Chapter 1: Chapter 1

It is said that children are innocent. They are as white as an unpainted canvas, and their environments are the paint. When I refer to their environment, I don't just mean the people in it; I also mean the conditions wherein they find themselves.

Why did I say that the environment is their paint? They are the colors to choose from and the child is the painter themselves. Let’s say the mother is blue and the father is green, who or what will the child choose to paint themselves first? They will end up painting themselves with different colors until they venture out into the world, meet other people, and find themselves in various circumstances. The child chooses the hue they choose to follow, and slowly, their artwork takes shape. It won't be done until the child passes away.

The child will determine the painting's style; it will be up to them. Will the artwork evoke a sense of tranquility? Dark impression? scary sensation? A child, however, has a lot of imagination, thus they will alter it just like their personalities do since there isn't enough room on a single canvas. A young child who could previously only draw stick figures is now able to create difficult-to-understand works of abstraction and complexity.

When I was a child, I painted myself in colors that made me a liar. At first sight, my artwork could appear to be serene, but if you look more and deeper, you'll start to see how ugly it really is.

I don't recall when I started lying, but I must have been very young. I do, however, recall the incident where I stole cash from my mother. When I was in the second grade of primary school, I was envious of my friends who received funds from their parents. My mother was the type of person who disliked providing money to their kids because they thought they would become materialistic. Since it turned me into a thief, I suppose it backfired.

I used it to buy food rather than stuff like toys. I didn't play with toys much as a kid since I believe they are a waste of money. I become bored with them in the blink of an eye, and I find pretend play to be a dull activity. So I don't believe acquiring them is a good idea.

My siblings and I have a little age difference. My younger brother is 4 years younger than me, and my sister is 2 years older than me. While I play with grass and flowers and use them as paint even though it made the paper very stinky, and my brother plays with his buddies, my sister enjoys pretend play in solitude in which she enjoys playing the role of a prince rescuing her princess. We have our own world, which means we have painted ourselves very differently.

But anyway, enough with them. I want to talk about how much of a liar I am.

Although I was innocent at the time, I am aware of how terrible stealing is. I almost lost my mother's support when she found out, to be honest. She kept beating me because she was furious, which caused bruises all over my body. It hurt, made me feel like everything hurt, and made me believe, in my innocent mind, that the suffering would last forever. Since that day, my mother has never looked at me the same way.

Whenever a penny is lost, she automatically blames me for it. Because I haven't stolen a cent since getting hit, I am certain that I wasn't the one who took it. I recall thinking, ‘Oh! One of my siblings is stealing too.’ At first, I felt awful about it because someone was getting all the credit and I was getting the agony that they were meant to get.

I came up with a conclusion. "I will have all the wonderful things and someone will bear the agony for me. All I need to do is let someone take the responsibility for my mistake."

I don't believe I was very brilliant as a kid, just a little clever—not in a nice way.

My brother's collection of toys seemed to be growing. It was quite clear that he was the mystery thief because my parents never brought that many toys because they don't want to spoil us. My mother accepted the "proof" I presented to her when I informed her about it.

My mother's reaction let me down, I'll admit. She just reprimanded him; not a single hair on his head was touched.

My brother was my mother's favorite child, and I was never envious of him for it. I don't want parental love; all I want is recognition and trust.

My mother may have a soft spot for my brother, but that doesn't mean she trusts him. Even if she didn't hit him, something still may have been lost like trust. Mother unconsciously believes me whenever both I and my brother have a disagreement. She was both fair and unfair at the same time. She is fair since she will hear all sides, but she is also unfair because the severity of the punishment differs. She only corrects my brother when he is discovered misbehaving, but I receive beatings that cause all of my body parts to ache when I move.

Since then, I've performed house chores to make a good impression, and it didn't take me long to gain my mother's trust. I was suddenly renamed from a "thief" to the "obedient one."

Playing pretend isn't really my thing, but pretending in real life is probably fun.

You are reading story Liar at novel35.com

You can find story with these keywords: Liar, Read Liar, Liar novel, Liar book, Liar story, Liar full, Liar Latest Chapter