Scars of Deceit

“You’re my angel,” she smiled as he dropped her off.

“I know. Mr Perfect. That’s me.”

His smile was wide but he flinched as the words came out and the dagger like pain scratched across his back.

Another one.

Danny was a hero. A saviour. A people pleaser.

But he wore long sleeves. Always.

He never went swimming or bared his legs.

For then they would see the scars of his deceit.

The cuts of his lies.

He felt it did no harm.

He was perfect in his dealings with them and they all benefitted from his willingness to do good for them.

But he hated it when they said so, for he could not deny their words always. And when he accepted the compliment and agreed with their praise or thanks, his skin split and more scars came.

Of course, he couldn’t tell them about his big secret.

That he lied sometimes. That he gambled. That he drank vodka occasionally and had improper thoughts; even leading him now and then to watch naked bodies intertwined in pornographic scenes.

How could he admit these things?

Nobody could admit to them, he thought.

And Danny was correct.

Nobody could admit to them.

And nobody did.

And they all bore the secret scars

Of their deceit.