Lie To Me

Emily Crowley
Mr.Breaton
EWC 4U
10 March 2015

 Dear diary,
  Today marks two years of rehabilitation. During the last consultation with my psychiatrist this morning, my attention fell to the general direction of either the clock or the door. The prospect of freedom sang through every nerve in my body. I listened selectively for the only words that mattered. Prognosis, cured. I waited in the hallway for Brian; he had a habit of being perpetually late. I suppose it runs in the family. 
 Around twenty minutes after being released, I felt a light tap on my shoulder and spun quickly to see the face of a bearded young man. Had it not been for the eyes, so much like our Dad’s, I wouldn't have recognized him. Okay, I’ll admit my calm, collected image may have slid for a few seconds as I bear-hugged my baby brother after years apart. I’m only human. We went to lunch at some new burger joint and everything was going great. We easily slid into our old habits; bad jokes (mostly at his expense), erecting the leaning tower of condiments on the diner table, you know, the usual adult pass times.
 Unfortunately, Brian just had to get that look on his face --you know, the one where someone wants to ask something but won’t be the first to bring it up. By now I should know better but, assuming my role as the eldest, I punched his arm --probably harder than necessary-- and made him spit out what he wanted to say. 
“Are you okay?”
And there it was, the arrival of that damned question I was loathing. Now, I thought I’d have more than an hour to contemplate what I would say when this happened, but leave it to Brian.
 You’d think that two years of having that question asked by Doc would have prepared me for the most important person I had to answer to. However, there’s a discernible difference between the disconnected, false response required by ‘recovering PTSD patients’. If you can pull off normal, then you must be normal, right? This conversation would require much more than ‘normal’ would, so much more was expected. So I went with the explanation, one that Brian had obviously waited for for a long time. If I was in his place, an official, formal explanation from the feds definitely wouldn't have cut it. 
 So, I told him everything he needed to know. The little things first: the smell of alcohol, the small out of date TV voicing some dumb infomercial, the curtains were drawn. It was very late and I walked down to the living room, as I normally did. I hadn't noticed anything unusual. Brian and I both knew about Dad’s problem. I pulled back the curtains and there he was, in all of his self-loathing (and pathetic, although I didn't mention that) glory. The bombshell Brian had heard undoubtedly more than enough times; Dad, sprawled out in his chair, not breathing. Toxicity reports concluded what we both knew had happened -- he had died of over-consumption of alcohol. I threw in some bits about how I didn't want to wake Brian up because I didn't want this to scar him, as it did me. In spite of my uncontrollable tears, I left the house, called 9-1-1, and sat on the porch until the paramedics took me. That night was not pretty, in any sense. Through the whole conversation with Brian, I shivered and tapped my fingers; I couldn't bring myself to look in his eyes. Those damned eyes. Thankfully, his only response ended up being a tentative grip of my hand and the suggestion to go home.
 And so, I’m home. I made it. But more importantly, I’m free. And no one suspects a thing.
                                                                                                                              Yours truly,

                                                                                                                    A pathological liar