Mental

Dear Mister E,

“There's truth in everything
There's truth in lies
With all this knowledge I think I'm gonna be wise.”

-The Eels

                “I once heard artist tells lies to show the truth while politicians tell them to hide the truth.”

                “I like that, it sounds nice, but tell me a story where your statement is true.”

                “Are you sure you want to hear one?”

                “I’m very sure. By all means, tell me one.”

                Very well, I will tell you a story where everything before the end is true, but the ending as you’ll see is up to you. Some of the endings are true, some of it is a lie but let’s get there first …

                Back in my youth, I said that as if I am old, but I am not. My bones are not tried, and my body has not yet been beaten down by the waves of time, but my soul feels old. My mother would always say I had an old soul and I guess for the most part she was right. I wonder out of fear if that is why I am so bitter or pessimists in my outlook. I fear my old soul can’t find joy in life anymore and is doom to sit in the dark. Then again, my feeling of dread come simply from the stress of the last couple of months. This time next year I could be feeling young and warp in the joyful bliss of my youth. Who knows, right?

                What I do know is when I met Daphne. I came home one day to find her standing in my studio the size of a blimp about to give birth to a child. I do not recall the sex of the child. I couldn’t tell you if it was a girl or boy. But she stood there looking at all my artwork hanging on the walls laughing with a good friend of mine. I was not sure how they met, and I was not sure I wanted to know, but never the less, she started to be around more.

                She had her child only to give it away to her grandmother to be back onto the town for some good times. She ended up partying with my friends all the time, and the more I was around them, the more I grew to know her.

                One day we were sitting in a restaurant near a pair of railroad tracks and Daphne was very uncomfortable. There was visible sweat running down her face. She tapped the table with her finger like a nervous tic. Her eyes darted from us to the railroad track as if there was some harbinger of death racing down the line. She begged us to eat faster so we could flee from this harbinger.

                Something was very, very, wrong.

                And I asked what was the matter? It was a fair question. I had known her for some time now, and we have talked about many things. Not to add, whatever drug she was on was taking effect, and I was sure she would not remember anything she told us. I also believe in that state of mind she was in, whatever she was going to tell me would be the truth.

                A truth I wasn’t ready for by any means.

                She told about her father. A real monster unlike any I have heard of before. A bastard of a man who is rotting in Hell by now.

                You see, her father was a heroin addict who favorite pastime was kidnapping fourteen-year-old girls, beating them, raping them, and sometimes killing them. While all the time his seven-year-old daughter saw, heard and went along with him.

                (Note: I have wondered for many years what happened to Daphne’s mother but after this story I never asked her. I feared what I might learn about her mother.)

                One night as Daphne told us, he went off crazier than normal. In his drugged-out state of mind, he took his new victim tossing the poor girl into the truck of his car, grab Daphne, putting her in the back seat and drove off like a bat out of Hell. He passed out a few hours later on the train tracks and was awaken with the screaming train. He climbed out the car pulling Daphne to safety as she watched and heard the girl howl for her life. The train ate the girl alive with Daphne seeing it all.

                Later during the day or week, I do not know, for she didn’t remember, the police showed up at her house, and he father was killed in a shootout with them.

                The end …

                I can see you do not believe me and let me tell you the words coming from her mouth was no lie. The fear and the trauma leaking from her eyes were real, but if you must know, later we found newspaper articles speaking of the event. It happened. It was real, and by everything holy, I wish it wasn’t a horrible event in history.

                “What a story.”

                “Yes, it is still hard to believe sometimes.”

                “What happen to Daphne?”

                “Do you want the truth or the lie?”

                “The truth of course.”

                She spent years going down a path of drugs and sex jumping from one bad situation to the next until she met a good holy man. She fell in love with this good guy and changed her life around. She now has a son and two daughters, all the while teaching elementary school. The last I heard she moved somewhere west and is very happy. A good Christian woman now.

                “Wow, that is great.”

                “I know.”

                “So, what was the lie you were going to tell me?”

                 She spent years going down a path of drugs and sex jumping from one bad situation to the next. She worked the street, made money with her body and hung out with the wrong kind of people. She ended smarting off to the wrong man, she did have a mouth on her, and he beat her then body smashed her into the ground. The man drops her on her head breaking her skull and causing brain damage.

                “Oh, my God.”

                “I know, she lived if that makes it any better. Of course, there are side effects, but she is still alive.”

                “Wait, which one is the lie?”

                “It does not matter.”

                “It does. I need to know the truth.”

                The truth is the story is a lie. Everything before the ending happens but I’m allowing you to pick the ending. If she did end up happy somewhere, then the story is about how one does not have to be tied to the fate of their past. They can overcome it.

Or.

She did not end up happy, and it is a tale of caution about what path in life you chose.

So, both ending are true, and for the people who know her then this story doesn’t matter. They do not need me to tell them what happen. They were there, they heard, they saw it. My story of the events is but a lie to them.

Also, if she ended up broken, then she could still end up happy. And if she ended up happy she could still fall apart later. She is not dead, and life goes on.

“Which one would you pick?”

“On the good days, she is happy. On the bad days, she is broken.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“I know.”

“You tell very dumb stories, and I hate you.”

“I know.”

A Writer