Lies We Share (Lies 0.50)

1

Langston

Five Years Old

* * *

“Langston!”

My name booms through the small house, rattling my tiny frame as I lie on the floor of the kitchen, staring up at empty cabinets. I wish these cabinets were filled with food, any food, to soothe my aching belly. I’d even take broccoli.

I don’t know why my father has to yell so loudly. Our house is a tiny one-bedroom, one-bathroom, with a galley kitchen and a couch for a living room. My father could whisper in the house and I would still hear him.

I stop daydreaming about a stocked kitchen and pull myself up into a standing position. My bones pop and creak like an old man as I stand. It takes all of my willpower to walk into the living room where my father sits with a beer. He’s staring up at the barely still working TV, watching some football game in between skipping channels.

I walk solemnly in front of him. There is only one reason my father calls my name. It’s better to do what he says or my fate will be worse. Giving in means the pain will end faster.

My three foot nothing body stops in front of my father. I don’t speak, I know better than to do something that idiotic.

“I told you to take out the trash,” my father says.

“I did, but—” Why did I open my mouth?

It doesn’t matter that the trash doesn’t fit in the trashcan, and the trash company won’t take any extra bags outside the designated can.

“It reeks in here! You didn’t take out the trash like I said.”

Smack.

My body is already prepared for the impact as his hand thumps across my cheek. I hold back the tears, knowing I just have to hold on until I’m no longer in his sight before I cry. Crying gets me beaten worse.

“Take out the trash now! Before I beat your ass until you can’t sit for a week.”

I run into the kitchen and yank the lid off the trashcan that is almost as tall as me, before using both of my hands to pull the bag out. It gets stuck—probably a liquor bottle my father jammed into the can.

I sweat and grit my teeth to keep from making a sound, to keep the tears inside. If I let them out, I’ll end up with a broken bone. I do everything I can to get the trash bag out myself.

Finally, the bag comes free, knocking me off balance. I fall back to the ground, the bag landing on my lap. It smells like canned tuna and sour beer.

I wrinkle my nose.

I can feel my father’s stare. I scramble to my feet, heave the bag up with my two tiny fists and carry it out the front door. Once outside, I can take a breath. Father won’t care how long I take; he just wants me out of his sight and the smell gone.

I let the bag fall to the ground, dragging it down the front stairs and down the driveway until I reach the full trashcan.

I consider my options: leave the bag next to the trashcan and get in trouble when the trash company doesn’t pick it up, or find another way to get rid of it.

I look at the house across the street that also has its trashcan out on the end of their driveway. It doesn’t look like it’s overflowing.

Maybe mine will fit?

It’s worth a shot.

I drag my bag across the pothole-riddled street, hoping the bag doesn’t rip. The bags we use aren’t the durable kind; they’re the kind that tears if you jostle the bag the wrong way. There is a high probability I’ll leak trash all over the street—then I’ll really get my ass whooped.

By some miracle, I make it to the neighbor’s trashcan without a significant rip. I lift the lid off their can—there’s room!

I heave my trash bag up…

“What are you doing?” a girl says.

I drop the bag at the sudden voice, and it lands in the trashcan. I snap the lid shut.