Page 54 of Little Liar
The only one that sticks with me.
Mom sees my inner breakdown, and her shoulders sag as she takes mine. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Malachi will get the best help away from the public. He’s a danger to you, himself, and society.”
Tears soak my cheeks, every atom within me colliding.
“Promise me you’ll make sure he’s safe. Promise me he’ll get help.” I sniffle and drop my head to her shoulder. “I’ll do it, but only if he gets help.”
“I promise,” she says, moving back and wiping my eyes. “Get cleaned up, fix your hair, and let’s go.”
On the drive to the courthouse, I don’t speak a word, even when my mom asks me if I’m okay—she tells me to lift my chin when we stop the car as cameras flash outside, reporters waiting to get their five seconds of shoving themselves in our paths as we push through to the front entrance. Dad being a well-known attorney only makes this all worse. Entitled people think they can yell disgusting words at us, even though we’re the innocent ones. It makes no sense—Malachi was the one who attacked our dad.
A part of me feels nervous, as if someone might be able to read my mind and see the full image of what happened that night. Someone will find out the truth, and I’ll lose the family who saved me forever.
Malachi was charged with attempted murder and sentenced to prison. He refused to plead insanity, no matter how much we tried to push his lawyer.
He’s sent me letters. Some I can’t read fully; some are so heartbreaking that I keep them under my pillow. He’s losing himself in there. He can’t understand why I’m not there, visiting, being there with him. Some letters are concerning, so I’ve given pictures of them to his in-house psychiatrist. In some, he begs me. Those are the ones that are covered in tears. Both of our tears. I can tell which ones are angry, which ones are sad, and which ones he struggled to write.
After his tenth letter, I’ve been sitting at my father’s desk, staring at a blank piece of paper. If any of them knew what I was going to do, they’d call me a traitor to my family.
My fingers shake too much to start, so I drop the pen and flex them, closing my eyes and imagining his face; the room he’ll be trapped in—four walls he’s going to be staring at for years. He’s already described his cell, the dinners he hates, and how he can hear my voice, see my face when he closes his eyes.
I can see him too. I force images. I force myself to feel his hand on me even though it’s my own. My heart beats heavily at night, and sometimes when I hug my pillow, I pretend I can feel his beating against me.
He’ll know what I’m trying to write. My handwriting is terrible, but he’ll know. He knows me more than anyone, and he’ll decipher this if he has to.
The pencil moves over the page, and the words spill out nearly as fast as the tears fall from my cheeks and onto the page.
Malachi,
What happened to us? We had everything. A family, friends, food in our stomachs and a roof over our heads. We had love. Real love. Did it ever exist? Was it all fake? Am I an idiot for wanting your love, in whatever form anyway? I was mad at you for lying to me about your date with Anna, but I never wanted this to happen. We were supposed to argue, yell, kiss, and make up. You would’ve explained your side if I only let you. I shouldn’t have silenced you the way I did. That was terrible of me and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Malachi.
I know what happened with Dad was a mistake. It was the sign we all needed from you to show how much you’re struggling, and I’m going to help you, I promise. Give me some time to talk to our parents. I’ll tell them the truth about us. Once Dad is doing better and Mom isn’t on the warpath with everyone, I’ll tell them that I’m in love with you and everything you said was true. I’ll spare themthe details of that night though. Let’s agree to never talk about that. We’ll do everything as new. Everything.
Mom is hellbent on me marrying still, so I need to try to get her to stop. I’ll refuse. I won’t marry anyone who isn’t you, Malachi, because you’re the one I want to spend the rest of my life with, even if I have to wait a while. Please keep yourself out of trouble. I’ll visit as soon as Mom lets me. I’m so sorry I did this to you. You don’t have to forgive me. But I hope you do.
I love you more than everything: It shouldn’t have taken me losing you to realize that.
I should’ve chosen you.
Olivia
I stare at the words. Some of them are distorted by my tears.
I turn the page over and pick up a picture of the two of us. I’m kissing his cheek while he carries me on his back. His expression is blank. No smile, no emotion whatsoever, but I know he was happy. One of many good moments together, proof we have a chance.
But what happens if I can’t talk Mom out of marrying me off? I was so delusional when my big brother gave me butterflies, and I knew he felt them too. We were just too young to realize our feelings. Too confused by the ridiculousness of falling for someone we grew up with and called a sibling.
This letter… It represents false hope for us.
I don’t have a shred of hope, but Malachi has every opportunity to move on from me. When he’s released, he can find someone he can truly be with, and not someone already manacled to someone else.
The realization breaks my heart so painfully, I let out a sob.
Through my bated breaths, I grab the lighter, flick it, and hesitate as I read over the words one last time. I wish we lived in a world where I could give him this letter, that I could standin front of him and watch him read word for word what it says before having the rest of our lives together.
I watch the flames engulf the corner of the letter, spreading to the edges and eating all the words I’ll never speak of. Malachi will never know about my feelings. He’ll never receive the apology he deserves, and he’ll never feel any sort of hope for us. He can’t. If I send this letter, I’ll be leading him on while marrying whoever our mom forces me to be with.
It’s emotional suicide for our hearts—they’re fragile, important organs that need protected, and this is me protecting Malachi’s by burning the letter into a pile of ash.
