will kill given they keep on the same track. Last month you met a seemingly ordinary person with the number 7,431,323,210, or the total population of the Earth.	I sat there in my room with my hands in my face. The lights were dimmed as to not strain my bloodshot eyes more. I haven't been been getting the best sleep. I tried. I definitely tried, but each time I closed them, I saw it. It was just another day in my life. I had gone to work in the morning, taking the public bus across town to my office and it had gone normally. I saw the same usual faces with their death counters above their heads. Most everyone had a faint yellow '0' floating above them. There were a few other numbers, but I didn't pay them any mind. I had come to terms with my strange ability. People killed people, either by murder or accident, it happens and I was just perfectly happy that whenever I looked in the mirror, I saw a 0 floating above my head. I said hello to Maddie, a cute girl with deep dimples whenever she smiled, which was always. She was in the cubicle next to me and it was customary for us to start the day with a friendly chat, especially on Friday. She had plans on going to the concert hall where several local bands were getting together for an event. It sounded fun and normally I would have gone with her, however, that wasn't going to happen this time. I looked up instinctively when I heard a door opening to my right. My first thought was that it was Mr. Johnson, the manager, coming out to tell us to get work since Maddie and often got carried away with our little conversations. It wasn't Mr. Johnson. It was someone I had never seen before. I didn't get a good look at his face because all I saw was the number above this head. Like a car wreck I couldn't tear my eyes away from it. I blinked and rubbed my eyes to make sure it was real, but sure enough it read, 7,431,323,210. He walked out of Mr. Johnson's office and left. I was left glass eyed. I had to excuse myself from Maddie when she became concerned, saying that I felt sick. I promised to talk to her later. I logged onto my computer and Googled the current population of Earth. It was close enough to be within the margin of error. That was a month ago. Each day this man would come by the office. It seemed he was a new employee. I avoided him at all costs as I watched his death counter go up higher and higher each day at the same rate as the population rose. It was maddening to just sit in my cube each day and watch this man and not do anything about it. What kind of horrible catastrophe was he destined to do. Would it be deliberate or would it be an accident. Was he guilty? Was he innocent of intent? Now, after much deliberation, I know what I must do. They won't understand why, but it's for the best. I get up and walk over to my bathroom and turn on the sink. I wash my face and then look up into the mirror. It tears me apart to see it. Above my head floats a dim, yellow number 1.	Mark stood at his window, beer in hand. He stared out at the numbers as they went by, tallying up how many people he would be letting die. He's given up trying to stop them a long time ago. What was the point of saving one person when hundreds more would be killed anyway? People die everyday. He noticed a red headed boy in a band uniform going door to door. He looked about 16, and held some kind of form in his hand. Great, he thought, he's selling shit. Mark checked the number above his head, and was surprised to see a 7. Well, murderers have to start out as kids, too. The doorbell rang, though the boy was still several houses away. It hit Mark that he probably had a partner, and he groaned internally at the upcoming social interacting. He opened the door to tell the kid to fuck the hell off, but froze. `7 4 3 1 3 2 3 2 1 0` His jaw dropped, but the boy didn't seem to notice. "Hello sir, I'm selling chocolates for our school band. It's our conductors last year, so we're trying to raise enough to take a field trip to Orlando. Any contributions would help..." the boy rambled. Mark stared at the number. He opened his mouth once, twice, but ultimately closed it. 7,431,323,210 people. That sounded close to the entire population. "How much" he managed to get out. The boy stopped for a moment, flipping through the packet before answering. "Well sir it depends on what you'd like to buy. Some chocolates are as cheap as $7, but some cookie doughs go up to, like, 26 bucks. If you'd like to look at the packet, the prices are..." Again he shot off, and again Mark ignored him. He finally dragged his eyes down from the number, and studied the doom of mankind. He searched for something-anything that could tell him how or even why, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. He could see short blond hair. Light blue eyes. A clear face, a sweet smile. A clean uniform, a straight posture. But he couldn't see anything that would lead to the extinction of the human race. "What's wrong with you?" Mark blurted. He knew immediately he shouldn't have said that, but he couldn't stop anymore. "What the hell is wrong with you?" By now the boy had completely stopping talking and had taken a step back with a hesitant, "Sir?" The words kept spilling out of Mark's own mouth. "It's horrible" he continued, shocked at himself. His mouth seemed to be movie on his own accord. Were they even his words? "You're a monster," he heard himself finish. The boy stared at him in silence for a moment, then took a step back. "I'm sorry for bothering you sir," he said at last. He backed up a bit more, and turned to leave. For a second, Mark could have sworn he'd seen light blue eyes turn a brilliant gold, but as the boy looked back they seemed to be blue again. He shut the door and grabbed his phone to take a picture of the boy. The police wouldn't believe him, but he had to try. And even if they didn't, he'd put it all over social media. Someone was bound to believe him. He took the picture, then dialed 911 and raised the phone to his ear. As he did, he heard a soft thump outside. He glanced at it just in time to see three golden streaks tear through his door, and then his body. "911, what's your emergency?" Mark would never live to see what he'd set in motion.
Edit: Well this blew up. First of all, I'd like to thank all the talented writers for taking the time to share their gift with us. Secondly, the prompt is definitely inspired by my favorite story I've read here. https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2ns30z/wp_you_are_a_teenager_with_the_ability_to_measure/cmgetim/?utm_content=permalink&utm_medium=front&utm_source=reddit&utm_name=WritingPrompts	[WP] You see numbers above people, telling how many people they will kill given they keep on the same track. Last month you met a seemingly ordinary person with the number 7,431,323,210, or the total population of the Earth.	Stephen looked in the mirror and saw his own number. 1. 1 person he was going to kill if he didn't change something. "Well," he thought, "how many will that one save?" He'd first realized what the numbers meant when he passed a drunken man one day in his teens with a 4 over his head. Later he'd seen the same man's face on the television. A mugshot, with a ticker below it saying he'd killed a family of four in a drunk driving accident. It didn't take but a couple more incidents like that and he'd decided to do something about it. So he stood, staring at his own number in the mirror, wondering if today would be the day to stop number 7. He tucked the 9mm into his waistband holster as he prepared to walk out the door. Legally carried with a license, ironically. He hadn't been caught and had it removed yet. With one last look he walked out the door. It was on his way to the usual coffee shop when Stephen spotted the man, and his number. 7,431,323,210. The biggest he'd ever seen. Possibly the whole world. He stopped, stunned, and decided he had to figure this man out. The man ended up going to Stephen's usual haunt, so he didn't need to alter his routine too much. Stephen watched as the man sat down and removed his jacket. Flight attendant, by the looks of the uniform. His mind was racing. Sure, a flight attendant might hijack a plane, it had been done before and killed thousands. But billions? Maybe if he flew the plane into a nuclear power plant? Military base overseas? Could that start a nuclear war? Whatever it was, he had to stop it The man checked his watch, donned his jacket, and walked out, still holding his coffee cup. Stephen followed close behind him out the door. The man hailed a cab, and Stephen made his decision. As the cab stopped and the man got in, he jumped in right behind and spoke to the cabbie before the man could. "Docks." The flight attendant started to protest, but stopped short when he saw the handgun held low, pointed at him. His mouth dropped open and he blinked several times. Stephen had seen it before. Sometimes this was enough to change the number, but no. Not this time. The man looked back up and saw the ice in Stephen's eyes, and he turned to face the front, eyes moving back and forth rapidly as he tried to think his way out of the situation. The cab pulled up to the docks on the river, too early for any dock workers to be at it yet in this area. Good. He nodded in the direction of the docks as the man looked at him. He got the idea and exited the car. Stephen passed the cabbie two twenties and put on a cheery voice, but not so cheery as to be memorable. "Thanks, boss." Stephen exited and told the flight attendant to walk, punctuating the command with a jab in the back. The man started breathing wheezily, struggling to get breath. This one was going to beg. This one would wrack him with guilt, Stephen knew. The last one who begged had him questioning himself for weeks. But the numbers didn't lie. He'd followed enough people with what had seemed like high numbers at the time, unable to bring himself to kill them, and seen the results. He redirected the man until they found themselves in a remote part of a scrap yard he'd used before. "Stop here." "Look, buddy-" "I'm not your buddy, no talking." "I just don't know why you're doing this." He coughed then, and it sounded wet. He turned around and Stephen saw the eyes well for the first time. Pink. He'd been quietly crying, then. Stephen raised the gun to the man's chest, and the eyes went wide. "Please, I have a-" "DON'T. I said no talking." He started putting pressure on the trigger, aiming for center mass like he'd always been trained, then started thinking again. 7 billion. He was reading the number right, it still hung there in the air like a spectre. Who was this man? The flight attendant stepped forward and Stephen yelled, "Stop!" He pointed the gun at the man's head for emphasis, then back down. No, he thought. Whatever this one was, he had to make sure. The gun went back up to the man's head and Stephen pressed the trigger. The bang echoed around the docks, but no one would come to investigate. Damn, head wounds were messy. He'd be late to work today; he'd have to change his shirt. Maybe he'd just call in sick. It was Friday, maybe a three day weekend would give him time to think through this one. Yeah, that would be the ticket. Monday morning came and Stephen woke up with a start in a cold sweat. He'd had another nightmare about the man. Another sick day. His boss would be okay with it. Stephen so rarely called in. He made the call, took a drink from the half-empty whiskey bottle on his nightstand and fell back into bed. He woke up again and checked his phone. 3:30. Wait, AM? He'd slept that long? Well, no dreams this time. Not that he remembered anyway. He got up feeling achy. Well, that was what you got for sleeping so long. He grabbed his glasses and noticed a spot of blood he'd missed when cleaning up. Couldn't let someone spot that and ask questions he'd have to make up answers to. He was a good liar, but not having to lie in the first place was best. He put the glasses on after cleaning them and looked in the mirror. Then he saw it. His number had changed. He took the glasses off and looked them over, Wiping them down again before putting them back on. 7,431,323,209 He blinked hard, but it was still there. His eyes shot wide with sudden clarity, and he looked in the trash bin at the shirt with blood spatter on it. A virus. A flight attendant who could spread it to travellers and other flight personnel who could spread it to more travelers. He'd always thought the numbers meant the deaths would be the fault of the number's bearer, not accidents. But why had his numbers changed? The head shot. He always went for the chest. The head shot was a spur-of-the-moment decision. The blood splattered on him and now... Now he was infected with whatever it was. The entire world. He'd thought to save them and now he was to be the agent of the world's destruction. Unless... But could he do it? A sigh. He felt well enough that he didn't think he was spreading anything just yet. Viruses incubated for a while, right? Yeah, that sounded right. He took a cab to the same scrap yard where he'd hidden the last body. And others. Walking through he remembered the ones he'd brought there. Over there was the gangbanger. Under that car was the doomed flight attendant. He walked on to a likely place and stopped to survey the sunrise over the scrap yard. He turned around and found himself facing a dirty glass window. He rubbed it clean with his sleeve and tried to get a last look at himself. The number 1 floated over his head. A wan smile. The dock workers heard the shot, but they just shook their heads and went back to work.	Mark stood at his window, beer in hand. He stared out at the numbers as they went by, tallying up how many people he would be letting die. He's given up trying to stop them a long time ago. What was the point of saving one person when hundreds more would be killed anyway? People die everyday. He noticed a red headed boy in a band uniform going door to door. He looked about 16, and held some kind of form in his hand. Great, he thought, he's selling shit. Mark checked the number above his head, and was surprised to see a 7. Well, murderers have to start out as kids, too. The doorbell rang, though the boy was still several houses away. It hit Mark that he probably had a partner, and he groaned internally at the upcoming social interacting. He opened the door to tell the kid to fuck the hell off, but froze. `7 4 3 1 3 2 3 2 1 0` His jaw dropped, but the boy didn't seem to notice. "Hello sir, I'm selling chocolates for our school band. It's our conductors last year, so we're trying to raise enough to take a field trip to Orlando. Any contributions would help..." the boy rambled. Mark stared at the number. He opened his mouth once, twice, but ultimately closed it. 7,431,323,210 people. That sounded close to the entire population. "How much" he managed to get out. The boy stopped for a moment, flipping through the packet before answering. "Well sir it depends on what you'd like to buy. Some chocolates are as cheap as $7, but some cookie doughs go up to, like, 26 bucks. If you'd like to look at the packet, the prices are..." Again he shot off, and again Mark ignored him. He finally dragged his eyes down from the number, and studied the doom of mankind. He searched for something-anything that could tell him how or even why, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. He could see short blond hair. Light blue eyes. A clear face, a sweet smile. A clean uniform, a straight posture. But he couldn't see anything that would lead to the extinction of the human race. "What's wrong with you?" Mark blurted. He knew immediately he shouldn't have said that, but he couldn't stop anymore. "What the hell is wrong with you?" By now the boy had completely stopping talking and had taken a step back with a hesitant, "Sir?" The words kept spilling out of Mark's own mouth. "It's horrible" he continued, shocked at himself. His mouth seemed to be movie on his own accord. Were they even his words? "You're a monster," he heard himself finish. The boy stared at him in silence for a moment, then took a step back. "I'm sorry for bothering you sir," he said at last. He backed up a bit more, and turned to leave. For a second, Mark could have sworn he'd seen light blue eyes turn a brilliant gold, but as the boy looked back they seemed to be blue again. He shut the door and grabbed his phone to take a picture of the boy. The police wouldn't believe him, but he had to try. And even if they didn't, he'd put it all over social media. Someone was bound to believe him. He took the picture, then dialed 911 and raised the phone to his ear. As he did, he heard a soft thump outside. He glanced at it just in time to see three golden streaks tear through his door, and then his body. "911, what's your emergency?" Mark would never live to see what he'd set in motion.
Edit: Well this blew up. First of all, I'd like to thank all the talented writers for taking the time to share their gift with us. Secondly, the prompt is definitely inspired by my favorite story I've read here. https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2ns30z/wp_you_are_a_teenager_with_the_ability_to_measure/cmgetim/?utm_content=permalink&utm_medium=front&utm_source=reddit&utm_name=WritingPrompts	[WP] You see numbers above people, telling how many people they will kill given they keep on the same track. Last month you met a seemingly ordinary person with the number 7,431,323,210, or the total population of the Earth.	"That's a pretty big number?" "To some" replied the young woman. "Don't you worry ?, what about your soul, or even humanity?" " Does the first snowflake of an avalanche worry, or the first drop of a deluge? My soul is my own as yours belongs to you. Our numbers tell us what will happen if we keep on the same path, that implies fate. Perhaps I will fork onto another before it happens. Even if don't the first snowflake of an avalanche didn't put the rest on their perch." "All of humanity is not something you can play with!" The man screamed gathering a crowd. "I don't play with humanity. I alone could do nothing. The moment the rest of you involve yourselves with me I get my number. Millions can be killed slowly by poison we pass around, millions more by the destruction we reap. Dictators and waring leaders of any kind are blamed for the deaths done by others. Their numbers like my number are convenient, they are the numbers of people who own their actions and accept consequences even those that paint them the darkest black." " How could you say that? " A zero from the crowd yelled indignantly. " I say it in the same way you lie to yourself. We all shape our reality by the lies we tell and information we interprate. My number is a scapegoat for all so you may sit happily and do nothing. I am a tesselated monster. You see how ugly the destroyer of worlds can be. But in each obsidian facet you see the darkest parts you all play." " That's ridiculous I am a zero I kill no one" the man held his chin for all to see. " I am the end of all people , and neither do I"	I can't remember when I first saw the numbers, just happened one day. Weird thing about the future is it constantly changes. I can be taking with someone and see their number change just like that. I can't use this power for much, I just try to keep my family and friends from those with high numbers. However, it all changed when I met one man. He seemed like a normal enough guy, the number above his head was a measly '1'. Nothing special, usually low numbers are due to accidents or self defence but something felt off about this '1'. I watched him walk by while I sat in the park with my daughter. My daughter was playing with a ball and accidentally kicked a ball at this man. I ran up to him and apologised profusely. "I'm so sorry, she didn't mean it." "Oh, it's no problem. Don't worry about it." Just as I walked away with my daughter, thinking the interaction over, he chimed. "However, I do desire a little compensation." "I'm sorry, I'm don't have much on me at the moment. Is a tenner alright?" "I don't desire money." He walked up to my daughter, grabbed her by the throat. My vision turned red. I saw his number change; from a '1' to a '0'. He just lay there lifeless, my daughter just looked at me, terrified of me. Me! Her own father! People all around the park had started to look, someone had called the police. I was arrested as you could imagine. The trial went poorly, there were no witnesses that had stepped forward. Turns out that the company the man worked for were dirty and had bought them all out to save face. The trial ended in a resounding loss. Guilty,14 years in prison. My wife and daughter visited during the first few months but I was a broken man and their visits declined with time. I had lost everything. I was released after 10 years due to good behaviour. But they were slow years that ate away at me. I felt betrayed, by my family, by the system, the witnesses who had forsaken me to live their own pockets. My final day, I looked at the mirror a saw the shell I had become and above my head I saw the number. Over 7 billion. "Hah, so this is how it's going to be. So be it." That day I decided to end it all.
Edit: Well this blew up. First of all, I'd like to thank all the talented writers for taking the time to share their gift with us. Secondly, the prompt is definitely inspired by my favorite story I've read here. https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2ns30z/wp_you_are_a_teenager_with_the_ability_to_measure/cmgetim/?utm_content=permalink&utm_medium=front&utm_source=reddit&utm_name=WritingPrompts	[WP] You see numbers above people, telling how many people they will kill given they keep on the same track. Last month you met a seemingly ordinary person with the number 7,431,323,210, or the total population of the Earth.	"I swear I have no idea what you're talking about!" The man plead with me as he knelt on the ground, hands outstretched in a feeble attempt to block me. That's what they all say. I merely moved the gun a few inches right, and squeezed the trigger. He hit the ground before my bullet shell, and the number above his head went from three digits to zero. --- The Slayer. Bounty Hunter. Hitman. I've been called all of these names before. Truth is, I look at myself as a savior of sorts. Without me, the world would be in so much more danger. Because of my gift, I am able to see the potential harm of each human being. Because of my gift, I see a number above each person, indicating how many they will kill in their lives. Because of my gift, the special forces have recruited me to hunt down the 'top scorers' in the world. At any instant, no one with three digits or more can be allowed to roam the world. Who knows what they are capable of? A mass shooting? A bombing? You never know in today's world. --- I was in a new city, some place where intelligence has told us that a few top scorers roamed. I scanned the busy streets, as the multitudes of people and numbers crossed in front of me. All a bunch of 0s and 1s. I reached a traffic junction, and paused for a second to rest under the shade provided by the large tree. That's when I saw it. A bunch of 0s on a moving bus, but a long string of numbers caught my eye. What the... I blinked a few times. That can't be right. How many digits is that?! I walked toward the bus, and broke into a jog as the bus began moving off. As I counted in my head, I realised this was something I needed to buzz back to HQ about. I opened up my strides catch up as the bus pulled ahead, but I never broke my vision with the long string of numbers somewhere in the middle of that bus. 'Yes sir?' my earpiece crackled to life. "I'm seeing something extremely abnormal. A target here with a big one. Ten digits." 'TEN digits?' the voice returned, incredulous. "Yes, ten digits. It is... 7 - 4 - 3 - 1 - 3 - 2 - 3 - 2 - 0 - 9. God damn it. That's more or less the world population isn't it?" As I continued running, frantic thoughts ran through my head. WHO is this guy? Some sleeper terrorist? What does he have planned? What could wipe out the whole earth's population? Something nuclear? I suddenly realised that I might not be well-equipped to deal with someone so dangerous. My hand patted the revolver concealed under my jacket. Will this be enough? Surely he is well-protected? I'll only have one shot. The bus finally slowed, as the traffic lights in front turned red. I quickly slowed to a brisk walk, and tried to maintain some cover closer to the shops on my side of the pavement. I can't approach in such an obvious manner! Argh, it's too late. I placed my hand on my gun. As I went parallel with the bus, I finally caught a glimpse of the target. His side was facing me, as he looked forward in the direction of the bus. No way! It was only a boy! No less than... eight? His tiny frame was partially hidden among the other passengers on board. He had a neat crew cut, and was wearing a well-pressed shirt with a bowtie. He looked like a boy scout. He couldn't harm a fly! 'Sir? The number you gave me, 7,431,323,209, is that right?' I glanced up at the number above his head. "Yes exactly." 'Well, that's indeed one shy of the current world population, sir. Send us your current location now, we'll send backup!' At that very moment, the boy turned his head, almost casually to look out of the window, but his eyes locked on to mine. He flashed me a winsome smile. The number above his head went up to 7,431,323,210.	I can't remember when I first saw the numbers, just happened one day. Weird thing about the future is it constantly changes. I can be taking with someone and see their number change just like that. I can't use this power for much, I just try to keep my family and friends from those with high numbers. However, it all changed when I met one man. He seemed like a normal enough guy, the number above his head was a measly '1'. Nothing special, usually low numbers are due to accidents or self defence but something felt off about this '1'. I watched him walk by while I sat in the park with my daughter. My daughter was playing with a ball and accidentally kicked a ball at this man. I ran up to him and apologised profusely. "I'm so sorry, she didn't mean it." "Oh, it's no problem. Don't worry about it." Just as I walked away with my daughter, thinking the interaction over, he chimed. "However, I do desire a little compensation." "I'm sorry, I'm don't have much on me at the moment. Is a tenner alright?" "I don't desire money." He walked up to my daughter, grabbed her by the throat. My vision turned red. I saw his number change; from a '1' to a '0'. He just lay there lifeless, my daughter just looked at me, terrified of me. Me! Her own father! People all around the park had started to look, someone had called the police. I was arrested as you could imagine. The trial went poorly, there were no witnesses that had stepped forward. Turns out that the company the man worked for were dirty and had bought them all out to save face. The trial ended in a resounding loss. Guilty,14 years in prison. My wife and daughter visited during the first few months but I was a broken man and their visits declined with time. I had lost everything. I was released after 10 years due to good behaviour. But they were slow years that ate away at me. I felt betrayed, by my family, by the system, the witnesses who had forsaken me to live their own pockets. My final day, I looked at the mirror a saw the shell I had become and above my head I saw the number. Over 7 billion. "Hah, so this is how it's going to be. So be it." That day I decided to end it all.
Edit: Well this blew up. First of all, I'd like to thank all the talented writers for taking the time to share their gift with us. Secondly, the prompt is definitely inspired by my favorite story I've read here. https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2ns30z/wp_you_are_a_teenager_with_the_ability_to_measure/cmgetim/?utm_content=permalink&utm_medium=front&utm_source=reddit&utm_name=WritingPrompts	[WP] You see numbers above people, telling how many people they will kill given they keep on the same track. Last month you met a seemingly ordinary person with the number 7,431,323,210, or the total population of the Earth.	I sat there in my room with my hands in my face. The lights were dimmed as to not strain my bloodshot eyes more. I haven't been been getting the best sleep. I tried. I definitely tried, but each time I closed them, I saw it. It was just another day in my life. I had gone to work in the morning, taking the public bus across town to my office and it had gone normally. I saw the same usual faces with their death counters above their heads. Most everyone had a faint yellow '0' floating above them. There were a few other numbers, but I didn't pay them any mind. I had come to terms with my strange ability. People killed people, either by murder or accident, it happens and I was just perfectly happy that whenever I looked in the mirror, I saw a 0 floating above my head. I said hello to Maddie, a cute girl with deep dimples whenever she smiled, which was always. She was in the cubicle next to me and it was customary for us to start the day with a friendly chat, especially on Friday. She had plans on going to the concert hall where several local bands were getting together for an event. It sounded fun and normally I would have gone with her, however, that wasn't going to happen this time. I looked up instinctively when I heard a door opening to my right. My first thought was that it was Mr. Johnson, the manager, coming out to tell us to get work since Maddie and often got carried away with our little conversations. It wasn't Mr. Johnson. It was someone I had never seen before. I didn't get a good look at his face because all I saw was the number above this head. Like a car wreck I couldn't tear my eyes away from it. I blinked and rubbed my eyes to make sure it was real, but sure enough it read, 7,431,323,210. He walked out of Mr. Johnson's office and left. I was left glass eyed. I had to excuse myself from Maddie when she became concerned, saying that I felt sick. I promised to talk to her later. I logged onto my computer and Googled the current population of Earth. It was close enough to be within the margin of error. That was a month ago. Each day this man would come by the office. It seemed he was a new employee. I avoided him at all costs as I watched his death counter go up higher and higher each day at the same rate as the population rose. It was maddening to just sit in my cube each day and watch this man and not do anything about it. What kind of horrible catastrophe was he destined to do. Would it be deliberate or would it be an accident. Was he guilty? Was he innocent of intent? Now, after much deliberation, I know what I must do. They won't understand why, but it's for the best. I get up and walk over to my bathroom and turn on the sink. I wash my face and then look up into the mirror. It tears me apart to see it. Above my head floats a dim, yellow number 1.	I can't remember when I first saw the numbers, just happened one day. Weird thing about the future is it constantly changes. I can be taking with someone and see their number change just like that. I can't use this power for much, I just try to keep my family and friends from those with high numbers. However, it all changed when I met one man. He seemed like a normal enough guy, the number above his head was a measly '1'. Nothing special, usually low numbers are due to accidents or self defence but something felt off about this '1'. I watched him walk by while I sat in the park with my daughter. My daughter was playing with a ball and accidentally kicked a ball at this man. I ran up to him and apologised profusely. "I'm so sorry, she didn't mean it." "Oh, it's no problem. Don't worry about it." Just as I walked away with my daughter, thinking the interaction over, he chimed. "However, I do desire a little compensation." "I'm sorry, I'm don't have much on me at the moment. Is a tenner alright?" "I don't desire money." He walked up to my daughter, grabbed her by the throat. My vision turned red. I saw his number change; from a '1' to a '0'. He just lay there lifeless, my daughter just looked at me, terrified of me. Me! Her own father! People all around the park had started to look, someone had called the police. I was arrested as you could imagine. The trial went poorly, there were no witnesses that had stepped forward. Turns out that the company the man worked for were dirty and had bought them all out to save face. The trial ended in a resounding loss. Guilty,14 years in prison. My wife and daughter visited during the first few months but I was a broken man and their visits declined with time. I had lost everything. I was released after 10 years due to good behaviour. But they were slow years that ate away at me. I felt betrayed, by my family, by the system, the witnesses who had forsaken me to live their own pockets. My final day, I looked at the mirror a saw the shell I had become and above my head I saw the number. Over 7 billion. "Hah, so this is how it's going to be. So be it." That day I decided to end it all.
Edit: Well this blew up. First of all, I'd like to thank all the talented writers for taking the time to share their gift with us. Secondly, the prompt is definitely inspired by my favorite story I've read here. https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2ns30z/wp_you_are_a_teenager_with_the_ability_to_measure/cmgetim/?utm_content=permalink&utm_medium=front&utm_source=reddit&utm_name=WritingPrompts	[WP] You see numbers above people, telling how many people they will kill given they keep on the same track. Last month you met a seemingly ordinary person with the number 7,431,323,210, or the total population of the Earth.	7431323210 7431323209 7431323208 "Terry? Have you changed your mind?" "No. Why would I? We've been working on this for years?" "Well, your number is dropping." "It is? Oh shit! What did we change?" Years of study and experimentation had gone into maintaining Terry's kill number. George had been kicked out of dozens of research labs and universities because of his experimentation. They didn't approve of his use of colleagues and students. Well, he didn't need them any more. Sure their numbers had been high, but none of them were the entire human race. George got a thrill every time he looked at Terry. "Nothing. We changed nothing. All the calculations still point to there being no way to spread this thing to humans. Every person we've tried it on has shaken it off like it was the common cold. Speaking of which, do you have a tissue? I need to blow my nose." Terry was staring at him. "George, do you feel all right?" "I feel fine, I just need to blow my nose." "I think we transmitted." "What?" "My number. How fast is it moving now?" 6312584159 6312373048 6301517892 "I didn't feel a thing Terry. How the hell did we do it?" "Don't know George, does it matter? A whole new species of man will inhabit the Earth by the end of today. I wonder how many people will notice." "Well, they'll probably notice the changing skin color at least."	I can't remember when I first saw the numbers, just happened one day. Weird thing about the future is it constantly changes. I can be taking with someone and see their number change just like that. I can't use this power for much, I just try to keep my family and friends from those with high numbers. However, it all changed when I met one man. He seemed like a normal enough guy, the number above his head was a measly '1'. Nothing special, usually low numbers are due to accidents or self defence but something felt off about this '1'. I watched him walk by while I sat in the park with my daughter. My daughter was playing with a ball and accidentally kicked a ball at this man. I ran up to him and apologised profusely. "I'm so sorry, she didn't mean it." "Oh, it's no problem. Don't worry about it." Just as I walked away with my daughter, thinking the interaction over, he chimed. "However, I do desire a little compensation." "I'm sorry, I'm don't have much on me at the moment. Is a tenner alright?" "I don't desire money." He walked up to my daughter, grabbed her by the throat. My vision turned red. I saw his number change; from a '1' to a '0'. He just lay there lifeless, my daughter just looked at me, terrified of me. Me! Her own father! People all around the park had started to look, someone had called the police. I was arrested as you could imagine. The trial went poorly, there were no witnesses that had stepped forward. Turns out that the company the man worked for were dirty and had bought them all out to save face. The trial ended in a resounding loss. Guilty,14 years in prison. My wife and daughter visited during the first few months but I was a broken man and their visits declined with time. I had lost everything. I was released after 10 years due to good behaviour. But they were slow years that ate away at me. I felt betrayed, by my family, by the system, the witnesses who had forsaken me to live their own pockets. My final day, I looked at the mirror a saw the shell I had become and above my head I saw the number. Over 7 billion. "Hah, so this is how it's going to be. So be it." That day I decided to end it all.
Edit: Well this blew up. First of all, I'd like to thank all the talented writers for taking the time to share their gift with us. Secondly, the prompt is definitely inspired by my favorite story I've read here. https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2ns30z/wp_you_are_a_teenager_with_the_ability_to_measure/cmgetim/?utm_content=permalink&utm_medium=front&utm_source=reddit&utm_name=WritingPrompts	[WP] You see numbers above people, telling how many people they will kill given they keep on the same track. Last month you met a seemingly ordinary person with the number 7,431,323,210, or the total population of the Earth.	Stephen looked in the mirror and saw his own number. 1. 1 person he was going to kill if he didn't change something. "Well," he thought, "how many will that one save?" He'd first realized what the numbers meant when he passed a drunken man one day in his teens with a 4 over his head. Later he'd seen the same man's face on the television. A mugshot, with a ticker below it saying he'd killed a family of four in a drunk driving accident. It didn't take but a couple more incidents like that and he'd decided to do something about it. So he stood, staring at his own number in the mirror, wondering if today would be the day to stop number 7. He tucked the 9mm into his waistband holster as he prepared to walk out the door. Legally carried with a license, ironically. He hadn't been caught and had it removed yet. With one last look he walked out the door. It was on his way to the usual coffee shop when Stephen spotted the man, and his number. 7,431,323,210. The biggest he'd ever seen. Possibly the whole world. He stopped, stunned, and decided he had to figure this man out. The man ended up going to Stephen's usual haunt, so he didn't need to alter his routine too much. Stephen watched as the man sat down and removed his jacket. Flight attendant, by the looks of the uniform. His mind was racing. Sure, a flight attendant might hijack a plane, it had been done before and killed thousands. But billions? Maybe if he flew the plane into a nuclear power plant? Military base overseas? Could that start a nuclear war? Whatever it was, he had to stop it The man checked his watch, donned his jacket, and walked out, still holding his coffee cup. Stephen followed close behind him out the door. The man hailed a cab, and Stephen made his decision. As the cab stopped and the man got in, he jumped in right behind and spoke to the cabbie before the man could. "Docks." The flight attendant started to protest, but stopped short when he saw the handgun held low, pointed at him. His mouth dropped open and he blinked several times. Stephen had seen it before. Sometimes this was enough to change the number, but no. Not this time. The man looked back up and saw the ice in Stephen's eyes, and he turned to face the front, eyes moving back and forth rapidly as he tried to think his way out of the situation. The cab pulled up to the docks on the river, too early for any dock workers to be at it yet in this area. Good. He nodded in the direction of the docks as the man looked at him. He got the idea and exited the car. Stephen passed the cabbie two twenties and put on a cheery voice, but not so cheery as to be memorable. "Thanks, boss." Stephen exited and told the flight attendant to walk, punctuating the command with a jab in the back. The man started breathing wheezily, struggling to get breath. This one was going to beg. This one would wrack him with guilt, Stephen knew. The last one who begged had him questioning himself for weeks. But the numbers didn't lie. He'd followed enough people with what had seemed like high numbers at the time, unable to bring himself to kill them, and seen the results. He redirected the man until they found themselves in a remote part of a scrap yard he'd used before. "Stop here." "Look, buddy-" "I'm not your buddy, no talking." "I just don't know why you're doing this." He coughed then, and it sounded wet. He turned around and Stephen saw the eyes well for the first time. Pink. He'd been quietly crying, then. Stephen raised the gun to the man's chest, and the eyes went wide. "Please, I have a-" "DON'T. I said no talking." He started putting pressure on the trigger, aiming for center mass like he'd always been trained, then started thinking again. 7 billion. He was reading the number right, it still hung there in the air like a spectre. Who was this man? The flight attendant stepped forward and Stephen yelled, "Stop!" He pointed the gun at the man's head for emphasis, then back down. No, he thought. Whatever this one was, he had to make sure. The gun went back up to the man's head and Stephen pressed the trigger. The bang echoed around the docks, but no one would come to investigate. Damn, head wounds were messy. He'd be late to work today; he'd have to change his shirt. Maybe he'd just call in sick. It was Friday, maybe a three day weekend would give him time to think through this one. Yeah, that would be the ticket. Monday morning came and Stephen woke up with a start in a cold sweat. He'd had another nightmare about the man. Another sick day. His boss would be okay with it. Stephen so rarely called in. He made the call, took a drink from the half-empty whiskey bottle on his nightstand and fell back into bed. He woke up again and checked his phone. 3:30. Wait, AM? He'd slept that long? Well, no dreams this time. Not that he remembered anyway. He got up feeling achy. Well, that was what you got for sleeping so long. He grabbed his glasses and noticed a spot of blood he'd missed when cleaning up. Couldn't let someone spot that and ask questions he'd have to make up answers to. He was a good liar, but not having to lie in the first place was best. He put the glasses on after cleaning them and looked in the mirror. Then he saw it. His number had changed. He took the glasses off and looked them over, Wiping them down again before putting them back on. 7,431,323,209 He blinked hard, but it was still there. His eyes shot wide with sudden clarity, and he looked in the trash bin at the shirt with blood spatter on it. A virus. A flight attendant who could spread it to travellers and other flight personnel who could spread it to more travelers. He'd always thought the numbers meant the deaths would be the fault of the number's bearer, not accidents. But why had his numbers changed? The head shot. He always went for the chest. The head shot was a spur-of-the-moment decision. The blood splattered on him and now... Now he was infected with whatever it was. The entire world. He'd thought to save them and now he was to be the agent of the world's destruction. Unless... But could he do it? A sigh. He felt well enough that he didn't think he was spreading anything just yet. Viruses incubated for a while, right? Yeah, that sounded right. He took a cab to the same scrap yard where he'd hidden the last body. And others. Walking through he remembered the ones he'd brought there. Over there was the gangbanger. Under that car was the doomed flight attendant. He walked on to a likely place and stopped to survey the sunrise over the scrap yard. He turned around and found himself facing a dirty glass window. He rubbed it clean with his sleeve and tried to get a last look at himself. The number 1 floated over his head. A wan smile. The dock workers heard the shot, but they just shook their heads and went back to work.	I can't remember when I first saw the numbers, just happened one day. Weird thing about the future is it constantly changes. I can be taking with someone and see their number change just like that. I can't use this power for much, I just try to keep my family and friends from those with high numbers. However, it all changed when I met one man. He seemed like a normal enough guy, the number above his head was a measly '1'. Nothing special, usually low numbers are due to accidents or self defence but something felt off about this '1'. I watched him walk by while I sat in the park with my daughter. My daughter was playing with a ball and accidentally kicked a ball at this man. I ran up to him and apologised profusely. "I'm so sorry, she didn't mean it." "Oh, it's no problem. Don't worry about it." Just as I walked away with my daughter, thinking the interaction over, he chimed. "However, I do desire a little compensation." "I'm sorry, I'm don't have much on me at the moment. Is a tenner alright?" "I don't desire money." He walked up to my daughter, grabbed her by the throat. My vision turned red. I saw his number change; from a '1' to a '0'. He just lay there lifeless, my daughter just looked at me, terrified of me. Me! Her own father! People all around the park had started to look, someone had called the police. I was arrested as you could imagine. The trial went poorly, there were no witnesses that had stepped forward. Turns out that the company the man worked for were dirty and had bought them all out to save face. The trial ended in a resounding loss. Guilty,14 years in prison. My wife and daughter visited during the first few months but I was a broken man and their visits declined with time. I had lost everything. I was released after 10 years due to good behaviour. But they were slow years that ate away at me. I felt betrayed, by my family, by the system, the witnesses who had forsaken me to live their own pockets. My final day, I looked at the mirror a saw the shell I had become and above my head I saw the number. Over 7 billion. "Hah, so this is how it's going to be. So be it." That day I decided to end it all.
Edit: Well this blew up. First of all, I'd like to thank all the talented writers for taking the time to share their gift with us. Secondly, the prompt is definitely inspired by my favorite story I've read here. https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2ns30z/wp_you_are_a_teenager_with_the_ability_to_measure/cmgetim/?utm_content=permalink&utm_medium=front&utm_source=reddit&utm_name=WritingPrompts	[WP] You see numbers above people, telling how many people they will kill given they keep on the same track. Last month you met a seemingly ordinary person with the number 7,431,323,210, or the total population of the Earth.	I used to see 0's everywhere there was a crowd. On the occasion I did see a number other than 0 I could intervene and drop it quickly. To understand what I'm talking about, I can see the number of people a person will kill in their lifetime. I've been able to do so as long as I can remember, 113 years. No one knows about this as one can imagine the feedback I would receive. As I was saying before, I used to see 0's all the time. When I was born the industrial revolution was at full speed and inter continental travel was becoming much easier. As technology improved and our use of resources compounded I started to notice a strange trend, less and less 0's. People were getting gaining numbers all the time. I came to realize that it was literally due to people's carbon footprint and ability to transmit disease. Even I had a number 4 above me. From smog to the common cold everyone was contributing to someone's demise. I got used to it and realized there wasn't much o could do to help anymore. It got to the point where there was no way to tell if someone was a murderer, going to cause an accident, or if it was just them leaving too many lights on. Then the US election happened. I went to sleep that night knowing our country wouldn't make terrible decision. I mean look who the candidates were. I woke up and didn't even think about checking the results before going into town. As I was walking around, cane in hand, I noticed everyone's number was at 0! I thought, "What has happened?! The election did this? We're all saved!" I felt peace for the first time in half a century. Curious now as to how the election turned out I went into a local sports bar and looked at a television. The headline read "Trump wins election!" He was on the tv as well only he had a different number above him. 7,845,542,885. Now I know why everyone's number dropped.	I can't remember when I first saw the numbers, just happened one day. Weird thing about the future is it constantly changes. I can be taking with someone and see their number change just like that. I can't use this power for much, I just try to keep my family and friends from those with high numbers. However, it all changed when I met one man. He seemed like a normal enough guy, the number above his head was a measly '1'. Nothing special, usually low numbers are due to accidents or self defence but something felt off about this '1'. I watched him walk by while I sat in the park with my daughter. My daughter was playing with a ball and accidentally kicked a ball at this man. I ran up to him and apologised profusely. "I'm so sorry, she didn't mean it." "Oh, it's no problem. Don't worry about it." Just as I walked away with my daughter, thinking the interaction over, he chimed. "However, I do desire a little compensation." "I'm sorry, I'm don't have much on me at the moment. Is a tenner alright?" "I don't desire money." He walked up to my daughter, grabbed her by the throat. My vision turned red. I saw his number change; from a '1' to a '0'. He just lay there lifeless, my daughter just looked at me, terrified of me. Me! Her own father! People all around the park had started to look, someone had called the police. I was arrested as you could imagine. The trial went poorly, there were no witnesses that had stepped forward. Turns out that the company the man worked for were dirty and had bought them all out to save face. The trial ended in a resounding loss. Guilty,14 years in prison. My wife and daughter visited during the first few months but I was a broken man and their visits declined with time. I had lost everything. I was released after 10 years due to good behaviour. But they were slow years that ate away at me. I felt betrayed, by my family, by the system, the witnesses who had forsaken me to live their own pockets. My final day, I looked at the mirror a saw the shell I had become and above my head I saw the number. Over 7 billion. "Hah, so this is how it's going to be. So be it." That day I decided to end it all.
Edit: Well this blew up. First of all, I'd like to thank all the talented writers for taking the time to share their gift with us. Secondly, the prompt is definitely inspired by my favorite story I've read here. https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2ns30z/wp_you_are_a_teenager_with_the_ability_to_measure/cmgetim/?utm_content=permalink&utm_medium=front&utm_source=reddit&utm_name=WritingPrompts	[WP] You see numbers above people, telling how many people they will kill given they keep on the same track. Last month you met a seemingly ordinary person with the number 7,431,323,210, or the total population of the Earth.	7 billion people. Gracie stared at the gentleman sitting across from her on the train. He had a nice clean suit, polished shoes, and a straight posture that made her neck ache just thinking of it. 7 billion people? How is that even possible? She pondered to herself. It has to be some sort of real life glitch right? Maybe I'm seeing things. The man glances in her direction and a cold shiver runs down her spine, standing her hairs on end. Unable to even look him him the eye she looks to the speeding view behind her. She tries to push the thoughts of the man out of her mind, but she can feel his gaze on her still. Okay so, not a glitch. Does he consider bugs people? But then he wouldn't have the intent to kill them all. There's no other explanation, but what could I even do? A faint white mark appears into vision, almost unnoticed. The zero that had followed her without fail all her life suddenly was no longer there. 1 had taken its place. Turning forward once more, she slowly reaches into her bag and tightly gripping the pen from her journal. There is something she can do... ((I haven't done any creative writing like this in a while, let alone on reddit on a phone. cheers for the provoking WP))	I can't remember when I first saw the numbers, just happened one day. Weird thing about the future is it constantly changes. I can be taking with someone and see their number change just like that. I can't use this power for much, I just try to keep my family and friends from those with high numbers. However, it all changed when I met one man. He seemed like a normal enough guy, the number above his head was a measly '1'. Nothing special, usually low numbers are due to accidents or self defence but something felt off about this '1'. I watched him walk by while I sat in the park with my daughter. My daughter was playing with a ball and accidentally kicked a ball at this man. I ran up to him and apologised profusely. "I'm so sorry, she didn't mean it." "Oh, it's no problem. Don't worry about it." Just as I walked away with my daughter, thinking the interaction over, he chimed. "However, I do desire a little compensation." "I'm sorry, I'm don't have much on me at the moment. Is a tenner alright?" "I don't desire money." He walked up to my daughter, grabbed her by the throat. My vision turned red. I saw his number change; from a '1' to a '0'. He just lay there lifeless, my daughter just looked at me, terrified of me. Me! Her own father! People all around the park had started to look, someone had called the police. I was arrested as you could imagine. The trial went poorly, there were no witnesses that had stepped forward. Turns out that the company the man worked for were dirty and had bought them all out to save face. The trial ended in a resounding loss. Guilty,14 years in prison. My wife and daughter visited during the first few months but I was a broken man and their visits declined with time. I had lost everything. I was released after 10 years due to good behaviour. But they were slow years that ate away at me. I felt betrayed, by my family, by the system, the witnesses who had forsaken me to live their own pockets. My final day, I looked at the mirror a saw the shell I had become and above my head I saw the number. Over 7 billion. "Hah, so this is how it's going to be. So be it." That day I decided to end it all.

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