Mommy, I Don't Lie Anymore

"Red meant lie. Green meant truth." That was the only rule in our house. Mom trusted the Verity Band on my wrist more than me. So when I collapsed in agony on New Year's Eve, the band flashed red. She didn't call 911. She laughed at my "performance" and locked me in my room while fireworks exploded outside. Three days of silence passed. Mom finally unlocked the door, expecting an apology. She thought she was teaching me a lesson. She didn't know she was opening the door to a nightmare that could never be undone.

"Red meant lie. Green meant truth." That was the only rule in our house. Mom trusted the Verity Band on my wrist more than me. So when I collapsed in agony on New Year's Eve, the band flashed red. She didn't call 911. She laughed at my "performance" and locked me in my room while fireworks exploded outside. Three days of silence passed. Mom finally unlocked the door, expecting an apology. She thought she was teaching me a lesson. She didn't know she was opening the door to a nightmare that could never be undone.