I’m sitting in the chair, writhing in agony. A demon, a minor demon is pinning me there, fucking with my head. Abraxas, he said. I’m abraxas, the demon of lies and deceit.
“So, what do you want to know about lies my dear?”
“I’m not a liar.” I try again to get up this time I’m flayed, splayed. I feel myself screaming. “I’ll tell you about lies. There are white lies, and black lies, and many shades of grey lies. But some lies are justified. Lies told out of kindness. Lies that preserve dignity.
“I haven’t had a single bit of work done. How old do you think I am?”
Lies that spare pain…
“35, maybe 40?”
“Everybody’s a liar dear. Look at that one, she’s about to tell her lover something patently untrue. Look at their gestures. See how they touch each other too intimately. How they avert their eyes and cover their mouths. They lick their teeth, and hold their chins. They embellish their stories with far too much detail.”
