My mum told me never to lie. Ever. Not even a tiny fib, to make people feel good. She called those pretty little lies and said that they would mean I would go to hell, just the same as I would for murder, or for answering back to her. My mum talked a lot about hell. I spent my every minute terrified of stepping the tiniest bit out of line. I behaved. I didn't draw attention to myself. If I did anything wrong, or even thought about doing anything wrong, I would work out how to make up for it. Make the wrong right by going to confession. And if that didn't work, giving my pocket money to charity, or doing extra chores, or going without pudding. My teachers thought I was amazing. My priest thought I was going to be a nun. My classmates thought I was stuck up. My mother thought she was doing everything right. And me? I thought I was a sinner. And now? Well. I guess it depends on how exactly you define sin.
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Writing short fiction, monologues and plays