End Touch

Shannon was thirteen. Raised by pathological liars. Only when she lied; she knew exactly what she was doing. She felt sick about it most of the time but the words spilled over cresting like a river too full of rain.

Her new friend from school had invited her for a sleepover at her fathers. Shannon was thrilled at any chance to be away from her toxic family. She and Janice danced the day away. Jumped on a trampoline. Played "prom" with Barbies swearing to die, hearts crossed, to never tell a soul they still played with dolls. They stole a cigarette from her fathers pack and attempted to smoke it on a long walk. They cooked their own Mac&Cheese for dinner.

Janice's father was sweet to Shannon. Showed her how to crack her spine like a chiropractor by standing behind her small frame. Crossing her arms in front of her chest and lifting her up by her elbows as her back popped.

Oddly however, unlike any sleepover, Shannon's bed was not the floor or bed in Janice's room. But on the sofa. In the living room.

She awoke in the middle of the night. Janice's father spooning her. Feeling her newly bloomed breasts. Pressing hard against her ass. Shannon, sadly, was not unfamiliar with such horrors. She curled herself up tight. Knees locked. Began to weep. He left her then. She remained wide awake until dawn. Left a note for Janice and walked seven miles to the comfort of her own fucked up home.

The next week at school Janice invited Shannon to sleep over again.

"I can't", she replied.

"Why not"? Janice asked almost whining.

"I'm going to New York", the lie began.

"For what?"

The flood waters began to rise, "to meet my older brother".

"You don't have an older brother!"

"Yes I do. My mother gave him up for adoption and he found us. His name is Michael. He's 18. I'm not suppose to tell anyone".

Janice hugged Shannon tightly, "you can trust me".

Shannon believed Janice would keep the secret. Most sexually abused kids learn quickly to do so. But in her attempt to avoid sleeping at her friends house ever again and the truth that Janice's father was a pervert, the lie grew. And like most children of abuse, Janice fed off Shannon's fantasy. It became so much more than a lie. It was make-believe hell.

It began with Janice needing proof. Shannon provided a picture of a handsome distant cousin. Janice wrote him a letter now that Shannon had no free weekends anymore. She choose the abuse she knew. But on those weekends, a love affair began. With letters written back to Janice from Michael, the non-existent older adopted brother, that Shannon scrawled using her left hand. Words of love and inner truths. Of giggles and swooning. "Michael" told Janice she was beautiful. Worthy. Smart. "He" told her everything a girl standing on a lifetime of hurt, sexual incest and shame wanted to hear. They were the same words Shannon longed to hear herself.

Then Janice's last letter. To run away. To go to him in New York. To be with him always.

Shannon's mind raced that weekend. This was bad. The worst. "What have I done?" She whispered staring at a blank notebook page.

It wasn't the worst. But it would be.

To end the elaborate lie Shannon wrote one last left handed letter from her fake half-brother. It was a letter of farewell. A suicide note. Telling Janice he was sorry that their love would never be. That he no longer could live a "lie".

Tearfully with ease Shannon handed Janice the letter. Explaining that Michael, battling depression had hung himself.

Devastated by the news the girls sobbed together. Janice from heartbreak. Shannon from guilt.

Eventually Shannon had distanced herself enough from Janice that their friendship ended. As adults, Janice discovered the truth through others. Shannon, who made that lie her last, carried the guilt of the experience despite a life of children of her own.

At their 20th high school reunion Shannon and Janice reconnected. Over coffee a month later, she admitted to Janice the truth about the lie. The guilt over not handling the situation with honesty. And again, they cried together over a childhood lost to the perversion of the men they called dad.