Chapter 7: Hearts Don't Lie, But I Did
I lied like it was second nature smooth, believable, strategic. I became a magician with words, spinning stories that wrapped themselves so tightly around the truth that even I began to believe them. Missing homework? I had a saga ready: the dog ate it, the wind blew it away, anything to escape punishment. Each lie became a performance, and the world was my stage. Teachers never saw it coming.
But lying wasn't just about avoiding trouble. It was protection. The truth didn't shield me; it never had. So, I built a web of deception, wrapping myself in it like armor. I became someone who couldn't be hurt, someone who wouldn't cry when life kicked him down.
The streets became my playground. I wasn't bound by curfew, by rules, or by expectations. I sneaked out under the cover of moonlight, chasing thrills and dodging danger. I needed to feel alive. I needed to run, to hide, to escape whatever reality had me trapped. It didn't matter where I went, as long as I wasn't where I was supposed to be. As long as I wasn't anyone's son, anyone's brother. As long as I didn't have to answer for the kid I'd become.
Petty theft came next. It wasn't about the money. It was never about that. A chain here, a candy bar there, coins from forgotten purses. The rush wasn't in the taking, it was in the feeling of control. Of power. I wasn't stealing to survive. I was stealing to prove something to myself. I was stealing because, for the first time in my life, it made me feel like I had something. Like I was in control of something, anything.
And then came the fights. Not just physical ones—those came easy enough. I was quick with my fists, but I was quicker with my words. Emotional battles. Verbal wars. Territorial disputes that didn't just belong to the streets, they belonged to my soul. I wasn't afraid to throw a punch, but I wasn't afraid to throw a word either. A harsh sentence was as dangerous as any knife. Whether it was a swing on the playground or a scream in someone's face, I didn't back down. I had to win. I had to prove I was tough. Because to lose, to show weakness, was deadly. Weakness wasn't something I could afford. Weakness meant vanishing. And I couldn't disappear again.
But the anger was only a mask. Behind it, I was still a boy aching to be held, to be heard, to be loved. The rebellion was a smoke signal, an SOS, begging someone, anyone, to tell me I still mattered.
And then, just when I started to believe that no one would ever come... when I had convinced myself that my mother, my family, and even love itself were lost causes...
A whisper.
"Your mother is clean."
Those four words exploded in my chest, igniting something I hadn't felt in years. For two long years, I had starved myself emotionally, shutting down parts of me that needed love and care, hoping that if I ignored the pain, it would just go away. But when those words hit me, it was like a feast. Like someone had finally given me food after days of hunger. I wanted to believe them. I wanted to feel the warmth of hope again, like I could actually breathe.
Was it true? Could I dare to believe it?
My whole concept of home had been shattered long ago. It wasn't a place anymore, it was a memory, fragmented and scattered. But if my mother was still standing, still fighting, then maybe, just maybe, I could too. Maybe I could stand back up and fight for something that wasn't just about survival. Maybe I could fight for life.
That hope, that flake of possibility, hung in the air like a fragile thread. I reached for it, but I wasn't sure if I was ready to trust it. I wasn't sure if I could ever trust anything again.
But for the first time in a long while, I felt something other than rage. Something that wasn't masked by lies or shields. It was something raw and real, something that both terrified and comforted me at the same time.
I wasn't sure what would come next. But I knew that whatever it was, it would be a test. A test of who I had become. A test of whether I could rise from the ashes or if I would be consumed by them.
