Habitual Tongue

There was only one rule: don't open the door.

If you had followed your own rule, your Oscar-winning performance would've gone undetected. As an indulgent, Type-A personality who specialized in fabricating, you rarely broke character.

But talent did not come without resistance...

Barely able to tie your own shoes, your parents forbade you to handle matches. A call to 911 finally spliced that rule into your head. All your possessions, including your prized Lego collection were lost to fire. The dog and your parents survived. You were happy about that, but the disrespect grew exponentially, prompting a long drive to a place for troubled kids. Resentment of that day quickly latched to your misconstrued sense of betrayal.

Fast-forward twenty years to see the results of a never-ending trail of verbal treachery. Most people would be ashamed of what you consider achievements. Each of those mental trophies were like your children…

Let’s not forget the time you botched an important sale to an important client. Your shameless, index finger pointed right to a colleague. He lost more than his job that day. He lost security, respect…his mind. Your employer was too stupid to see through the tainted truth.

You finally opened that door when your drunken tongue spilled incriminating words to the barkeep one night. I wasn’t a bit surprised it was you who poisoned your neighbor. His death was rather quick. Gangrene spread throughout his body like lava barreling through branching rifts. The lie you perfected was so airtight, it fooled the initial interrogation!

In return, you now find yourself behind a different kind of door. One made of steel that rarely opens. Don't expect any visits, though. Can't Imagine who would when all you ever cared about was crafting the next, great lie.