All My Truths & One Lie

by Fabiola Francisco

  Now, I’ve decided to share it. Many won’t like it. It’s hard to accept a new version of someone you love. It’s hard to understand the changes in people when you thought they were perfect before. This voice? This is real. This is me and I’m keeping my vow not to hide anymore. And it starts with the one thing I’ve always used as a shield—writing.

  It’s not just keeping quiet about things people did. I’ve silenced myself from my own being. I haven’t honored who I am because I was always afraid I wouldn’t be accepted. Always talking myself out of it because I’d sound crazy or get sideways glances and raised eyebrows.

  I’ve turned into such a coward.

  No. I’m brave.

  It takes bravery to live, and many times I could’ve so easily called it quits. There were more times in my life that I wanted to die than I wanted to live, than I wanted to simply survive. I think if I weren’t so afraid of blood and open flesh, I would’ve slit my wrists all those years ago.

  My mother punished me when I would yell how badly I wanted to die. She was blind to my cry for help. I was too angry to let her know I was serious. I let her believe it was teenage rebellion. It’s easier that way. To hide.

  I used to want to kill myself, but I didn’t know how I’d do it. Too much of a coward, I used to think. Not having the courage to kill yourself was cowardice. I wrote a book once and dedicated it to all those that wanted to end their lives but chose to stay. Living takes more courage than dying. Self-hatred can lead you down a path of darkness, but I finally understood the difference.

  I shake my head. Lately, it’s as if all the work I’ve done to better myself has slipped through cracks in the soil and was burned by the heat of the Earth’s molten core. I feel as if I’m taking steps back, being pulled by the things that hurt me for so long. Things I used to hurt myself.

  I know better.

  A dull sound comes from my bag on the bench, thankfully steering my mind away from sullen thoughts. I search for my phone, digging through the crystals and past my wallet.

  “Hello?” My exhale is heavy as a smile creeps on my face.

  “Hi. Are you done with work?” Matthias’s deep voice echoes in my ear.

  “Yes. I finished some time ago.”

  “Oh. So you’re free?” he questions.

  “Yes…” I wait for him to say what he wants directly.

  “I’ll pick you up. I want to cook you dinner.”

  “At your place?” I’ve yet to see where he lives.

  “Yes.”

  “Give me a bit to get home. I’m at the park near Chalice Well,” I explain as nerves move through me.

  “I’ll pick you up in an hour,” he states, confident and eager.

  We hang up and I stand, heading home to get ready to see Matthias. To see where he lives.

  Matthias lives in the countryside. A small cottage with land surrounding it. This is a part of town I’ve not seen yet since I haven’t wandered out this far. The steep-sloped roof adds a unique character to the design. The home feels like it’s out of a storybook. The white walls are textured inside and out.

  It’s an adorable home.

  “This was my grandparents’ home. I inherited it a few years ago,” he explains as we enter.

  “It’s beautiful.” I look around, catching the brick fireplace in the living room, flanked by floor to ceiling bookcases on both sides. Cozy doesn’t even begin to describe this space. Matthias walks up behind me, wrapping his arms around my body. He kisses the crown of my head.

  “I love it here, and it’s still close to the town center. No more than a short drive, but I have privacy. I have peace.”

  I nod. He does have all that. On the drive over, I noticed a few sheep grazing in a field. It reminded me of Spain.

  “What do you want to drink?” he asks as he releases me.

  “Just water, please.” He nods and walks into the kitchen. I follow him. The wooden cabinets are painted ivory and the countertop contrasts slightly with a natural wood top. It’s small, yet open with a tall, rustic table sitting in the middle, acting as an island.

  “How can I help?”

  “Want to help me peel potatoes? I’m making roast beef and roast potatoes.”

  “Sounds good. Just point me to the potatoes and peeler,” I smile, a sense of want for something I’ve never truly desired overcoming me.

  Matthias gets me set up in a section of the counter and gets to work preparing the meat. I tell him about my day, my writing.

  “Do you mind if I have a drink?” he asks.

  “Not at all. Why would I?”

  “I’ve noticed you don’t drink.” He shrugs as he reaches for the amber liquid in the top cabinet.

  “I have nothing against alcohol, I just don’t drink it as much anymore.”

  “How come?”

  I have an addictive personality. Always have. It’s easier to sink into an outside substance than to have a clear vision of the ugliness I carry. My favorite vice was always alcohol. I knew the moment an amber liquid hit my lips, just like the one Matthias is serving himself, I wouldn’t stop until I forgot. Until I shut up my subconscious. The mind is easy to manipulate with a new dress or jewelry. With the falseness of social media—one status update with lying words that prove to the world how amazing your life is. The mind is the easiest to convince, but the subconscious . . . The subconscious holds the truth. A light buzz wouldn’t shut it down, so I’d drink until everything faded except for the pungent taste of alcohol sitting on my tongue.

  “I used to get drunk to numb the pain. I drank to forget,” I confess.

  “So, you quit?” His eyebrows furrow.

  I shrug. “I simply don’t need it anymore. I don’t need to run from the truth by drowning it in a black hole of alcohol. If I desire a drink, I have one. I no longer want to use it as I had done for so long. That doesn’t serve me.” The feeling of waking up with a groggy state of unknowingness always weighed heavy on me.

  “I agree. It should be for pleasure, but not a necessity.”

  I nod, biting the inside of my cheek.

  I embarrassed myself the last time I got drunk. Actually, I don’t know if I did. I can’t remember. It’s all a blur, pieces of the day flashing behind my eyes like the pictures I’d snapped crossing the screen of my phone. I was out for a birthday. Day drinking. That was my favorite. I hadn’t drank in months, finally owning who I was, pulling myself out of the mess that is my life, sober. But I love day drinking. Beer, champagne, whiskey. Any excuse to savor the bitter alcohol on my lips.

  It took one comment. One hurtful comment for me to succumb to the numbness. The sting was greater than the guilt of drinking. The guilt of going against my will.

  People can be hateful. They love to look at the negative in other people’s lives instead of acknowledging their wins. We all struggle. We all hurt. Why must we be the purpose of that pain instead of the foundation to build each other up?

  I wore the coat of embarrassment and shame for days afterward, avoiding those I was with. Avoiding myself. Instead, I lay in a bed of self-loathing, hating myself more with each minute that passed. I couldn’t emerge from the punishment I was imposing on myself. It was a cold, bitter cycle. If no one was going to punish me, I’d do it myself. It buried me.

  The hurtful words of someone else led me down a path of self-destruction. I vowed never again. I vowed never to let someone else make me feel inferior. But that vow is difficult to keep when I was already feeling less than. The words tipped me over so quickly because I had brought myself down to that place. The alcohol I consumed was the excuse to blame someone else.

  As much as I enjoy a drink, I had to come to realize I wasn’t consuming it healthily. I was spiraling out of control. It went from two glasses of wine to an entire bottle on a Wednesday night, because #WineWednesday. It went from two scotches to five and getting in a car to drive home. I was purposefully placing myself in dangerous situations. Testing my fate. Playing between the risk of invincibility
and mortality.

  When I started to feel sick from just a sip of beer, I knew I had to take a step back, especially if I wanted to heal my wounds. The alcohol would just feed the flesh that was begging to be cared for. My heart was begging for me to listen, for me to face my issues so I can overcome them. But my mind was begging for the alcohol to quiet the heart.

  When it all snapped into place, I no longer craved the need to drink away my anger. I can’t say what exactly happened. I just woke up one day with a knowingness that I no longer wanted to drink to forget. I wanted to remember, so I could embrace my truths and own them.

  “If I ever want to enjoy a drink, I will,” I tell Matthias.

  “I respect that.” He smiles and winks. I relax and finish preparing the potatoes.

  After dinner, we sit on a thick blanket on the living room floor with the flames of the fireplace dancing before us. I love his home. I would never want to leave this place if I lived here.

  I yawn and stretch my arms in front of me. Matthias pulls me closer to his chest.

  “Do you want to stay?” he asks before kissing my temple.

  “I work tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll take you home and then drop you off at work.”

  “Are you sure?” The depth of his blue eyes draws me in.

  “Of course.” His eyes are bright with the reflection of the flames dancing in them.

  I lean in and kiss him. “Okay,” I say against his lips.

  He guides us to his bedroom, handing me a tee shirt to change into.

  Once I’m ready, I lie next to him and enjoy the warmth of his heat surrounding my body.

  My body tenses and I awaken. I inhale the scent of pine and Matthias. His skin is wrapped around me as my nose breathes in his bare chest. I twist away from him and search for my phone on the bedside table. Seeing the time, I sneak out of bed and tiptoe around the dark house, using my phone as a guiding light.

  I unlock the door with the key hanging from the lock and step out into the cold night. Out here, the sky shines brighter with the shimmering stars that move around in the universe, worlds away. They show off their beauty. If I didn’t love them so much, I’d be offended by their boastful exhibition.

  I walk out from the stoop and onto the grass, wet from the evening dew. I should’ve gone back to sleep, seeing as it’s three in the morning, but I’m a lover of the night. Doing this helps center me. After spending the night in Matthias’ house, sleeping in the same bed, which is more intimate than sex can be, with my soul painted on my skin for him to read as he pleases, I need to ground myself. So much, so fast.

  That’s how it is when you meet your twin flame. But I’d be a fool to think it will always be this easy and the anxiety that vibrates inside of me, knowing it won’t be, keeps me awake at night.

  I breathe in, sucking down the cool air, and staring up at the sky. With the clusters of stars much more evident here, I wish I were living in a place where the stars were within reach. A planet far away, where pain no longer exists because the beings that inhabit it have already overcome the density of humanity.

  I shiver and stick my arms in through the shirt sleeves, wishing I had grabbed a jacket.

  “I thought you might be here.” His voice is gruff with sleep.

  I keep my arms crossed around me, hugging my body inside the shirt. “Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve loved the stars. Back home, I couldn’t appreciate them, but I’d still search for them. When I’d visit Spain, I’d spend hours outside under the night sky, neck craned back, counting and staring at those mysterious specks. There’s something in me that’s called to them.” I don’t turn around to look at him. I know he’s approaching.

  “Like fairies?” his voice is teasing.

  “More.” I turn to look at him, eyes wide.

  The soft smile that adorns his face paints my heart in vibrant colors.

  Finally.

  “Tell me everything about you.”

  “You already know a lot.”

  “But I want to know it all. Tell me about The Saint in Red.”

  I stop. Freeze. The cold air is warm in comparison to his request. My heart halts. “How do you know he’s real?”

  “Because you write about him with such emotion, it’s impossible he’s not.” His keen intuition is too aligned with my life.

  “Was.”

  “What?”

  “Was. He’s dead now,” I state indifferently.

  “The emotion is still very much alive, though,” he points out.

  I nod. “When I wrote that book, I didn’t know the extent of it. He was just someone that did a horrific thing. Now, I know it goes beyond that. The more time that passes, the more I learn that it wasn’t one horrific mistake. It was…” I shake my head, tears welling in my eyes. “He ruined so much for me. I used to love my family. Now,” I shrug. “It was all a lie.”

  I hate him because he ruined the idea I had of my family. I thought we were a family worth being proud of. I realize now it’s bullshit. How could you stand by that? How could you live that way? Damaging people, children.

  I hate him.

  I hate him.

  I hate him.

  He died of a stroke. Home alone. On his way to the bathroom. Everyone cried and mourned the amazing man.

  I couldn’t cry. My delayed reaction to situations didn’t allow me to. I remember one of my cousins telling me it was okay to cry, thinking it was my pride holding back the waterfall. In retrospect, I think a part of my subconscious knew the kind of man he was.

  He may have been a good grandpa, but he was a shitty father. And now, I think every memory I have of him is tainted by sickness.

  “Do you really want to know?” I ask Matthias.

  “Yes.”

  “It won’t be easy. I’m not done processing it all,” I warn.

  “I won’t push more than you can go.” He reaches his hand out to me and I stare at it. Sneaking one arm out from the shirt, I hold onto his hand and walk closer to him.

  “Don’t let go,” I whisper.

  We settle in front of the fireplace after Matthias sparks the flames back to life and makes us tea.

  Wrapped up in a blanket, I sip the tea before speaking.

  “When I was a little girl, I used to be so happy. I was this rebellious child, fearless. I used to believe my family was perfect. Not perfect-perfect, but perfect for me. Perfect in my eyes. I knew we had flaws, but they weren’t anything that would ruin us. It was so far from the truth. I had no idea what the foundation of our family was really built on.” I drink more tea, swallowing with it the hatred I’m feeling.

  “Anyway, things happened not long after that did change me. But back to my grandfather, my mom’s dad. I call him The Saint in Red because he was oh, so holy. A Catholic man with enviable morals and a good heart.” My dry laughter emphasizes my sarcasm. Matthias is patient as I get this all out. “I hate him so much,” my breathing catches. “He was a sick fuck. He abused children. His children. Not a touch here or a touch there. He forced one to…” I lean my head back and close my eyes. “Some things are hard to voice.” I swallow hard.

  “He had to have been sick. There’s no other way around it. Yet, I don’t think he was the only one in his generation to be this way. I think they were all fucked up. I was once told the men used to go hunting and would take their sons with them. Hunting wasn’t the only thing they would do. It makes me sick to know he makes up part of my DNA. It makes me angry.”

  Tears roll down my face like silent pleas to escape this ancestral imprisonment.

  “I come from that man because without him, I wouldn’t be here,” my voice rises. “I don’t want to be associated to him. He was supposed to be our family foundation. He was supposed to be the pillar that holds us up. His support crumbled when I learned he was nothing but a son of a bitch. He failed me. He failed us all. He allowed this snowball effect to happen in our family. He allowed the patterns to repeat themselves. He ruined my childhood
by being a sick fuck.”

  My body trembles uncontrollably as silent tears turn into begging sobs. I drop the mug on the floor, some of the tea splashing around me, and dig my hands in my head, tugging the roots of my hair.

  Instantly, Matthias wraps me in his arms, holding me.

  I don’t want his touch to feel good.

  I don’t want his touch to remind me of unwanted touches.

  I don’t want any of this confusion and mixed emotions.

  Good.

  Bad.

  Wrong.

  Right.

  He’s not the person who hurt me, so I allow him to comfort me, but any touch right now reminds me of too much. He senses my discomfort but doesn’t let go. It’s not aimed at him. It’s aimed at my past. It’s aimed at the broken girl. The life my grandfather led catapulted into energetic cycles of abuse in our family

  “I hate him so much,” I whisper. My body limp and my chest aching with unfinished pressure.

  “The hatred will kill you,” Matthias speaks into my hair. “But I know that kind of pain.”

  “How could my grandmother stay, knowing the monster she was sleeping next to?”

  For a long time, I was angry at my grandmother for choosing to continue to sleep next to the monster she had uncovered. How could she? How could she stay knowing what he had done, possibly what he continued to do? How could she choose him over her children?

  When I think of my family now, I think of failure. I think of disgust.

  When I think of my grandfather, only one thing comes to mind: sick fuck.

  Because who I thought was a great man, was nothing more than a twisted bastard living in a shadow. Every memory is now marked with the knowledge that he . . .

  I swallow back bile. I once asked my aunt if she thought he had hurt any of his grandchildren. She said she didn’t. That was left for his children. But we were screwed regardless because of the stamp he engraved in our DNA.

  “I don’t know. We can’t understand people’s decisions or motives, and they’re not for us to judge.”

  “Everything I thought I knew. Everything I believed he was, is shattered. The man I admired so much. He had to have been sick, right?” I look up at Matthias.