Lies

Everyone has scars. Battle scars, surgery scars, self-inflicted scars, scars from an accident as a child, even mystery scars that you have no clue how or when you got. But here, in my world, we have a different kind of scar. We have false-scars.

It's a simple principle, really; you lie, you get a scar, and the bigger the lie, the deeper the scar. Everyone has them, because everyone lies. But not everyone has just one.

I saw her at the local bar one Saturday night, a pretty young thing, no older than 25, trailing around with a small group of friends. For a moment, I thought she had no scars, her face, neck, arms, and legs were all smooth, white skin.
Until she swept her hair aside. That's when I saw it, peeking out from the edges of her backless silk dress; a scar, larger than any I'd ever come across before. It ran the length of her exposed back, starting at the base of her neck and ending who knows where. The scar was very obviously old, it was a sandy brown, with cracks and breaks extending off the sides like veins. It was deep, too, so deep in some places that you could see the vertebrae moving in her back as she walked.
My own body ached in sympathy at the thought of earning a scar that large. Then, the thought struck me, what had she done to earn a scar like that? What lie could be so harsh?
Curiosity replaced apprehension and I made a beeline towards the mystery woman, side-dodging bar patrons left and right in my rush to be at her side. I approached her from behind and slowly reached out, touching her shoulder.
"Excuse me," I began, pausing while she turned to face me and only continuing when she accepted my presence, "I don't mean to pry, but, where did you get a scar like that from? I mean, what did you-? What happened?"

Her eyes darkened, her smile cracked, and her posse fell silent.
"I told a man I loved him."