Where is the truth?

She can never tell, not with him. Sometimes he means what he says. He never says what he means. It has to be read. She learns that it's in his eyes somewhere, buried deep—

--if you only cared enough to look.

I care enough, she wants to scream.

He can't hear. In his ears is the roaring, the pounding, the agonies that have come and gone and yet still linger, the anger that never seems to fade, the drive to just do it.

Take it. It's not yours.

Hate him. He's better than you'll ever be.

Love her. She'll never settle for you.

Protect her. She's all you have.

-x-x-

When will the truth come?

He looks her in the eye, he always does. He can lie to her face (and what a beautiful, perfect face, he thinks). Sometimes she just can't tell. Sometimes she just doesn't know.

He doesn't know.

She tries not to care. She throws himself into his arms, touches his cheek, leans into his chest to hear that heart beating.

Aha, you see? It lives.

He'll get better, she tells herself.

See? She can lie to that beautiful, perfect face too.

-x-x-

What is the truth?

"Tell me," she whispers.

"I can't," he replies.

And that's all that is ever said.

What was the story? she wonders. Where did that anger come from? Was it me? Was it us?

She doesn't care.

Another lie.

She doesn't know.

She just hears that heartbeat, and he lets her listen.

Listen to her heart's content.

Because that's all he really wants. Really.

That's the truth.