The Lie I Chose

I said December because December is far enough away to sound like a plan. I did not say that November is when my family will be waiting, counting me among the people who should be there. Saying the date gave my voice somewhere steady to stand, even while I was quietly proving I will break it.

My mother heard fear in the spaces around my answers, I think. She always listens too closely. I kept asking myself which version of me she heard: the daughter who is merely busy, or the one lying badly to keep the police station and the changing colour of my bruise outside our conversation.

I took the photographs with my face arranged for the camera. Even now, I wanted evidence that looked composed. That is obscene, almost. My body is carrying the truth in purple and yellow, while I practice making it look presentable. I saved dates and documents because facts frightened me less than my memory. Fear is slippery. Paper stays where I put it.

What unsettles me most is that I can still perform being fine. I can eat slowly, record a clear account, and lie to my mother without my voice cracking if I decide it will not. I hate the skill. I am proud of it. I want someone to notice that I am doing it without making me explain, and I resent anyone who might notice at all.

I did not call my mother back after the goodnight. I am afraid I would hear myself agree to December again. Or worse, I might ask to come home and expose how little reassurance the sound of her voice can give me.