Lies and truths are interchangeable but with one difference: lies can be destroyed but truths can't.

This story starts with a lie, made to keep my mind sane. Then when it didn't last, I continued with another lie—this time turning myself into an ideal person I wanted to be. Ideal is never a conception conceived by one's own mind, but by the surroundings and the minds of others. I came to regret it when I realized that this lie wasn't for me but was for the purpose of getting what I wanted and needed. Like a young child lying to get attention from her parents.

So I tried to find the real me hidden by the lies but I couldn't. No matter what I did, she was slipping through my fingers like sand. But I could hear echoes of her within me, in my actions, in my thoughts, in my memories. She beckoned, called and cried for the losses I once forgotten—losses that I hide from all my life. She was the ghost that haunts me, and I'm the dead one in this body.

I thought there was no way to bring her back until I started writing letters to everybody, letters of unspoken, silent words. She came alive to me at every stroke of the pen, at every word that came with my tears. But this is not the story about how I found her.

This is the story about how I let go of her.

*****************

Blacking out is like having a dream—the moment you wake up, you are only left with a few puzzle pieces of memories to figure out what happened. This is how I live for many years—messy, fragmented memories of a life that I both lived in and neglected. Forgetting was the only permanent goal I had—so I opened the can and I drank, leaving myself shielded from the memories.

Last night was my breaking point, and like a crack in the bones because of weights, my will cracked the moment I drank. I've given up on something, and it's this giving up of something that led me to decide days later to kill myself. This something was what I couldn't figure out then.

I open my eyes to the light from the window, and as I rise, my head pounds like a dwarf is knocking inside my head. "Fuck." I place my head between my knees, close my eyes while I try to wait for the headache to go away. For a year of abstinence, I sure drank like I was out of water for weeks. I groan as I stand up and close the curtains, shutting the lights that are stabbing my eyes. Then I walk into the kitchen, avoiding the landfill of boxes, things, papers on the floor.

A crunch of metal reaches my ears, and I lift my foot up to see a glint of metal can squash on the ground. I look around. The cans are scattered among the landfill. Fuck. How much did I drink? I try to wreck my brain about how much I bought. I think I bought two six packs of beer. I notice that my fingers are red with clipped nails. Oh great, what the hell did I do this time? I turn my hand around. No red marks in my knuckles. So, I didn't punch anybody. Did I scratch them? That was when I find the stray pieces of cardboard lying around and the half-assed scratches on the cardboard boxes.

I reckon that I either brought a cat in to do this, or I had done it myself. And since I hated cats from young, I doubt I would do that even at my most drunken state. Nasty creatures with their claws—thinking of them just makes me shiver.

The doorbell rings. I curse. Is it some guy who wants to promote some shit to me again? I walk into the kitchen, ignoring the bell, and take some Tylenol. That is when a knock comes, and a familiar voice calls out, muffled, "Olivia, are you still alive?"

I snicker before skipping to the door. "Yes, I'm alive. I haven't seen the grim reaper yet." Before I open the door, I eye the cans on the ground. Fuck. I can't let Richard see this. I kick them aside. Then I remember the smell of alcohol. Looking around, I find an air freshener on the shoe cabinet. I am relieved to find it has not expired. I spray it around the apartment, to musk the scent of last night's folly.

"Olivia?"

"Wait for a moment!" I rush to the kitchen, flushing my mouth with water. I only hope it will help in erasing the scent, even a little. As long as I don't stand too close to Richard, he shouldn't find out. I open the door to where Richard stands in ripped jeans and a polo shirt. Leather bracelets adorn his wrists, and he has his sneakers onؙ—Richard always like wearing sneakers.

"I thought the grim reaper had paid you a visit or something." He winks at me, but he clenches his fist at his side.

I laugh with a sense of joy passing through me, a sense of lightness which I know the overwhelming dark emotions in me would take it away eventually. But I enjoy it for now. I can deal with it later.

"Unfortunately, dear, you are going to stick with me for a long while."

He laughs. He unclenches his hand. "But serious, I tried to call you out for lunch, but you didn't pick up."

I blink. "Wait, we are going out for lunch?" Then I remember last night saying yes to doing so, after being guilt tripped by Richard. Sticking in the house all day is just going to make you miserable.

"Yes, doofus. If I hadn't known you for a while, it would worry me." He gazes at me, before looking away.

I cough, trying to break the tension.

"That sounds reassuring, Richard."

His gaze lands back on me, and he laughs. We ignore the unspoken. "So did you have a fling or something to neglect our agreement?"

I shake my head. "Oh come on, I don't do that anymore."

"You will never know. Maybe you found a guy that make your heart throb or whatever the romance movies describe these days."

I smile. The thing is I can only do it when I drink alcohol. This is what nobody knows—alcohol gives you courage, but it's nothing but an illusion that ends the moment you are awake.

"So shall we go now? Your hair looks like a bird nest. Did you sleep or something?"

Shoot. I should have tidied my hair before I opened this door.

I scratch my head. "Yeah. I was exhausted. Didn't really sleep well last night. Let me prepare myself, then we can go."

"Ok."

I should have closed the door after me, but the moment I run back in, I left the door open. It is a habit, because I trust—with what little trust I have—Richard. And so when I come out looking presentable (at least I'm not fashioning a new bird nest hair style now) Richard picks a crushed can, and he looks at me, with disappointment and a mix of something else that I can't tell.

At that moment, I wish I can disappear into thin air, into anywhere without humans.

"You've been drinking, Olivia." His eyes pierce me. The unspoken words between us are held in the air, tension laced between us.

"It's only once, Richard."

"Once is enough to start again!" He throws the can to his right. "I thought you quit for good, Olivia."

Quit? After quitting for a year, despite not having the taste of it in my lips, I feel the need deep in my heart. Every time I heard people going out for a drink, I could feel the need gnawing at me. Just this once. A sip, then we'll go. Just to resist that enticing just once was like pulling ten tons worth of weight with one hand. There is never a quitting of a need—a need stays like a parasite.

"It was just once, Richard. If I can stop for a year, what makes you think one beer can bring me back so easily?"

"My sister quit for three years and went back to it, continuing till she died."

I sigh. "I know that. I'm sorry. I just..." Can't help it? What a fucking excuse I'm making out here. I'm sounding like my father now. I can't help it.

This is why people like me deserve nothing—we bring people into our lives and ruin their expectations of what we can do. We ruin relationships, ruin anything because it's easier than giving up one thing that we drown ourselves in. I know this so well, but once alcohol touches my lips, I forget.

It's so easy to forget.

It's so easy to accept that you are forgetting, if it makes you stop hurting for a second.

"You can't go on like this, Olivia. I'm not just talking about this." He raises the empty, crushed beer can. "I can't see you like this. I don't want to see you like this."

"I know." That's the only thing I can say.

He steps forward, taking my hand with his, staring into my eyes. He is similar to Reese, yet very different at the same time. Reese gave up, but Richard stayed. Granted, he stayed when I wanted to change, but he stayed when I needed him, and said nothing that made me feel so small. Guilt coils around my heart even tighter—I couldn't even keep my hands away from this one thing.

"Olivia, maybe you have to go back."

"Meaning?" I know what he means.

"I'm saying you might need to go back to AA."

"It doesn't work, Richard."

"Well, it must have done something if you could quit for a year."

I shake my head. That is partly the reason, but I had a stronger motivation then. But that motivation is dwindling with time, as if time has eroded it. Or maybe it's the dark emotions that I keep deep in my heart that eroded it—I'm just like my father. So much like him it makes me want to puke.

"Well, what else would work?" He scratches his head. "How did you quit for that year? Why did you start up again?"

"Richard, let's not ruin the day with this."

"We can forget about the day if you're ruining yourself now."

"Please, Richard. I want to have a nice lunch with you. You say that I should be out of the house more often. Let's forget about this." I hold his hand. "Please." I don't want to talk about my fucked-up self now.

He eyes at me for a moment, almost wanting to say more. Then he sighs. "I'm not forgetting about this, Olivia. But it's better to bring you out now than to force this conversation." He turns around, and we went out together, with me following him. Watching him, I hope he would let go of this issue, even though I know he will not. But I pretend that this is an isolated incident, and he has let go of it.

Why? Why does this person stay even though he shouldn't?

*****************

When I come back home, I collapse on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I debate on picking the cans up, but the whole room is already a mess, and I can't be bothered to at this moment. Then the phone on the table ring. Almost nobody calls me via that old-fashioned phone that came from the late nineties. The only person who would do that...

I ignore the phone call, thinking she will assume I am out or dead or anything her mind thinks of. But after three continuous rings, my patience run out, and I answer it. "What do you want?"

"Is that the way you address your aunt, Olivia?"

"I'm twenty-four, Aunt Lydia. You are at least ten years too late to be lecturing me about manners."

"Olivia, when are you going to stop being so bitter towards me?"

Sitting on the couch with the phone in my hand, I look at the cars that drive down the roads. "Until you stop treating me like a charity case. Just because my father is dead doesn't mean you have to give a shit about me."

"Is it bad to want to take care of my youngest brother's daughter?"

"You didn't care when he was alive." My anger rises. "You only gave a shit when he's in the coffin. What did you and your family do when he was struggling with his losses? You shunned him, hated him, ridiculed him. What did Aunt Brenna do at the funeral? Bring up all the shit that my father did as a child, humiliating him even at his death. And the rest? They did nothing. None of you cared. Now caring is too late for anything to change."

"And do you think I don't regret that? Olivia, I said this many times, but I regret it. All I can do now is to care for you, because I know he would want me to. Please don't let me lose this chance, Olivia."

She doesn't want to help you sincerely. She just wants to compensate for all her mistakes. She's treating you like a redemption for herself. The remnant of Tanya still exists in my mind. She never stops telling me the truth since I was a child.

"Like I said before," I drawl, "don't treat me as a charity case." I am about to place the phone down until she says something that stops me.

"Your friend, Richard, contacted just now."

Fuck. I take back everything good I ever said about Richard. That little snitch promised to say nothing to Aunt Lydia. "He talked to you?" Note to self: I will be more wary when he lets go of matters too fast. He has his own full-on plans for sabotaging me. Fuck.

"Yes, he did. And he said you started drinking again. You know how alcohol took people's lives. You know how it ruin my brother. I don't want to see you ruined, Olivia. So I'm thinking about it on how to help you for that. He said the whole AA business doesn't work out for you, and it's probably their whole God agenda. Never like them from the start, but I know people who can help you without all that nonsense."

I am tempted to tell her that the reason I'm not into AA and why they didn't do much for me isn't because they worship God. I'm an atheist, but I have nothing against...religion though it's true that I can't quite surrender myself to God, as they ask us to, but there was a different reason it didn't work for me.

Yet, I keep my mouth shut because if there's anything Aunt Lydia is, she is stubborn. This apartment is the proof of that—she forced it on me. Can't complain though—I had no home then.

"Look, it's just once. I will not do it again—"

"I'm not taking any risk on it. I don't want to lose you too."

"Don't use that language on me. You don't care about me."

"I do, Olivia."

"No, you don't." When people help you, chances are, it's for their own gain. Just like your aunt. She protests from the line, but I hang up before she can say more of her bullshit. I stare at the phone as it rings again, and this time, I take the phone, plug the cord out and wreck it against the wall. Fuck her and her nonsense.

I sit down again, panting as I calm down from the raging episode. I then look at the cans on the floor. All the emotions—anger, exhaustion, contempt, guilt, pain—intertwined, and all I want to do is to shut them out. I need a fucking drink.

No, I can't. I shake my head. Once is bad already.

Don't you deserve one, though?

My aunt's words. My father's death. Richard's fucking backstab. The whole family fucking drama. Every shit went down bad today—it's supposed to better than this.

Fuck these. I need a drink. I deserve it after all this bullshit.

But as I prepare myself to go out, I step on a can, and I hesitate. Should I do it? Should I not? I drown one year away yesterday—would it make a difference if I do it today? Should I abstain again? I keep oscillating between continuing, or refraining. It's a familiar battle, a familiar battle that I almost always know the result.

So I walk out.

That night, I drank again, and woke up with a pounding headache and nothing but a self-loathing that partially led to my decision to kill myself days later.