The Truth About Lies - by Munira Sadiq

It’s all a lie.Every word I’m about to say. Every tear you might shed. Every pang of pity or rage or heartbreak, manufactured.That’s your warning.Now, let me begin.It happened in October. The kind of autumn that looked painted on, the trees in full flame, the sky always bruised with the softest blue. My sister, Eve, had just gotten engaged to a man named Daniel. He was quiet, well-dressed, and always smelled like cedarwood and ambition. He never really looked at people when they spoke, except for her. With her, he made eye contact like he was memorizing every curve of her beautiful face.I hated him.It wasn’t jealousy. It was something quieter. A whisper in the back of my mind that never went away. The kind that keeps you awake at night, unsure if you're just being paranoid or perceptive. Eve brushed it off. “You’re just protective,” she said. “You don’t trust anyone.”Then she disappeared.One morning, gone. Her phone on the charger. Her keys in the bowl. Half a cup of cold tea on the counter. Daniel called me sobbing. I almost believed him.The police searched for weeks. No signs of struggle. No witnesses. Just a string of “maybe she...” theories that dissolved into nothing. I never believed she ran.Because I found her journal.Because I found the bruises.Because I found the photo—buried in the trash folder of her laptop—a picture of Eve, eyes wide, tear-streaked, with Daniel’s shadow behind her. I took it to the police. They said it wasn’t enough.So I made it enough.I followed Daniel. Watched him for weeks. Learned his routines. His weaknesses. His passwords. I broke into his apartment the night before Halloween.I found her necklace under his bed.I found her blood on a towel shoved in a vent.I found her.Buried behind his lake house, where the soil was soft and the woods didn’t ask questions.I turned him in.He cried. Denied everything.But the evidence spoke louder than he did.He’s in prison now. Eve has a gravestone. And I visit it every Sunday. It’s a good story, isn’t it?Feels real. Tangible. You can almost see her, can’t you?But remember what I said.It’s all a lie. There is no sister.There is no Daniel.No photo. No bruises. No journal. Just me, sitting in this small white room, fingers stained with ink, scratching stories into the backs of medication charts.They think if they give me enough pills, the stories will stop.But the stories are louder than the silence.And sometimes, they’re the only things that feel real. So go ahead. Believe me.I almost do, too.

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