Lies We Share (Lies 0.50)

“That man I killed and put in your trashcan—he fought back. But don’t worry, I won,” I lie. Mine is an obvious lie, unlike hers. I’m five years old. I couldn’t kill someone if I wanted to. The most I’ve ever killed is a spider. Although, I know my future. I suspect killing will become a means to survive.

She nods, pretending to accept my lie like I did hers, but she knows the truth. She knows my mother or father did this to me. It’s the tale of too many kids in our neighborhood.

“I think we should make a pact,” she says suddenly.

I sit up, looking at her. “Oh, yea? What kind of pact?”

“I’ll hunt whatever needs hunting for you, and you’ll kill for me.” She holds out her pinky finger to me.

I’m not really sure why she thinks we need this deal. Maybe she needs me to kill her father for her like I need someone to do it for me. I’m not big enough to kill him now. But if she asks me to kill hers in a few years, I will gladly.

I link my pinky finger with hers. “And if either of us breaks our promise?”

“Then, the other gets whatever they want. They can take whatever they want of the other’s. Demand anything. This is an unbreakable vow.”

“Like in Harry Potter?”

“Yep.”

“Fine, this is an unbreakable vow. I will always kill for you. And you will always hunt for me. Deal?”

We shake our pinkies together. “Deal.”

2

Liesel

Eight Years Old

* * *

The sound of the police siren sends chills down my spine as I try to sleep on the couch in the living room. I only have a light blanket, but I’m still drenched in sweat from the summer heat and lack of air conditioning. I don’t know what time it is, but I’d guess past midnight. I should be asleep—I have school in the morning—but even without the sirens blaring, I wouldn’t be able to sleep between the heat and my empty belly.

I wait for the sirens to disappear again, but they grow louder, closer.

I hold my breath as I hear the sirens just outside my house.

When you live where I do, sirens are never a good thing. Sirens aren’t coming to save someone. They are coming to lock someone up or to drag the body off after an overdose or gunshot. The police never make it here in time to stop the suffering. Not in a poor area like this.

I start running out of oxygen, and still, the sirens don’t leave. Their lights continue whirling, reflecting into the living room that serves as my bedroom.

I lift my head to glance out the window and gasp.

The police are entering Langston’s home.

I jump up and run to the window and peer through the broken shades at the scene before me.

My mind races with all the horrible things that could have happened to the boy who has quickly become my best and only friend. I call him killer, but the truth is I don’t think he’s killed much more than a spider. I still call him that because it beats seeing the torment in his eyes when I call him Langston like his father does. Someday, Langston will earn the nickname I give him. I know that. But for now, it’s still an innocent nickname—one that doesn’t haunt him, or me, yet.

What happened?

Did Langston’s father finally take things too far? Did he hurt him, injure him, kill him?

Please, no.

Please let it be his father. Please let him have drunk too much alcohol. Let him have alcohol poisoning or, better yet, be dead.

Let it be Langston’s mother.