[ WP ] You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar 's body . The bigger the lie , the deeper and larger the mark . One day , you meet someone that only has one scar ; it is the biggest one you have ever seen .

`` Anything else?'' the waitress asked me, as she smacked a cup of coffee on the table somewhat carelessly. I think her name was Darla. I shook my head a bit and watched her saunter back to the counter out of the corner of my eye. I knew she had judged me from the moment she saw me. She had given me the same look most everyone else does. It's funny how someone marked and nicked with little white scars on her hands and arms and neck and legs can look down on me for having more of them. To be fair to - whatever her name was... - Darla-... to be fair to Darla, and to everyone else, I do have lots and lots of little scars. I looked out to the window to my right at a lamp post that illuminated the darkened streets. This was as asleep as the city gets at night. 
 
 I started my scar collection as a kid. My mother meant well and might've been a decent parent if she did n't spend her days swigging vodka. My dad was never in the picture. A military man, apparently, who had to move to a base in Europe before I was born, although looking back I'm sure that was n't true. My mother, now she had a lot of scars. A scar for every time she was going to quit drinking and `` do right by me.'' 
 
 The first scar I remember scratching its way onto my skin was when I was probably four or five. My teacher had asked me if I was going to be ok. My mother had n't come to pick me up which was a semi-frequent event, and I had gotten up to walk home - I lived a 20-minute walk or so away from the school so it was n't a problem for me. He asked me if I was going to have dinner at home, and I lied. I told him we were having company over and my mom probably just lost track of time cooking this big meal for us all. I do n't even know why I lied about it because it was a pointless lie, but I felt the sting on the back of my shoulder as the words left my lips. 
 
 Over the years the lies I told people, the lies I told my mother created a tapestry of scar tissue across my body. Sometimes I just wanted to get away from the house and I'd tell her I was staying with a friend. The marks were inconsequential to me. 
 
 I'm a journalist now - a failed one - there's no use lying to you. It's funny really because none of my scars ever came from anything I've ever written. I'm stupid; I use my lies on bullshit, instead of making money. 
 
 I looked down at my coffee and heard Darla telling a couple large patrons at the counter that she was planning on going back to school soon. I wondered if she got a scar for that or if she really meant it. It did n't really matter to me. I'm not interested in the lies people tell others. That's easy. It's recorded in the history of your body like the rings of a tree and even though they fade over time, more will always take their place - we ca n't help ourselves. No, what interests me are the lies people tell themselves. When people put makeup over their scars to cover up as many as they can, do they look into the mirror and pretend they are honest? 
 
 A bell rang as the door opened. I glanced to my left and saw a young man walk in. And I froze. 
 
 `` Go ahead and sit where you'd like,'' Darla yelled out cheerily. `` I'll be with you in just a sec.'' 
 
 The newcomer walked towards a back booth, and my eyes stayed fixed on him the entire time. His skin was unmarred by any scar or blemish. I had looked over his face and neck and forearms, and not a mark there was on them. Bullshit. Everyone lies. That is the only consistent truth I have ever known, and I've known that as far back as my memory extends. Everyone is a liar - that is a universal truth. It's the universal truth. I found myself rising out of my seat. My feet carried me towards the man in the back, quickening with each step. My heart pounded. 
 
 `` Let me see your arms,'' I managed to squeeze out as I gripped his arm and turned it. My voice was nervous. I quickly jumped to the other arms and hurriedly looked it over. I rubbed his arm spastically to remove any makeup - but there was nothing. I looked up at his face. His eyes were those of a deer's caught in a headlight. What I was doing was crazy, I knew that. I had grabbed a random stranger but he could n't be this honest. It was n't possible. 
 
 `` Where are your scars?'' I demanded. He was still taken aback. `` Where are they?'' I repeated a little more forcefully. 
 
 `` I- what scars?'' he stammered out. 
 
 I felt a surge of anger rise up in me. 
 
 `` Where are your fucking scars!'' I yelled at the man and grabbed his shirt at his shoulders. His shocked silence only made me angrier. In an instant, I whipped his shirt up and dumbfoundedly stepped back. The entire front of his torso was one giant mass of scarred flesh. 
 
 `` How are they all there?'' I breathed out. `` That ca n't be from one lie...'' 
 
 He looked hurt. 
 
 `` There was an accident,'' he said dejectedly. 
 
 `` Bullshit!'' I shot back. That was a lie everyone with an exceptional scar tried to get away with. That it was n't from a lie, but some physical injury instead. I'd heard that one before. Sometimes a new mark was worth keeping the truth in the dark. But there was no new mark. I scanned over his body. 
 
 `` How did that happen?'' 
 
 `` It was an accident!'' he retorted, anger now growing in his voice. `` There was a fire in my building! People died... and I was lucky enough to only be left with this at the end of the night.'' 
 
 I looked over his body and watched as no new scars carved their way in. He threw his shirt back down and was clearly angry now. I stepped backward. The diner was silent. I could feel everyone's eyes on me. The man I accosted threw some money on the table and slid out of his booth. He moved passed me and I watched as the only honest man I had ever known walked out of the door. I was brought crashing back down to reality. I glanced towards the counter and saw the two patrons and the waitress staring at me. I walked back to my table and left some money there before walking out the door. I made it a few steps down the sidewalk before my legs went weak. I sat down on the curb and cried. 
 
 It was only six months later when I saw the man's face again. This time on the news. His name was Robert Lewis, and he had been arrested for arson. He had set a fire in his apartment building that apparently grew out of control and wound up killing six people and sending dozens more to the hospital. He had been found there lying in the smoke by first responders. But here's the kicker. He had n't suffered any burns when they found him. That scar only appeared after he had been questioned about the fire by a couple other firefighters before the cops even spoke to him. It took them a couple weeks to realize what happened and then months to find the guy. 
 
 Everyone is a liar. He was just better at telling half truths. 
 
 
 
 Edit: Grammatical
