Was a writing prompt that I’ve read quite a few years ago ago, copied below:
“You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar’s body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.”
This is the story that followed, credit to wercwercwerc from Reddit.
He was a real good guy, through and through. Never met anyone quite like him since, never really expect I will either.
People like Joe don’t come around often. Once in a lifetime maybe, if you’re lucky.
Almost everyone I’ve ever met had the tiny silvered papercuts of white-lies on their fingers. It’s a price of formalities, a camouflage of sorts- as everyone has a few, some deeper cut than others over the years; opened and reopened time after time. And not just that, but the larger cuts, silvery things on forearms and shins, necks or backs. People lie, it’s just the way of things.
Sometimes the pain it worth the deception, the balancing scale plays out mentally before a person’s mouth opens.
Joining the force was what I wanted. There was a lie I told myself: A Lie I scratched in deep, over and over again. I wanted to change, I wanted my parents to be proud: All lies, tiny scratching lines on my shoulder to create a strange and deceitful pattern that never seemed to heal completely.
In truth, I joined the force because I had nothing left. I joined as a last ditch effort to save myself from rock bottom. Among the elite, surrounded by the brave and the successful, I simply kept my head down. It felt like being a fox, stuck among a pack of wolves. Just being there in the first place felt like deception.
But then, there was instructor Joe.
I had more scars than most, and that earned little trust- but if people were politely cold with me, they were visibly frigid with Joe. See, he didn’t have the traditional marks on his hands, he didn’t have cuts and nicks along his arms, his face or neck: At a quick glance you might have thought him the most honest man alive. In fact, at first people did. A man in his fading thirties without scars?
That’s like a god-damn unicorn. They’re more myth and legend than person- yet there he was. Plain as day.
Everyone liked Joe that first week. Everyone wanted to be on good terms with him- I mean, who wouldn’t? In a world of liars and cheats, proof reminded at every twist and turn of the road, who wouldn’t want someone they could trust?
Well, that was before he took of his shirt in the locker-room. Before we all saw the hideous mark that covered half his back. One lie, but the most gruesome thing I’ve ever seen. From his shoulder blade to his ribs, it looked like a crashing comet of red and silvered white. A tiny portion of it just finally healing, a rough tear now recovered again.
It was all the same lie. That’s something you can just tell sometimes, just know it. Usually you can tell how many times too, but whatever the number was which he’d said that aloud, I don’t know.
He rarely spoke to begin with, issuing the orders with a stern smile, instructing as all the rest did. He was positive, encouraging, truthful: But that scar was on everyone’s mind. Deep, dark, and terrible: Someone who could tell a lie like that… Well, there was someone to watch out for. In the end though, it was at the range when things went well and truly sour.
Live-fire runs, we’d done them a thousand times, but that day I guess someone forgot themselves. Maybe they thought too much on what and how and their brain skipped a beat, or maybe they were just careless. Regardless of the reason, a shot fired when it shouldn’t have. Brass spit fire, Air swallowed metal, and lead took its first taste of iron, calcium, iron and dirt.
In that order.
We all stopped, eyes wide and watching that kid fall down real slow. First standing, staring with his hand pulling away- not even scared, just shocked. Red, like deep crimson soaking and spreading, he dropped down to his knees. Still, he wasn’t even there yet, it hadn’t quite processed.
That’s when Joe caught him- and all the shouting erupted. The pandemonium, the first real training turned to action kicking in. Cries for “Medic!” and “KIT! Get the kit!” as people ran for the directions they thought mattered.
I was close enough to know that wasn’t going to make a difference. Center of mass was what we trained for, the reason was straight and forward: Shoot to kill. Eliminate the target and move on.
So I sat there, weapon heavy in my hands as I watched Joe hold this kid, blood pouring out into the dirt like a faucet, and I listened to him repeat the words that cut deep. Over, and over, and over again.
“Hang on, look at me. You’re gonna be alright.”
“You’re gonna be alright.”
That hall of fame Reddit thread where a guy announced he will try heroin just one time, then comes back to explain how the experience was and how he will try again. Over the course of many posts we see persons entire life unravel as other posters scream of the top of their lungs for him to stop.
Never figured if it was real or scripted, but hella effective.
As a recovering heroin addict, I wholeheartedly believe his story. His later stories contained some region-specific drug slang and his post-recovery updates were the perfect amount of mundane and specific for me to recognize exactly the same feelings in myself.
Side note: if you’re watching a movie or TV show, one thing that non-junkie writers never get right is withdrawal. They often show characters skipping withdrawal entirely, or show them mildly sick but still moving through the story without any real issues. Worst case, they’ll show a character being sick and then totally fine after a short time. Huge pet peeve of mine. Really undersells the catch-22 you find yourself in when using heroin.
What withdrawal is actually like is pure, unadulterated misery and suffering for two weeks at minimum, followed by months or even a year of exhaustion, depression, suicidal thoughts, restlessness, and feeling like everything is weird and new. It feels like you’re a reptile that just shed its skin and everything is raw including your emotions and thoughts. Those first two weeks are just nonstop puking, shaking, sweating, an uncontrollable urge to kick and jerk your body, total insomnia, scary and suicidal thoughts, full body aches and pains, and enough self-loathing to last a thousand years.
I made it three months cold turkey once before relapsing. Fucking never again. I honestly don’t know how people quit dope before modern medications like Buprenorphine and Methadone.
Feeling like you want to break the cycle of addiction but knowing you can’t get through the withdrawal is an incredibly scary and traumatic experience.
Have you watched Euphoria? I’ve never had experience with drugs like that but I feel it’s got representation of addiction and withdrawals. Some recovering addicts say it spoke to them and others say they can’t watch it because it’s too triggering, so I’d totally understand if you haven’t seen it. The special Rue episode in between the two seasons is spectacular at showing a recovering addict trying to talk sense into a struggling one.
Not exactly a story, but a picture thread on Reddit where a guy posts a photo of his tattoos on his arms, and someone goes “how did you take this picture”, so he posts a selfie showing him balancing a phone on his shoulder, and someone replies “wait how did you take that picture” and then he posts a photo of him taking a photo of him taking a photo… and this continues until he reveals multiple complex camera setups. Such a legendary thread.
Edit: here it is: https://imgur.com/gallery/JThDN
The body builder forum that forgot how many days are in a week:
https://forum.bodybuilding.com/showthread.php?t=107926751&page=1
Gold.
The fact alone that it goes on for 5 pages!! Dudes could have used the time training lol
Maybe by the end, but I imagine many body builders start building their body because their math isn’t the best.
“The society that separates its scholars from its warriors will have its thinking done by cowards and its fighting by fools” -Thucydides
Once on Reddit I read of someone who grew up in a house where they had a poop knife as part of their standard toilet tool set.
This person once found themselves asking for a poop knife elsewhere, casually, like anyone would ask for toilet paper.
I think a commenter called it “the Mashitty” in the replies, which I found hilarious. That story and comment will forever be remembered.
Hell yea the poop knife. His family had one because their shits would block toilets. He thought it was a normal thing to require and have a poop knife but after going to a friend’s house and asking for it, he discovered that it was indeed (Samuel L. Jackson voice) not a normal thing to possess.
Imagine how shithouse their diet must be to warrant the need for a poop knife 🤮 drink more clear fluids and up the fiber intake jeeze
This one never struck me as real enough to be exciting. Felt too obviously made up.
