The Finer Points of Truth

It all started with a small lie. When that man looked me in the eye, I just didn't know what to say. Years ago when my own brother took his own life, I saw the look in my dad's eyes when he heard the news. I just couldn't do that to another person; let him know that his son had given up. There, with the police lights flashing and the screams of his mother ringing in my ears, I looked him right in his eyes and lied.

Alright, it was a big lie. It wasn't my fault though. Everyone was shouting, people kept asking me questions and I just froze. Looking back on it though, telling him that his son died by throwing himself in front of me as bullets hazed through the house was a bit much. What else was I supposed to do though? His son was a complete druggie. We had barely begun smoking before he began his usual rants about how much his life sucked. I figured that he was just on his kick about how he'd change his life tomorrow. I must've had my head turned when he pulled the gun out. By the time I turned around, the gun was lay on the floor, smoking inches away from his scattered brains.

As they pulled his body out of the house, I should have just told the truth right then. I mean, all I had to say was that I was nervous before, and here's what really happened. I got all ready to go talk to the father when I saw him talking to the police about how his son lived. This guy must have been either the most gullible man in the world or in some sort of sick, extreme denial. The way he described what he thought of his son's life was almost comical. I knew his son, and he definitely wasn't the kid this poor guy was describing.

The more I listened the more I began to wonder if it was worth telling the truth to the dad. From the sound of it, this man believed his son could do no wrong. Why ruin his memory by shattering the dream of the perfect son? I could even tell the policeman wasn't fully convinced about the kid's heroism as he wrote in his notebook. The smell of poppy seeds in the house and the white sand on his nose certainly didn't help the father's story either. Fortunately, the parents never got a chance to see the body as it was being carried out.

I wracked my brain as I tried to think of a single good thing this guy had done in his life. All of the memories that came to mind were of us getting high or the two of us vandalizing the town. In reality, all I wanted to do was just walk up to his dad and tell him that his son really was a good guy because of some great thing he did. As I stood there I couldn't help but feel a bit bad as not a single kind memory came to mind. By the time I made up my mind, his parents had left with the ambulance.

The cop frowned as he took my statement again. Obviously he wasn't impressed with me selfless act of sparing the family the pain of knowing their real son as I told him the truth. As I got to the part where he pulled the trigger, I realized that no one had been watching him at the time. There he sat, in the corner of the room, muttering to himself about how terrible his life was. The policeman motioned for a few other officers to come over as I stared off in the distance. This guy really wasn't a bad guy, he just had a problem. I handed over the last of the drugs as they told me to get out of there.

On my walk home I passed the hospital. I saw the family's car in the emergency parking lot and decided to head in. I felt bad for them, mainly because I knew that a bullet in the head wasn't called an emergency as much as it was a dead body. As I walked through the doors I saw his mother sitting with her head in her hands, shaking on the seat. Next to her was a young girl with her arm around her mother consoling her. Next to the double doors of the operation room stood the father, pacing as he stared off into the distance. I didn't want to be the one to tell them that I personally saw their son's brain on the floor.

As I turned to leave I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked around and there stood the guy's dad, once again giving me that terrible stare of hope. He asked me if I knew his son when he was alive. As I stammered for words a memory floated to the top of my mind. It was his son and I going to the park when we were younger. We were playing on the swings when I fell backwards. I remembered not even being able to breathe as my friend ran and got help. My eyes glazed as I saw his father's eyes scanning my face, looking for the slightest bit of fondness as I remembered his son.

I put my hand on his shoulder and nodded my head. I told him about all the fun we used to have as kids, how much joy we found in skating around the town. It wasn't easy as I had to edit certain parts of the stories on the fly, leaving out incidents of vandalism and mischief. His son and I had really been alright friends. Over time though we just grew apart. He stayed the same while the rest of us changed. I finally stood up as the doctor walked out of the doors, shaking his head sadly as he took off his gloves. I'll never forget the look on his mother's face as she screamed into her daughter's arms.

Hospitals and I don't mix, so I excused myself to have a smoke outside. I had barely lit my cigarette when I was joined by his father. He asked for my lighters as we stood there. The silence was broken as he turned to me and asked me the question that I dreaded most. I left my cigarette in my mouth as I stared ahead of my into the street. There wasn't an thing in the world that I could reply with right now that wouldn't shatter this guy's view of his son. this guy thought so highly of his son, I just didn't want to take that away from him. As I turned to face him, I finally understood what my dad was feeling all those years ago when my brother died. I put my cigarette in the tray as I began to tell him the real story of his son.

It had grown dark by the time I had finished. Despite the remaining light, I couldn't read the look on his face. Whenever I mentioned the drugs or violence his son and I had participated in he winced, though he remained silent throughout the entire story. We must have smoked an entire pack and a half of cigarettes standing there. After I stopped, we stood there, neither of us talking once again. Finally, he turned to me and smiled. I couldn't understand it. How could he give even a faint smile after all I told him? That's when it hit me.

I shook the man's hand as he turned to walk back inside. As he sat in the chair, hugging his wife and daughter, I finally realized how he felt. No matter what his son did, he will always be the boy who broken his arm learning to ride a bike in his father's eyes. There wasn't a thing in the world that I could have said that would have changed that. I finished my cigarette and smiled. Memories, like beauty, are truely in the eye of the beholder.