[ 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 .

You do n't often see scars on people's faces. They only appear there with the most transparent of lies, lies that can be seen through in an instant. I have only ever met one person with a scar on their face and I doubt that I will ever be able to forget them. 
 
 Her name was Quincy, and the first time I saw her was when she walked into my high school chemistry class halfway through senior year. At that point, her scar was small, a scratch on her cheek. That day it was still bleeding. Before then, I always worked alone as our class had an odd number of students and there were always complaints about groups of three being unfair. When Quincy showed up, I finally had a lab partner. She did n't talk much, and when she did it was in a quiet voice with only the slightest trace of some accent that I could n't quite place. Another odd thing I noticed as we worked together was that she had no scars on her hands or her legs, at least not any that were visible. She was an anomaly to say the least. 
 
 As time passed, our friendship grew and so did Quincy's scar. I earned my fair share of small nicks on my hands, lying about my grades being fine and my homework being done, the normal sort of things that teenagers would lie about, but I never earned a scar on my face. Every day, I would ask Quincy how she was doing, and she would always smile brightly at me and respond with `` I'm vertical and ventilating! How are you?'' It was another odd detail about her, one that I could n't quite figure out. 
 
 That second half of the school year flew by, and graduation eventually came. Quincy had never spoken about college, so I had accepted that we probably would n't see each other after that final ceremony. I so desperately wanted to ask about her scar, which had grown the whole way from her chin to her eyebrow on the right side of her face. It was oddly shaped too, there were patches of clear skin in it, as though several lies had formed into one. I did n't get to ask Quincy about her scar that day. She did not come to graduation, opting to have her diploma mailed to her rather than walking the stage. We had never exchanged phone numbers, and she made no attempts to stay in touch over the summer. When the day came for me to finally move into my dorm, I had come to terms with the fact that I would never know about Quincy's mysterious scar. At this point, I wish I had been correct. 
 
 The first day of classes, I had a writing course that all freshmen were required to take. I arrived very early and got a seat in the front of the room. Not two minutes later, the seat next to me squeaked backwards and a familiar voice asked me how my day was. I turned to answer Quincy, ecstatic that we had met again, but her appearance made me pause. She had shaved her hair on the right side of her head, and her scar had climbed almost to reach the peak of it. When I paused, she looked away, ashamed. I told her I was doing well, and when I returned the question she surprised me with a new answer. She was doing awful, she told me, her aunt that had taken her in when her parents passed had gotten into a bad car accident and died along with her two children. I offered my condolences, but Quincy just smiled sadly and turned away. 
 
 Our friendship continued, we studied together often, and she helped edit my papers. I found out that she wanted to be a writer and had been too afraid to tell me because of the reactions she had gotten from other people. We started dating over the summer between freshman and sophomore years. Quincy's scar was still growing, and it scared me, but I loved her. 
 
 One day, we were meant to go to the movies together, but she had a tendency to forget plans, especially when they were made in the spur of the moment. I showed up at her apartment. She rented a loft in a larger home. I let myself in and could immediately tell that something was wrong. Quincy loved animals, and had opted to live an extra twenty minute walk away from most of her classes just to find an apartment where she could get a dog. Her German Shepherd's name was Sonia, and she was quite excitable, but the house was dead silent when I walked in. I did a quick search of the house, going out into the backyard where Sonia spent most of her day when it was nice out. The poor thing had chewed her way into the plastic shed and eaten antifreeze. She had died in her favorite spot under a tree. I turned back into the house and started up the stairs, tentatively calling for Quincy. When I reached the ladder to the loft, I could hear a soft dripping noise. I quickly climbed the ladder and pushed open the hatch to the loft. The dripping was louder. 
 
 Quincy was dangling from a rope tied to the rafters in the middle of her loft. The dripping was coming from the now gaping wound on her face. I have never seen a lie cut so deeply, but this one had cut her the whole way down to the bone. It was when I tore my eyes away from the gruesome sight of Quincy that I finally knew what lie had eaten away at her for all these years. On the wall opposite her, jaggedly carved into the wood paneling were two words: 
 
 I'm fine.
