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He Lies


She loves him.

She loves his lovely whispered sweet nothings, his tenderness and care and his endless short little love messages.

She loves him so deeply, loves his everything, his all.

Except his lies.

She often watches with depressed eyes at him getting off the bed and leaving her secretly.

He treats her well, and would give her a big bouquet of red roses in the morning. Roses so fresh and deep like the colour of dripping blood, like her broken heart.

She starts asking questions, but instead of giving her an impatient tone, he would shower and console her with soft words more tender than cotton.

He would always call her ‘Babe’ on the phone, saying that he was busy, saying that he loved her but he was going to have to do overtime again, and hangs up the phone hurriedly.

She lies on the bed thinking of his sweet nothings, and she knew that these words were not said to her alone.

She knows he never really loves her like he said he does.

He is an expert. He makes a huge honey-sweet web of love and calmly and tenderly confronts women’s frantic questions and heated arguments, making it hard to go hysterical and succeed in making her surrender to his deadly trap.

She never gave up. She deliberately gussied up and made herself as pretty as a goddess, drank herself silly and fell into his arms.

“Can you please not lie to me anymore?” she gazed at him with pleading eyes.

“If I could, I wouldn’t want to,” he never denies his lies, and that made it even harder for her to rebuke.

“You really don’t want to lie to me?”

“Yes, babe, if I could, I really wouldn’t want to lie, I really don’t want to…”

When she was interrogated by the police, she only said one thing.

They said she was cruel, but she did not think so. She was only fulfilling his wish.

She told them, “Because I don’t want him to lie.”

That night, she sewed up his lips.

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