a/n: you wouldn't fuckin believe it!
i was rereading liar and it was kinda Cringe so this is me rewriting the entire thing. just know that each thing i write in here is due to an epic homework procrastination moment!
anyways, as someone who is near complete with her post-queen-stan-arc, i wanna avoid makin this a ship fic. i think liar, at its core, is a book about love and redemption, and ofc that transcends romantic love. as of this moment, i'm still kinda undecided bc the Emotional Impact™ of part 3 in the original liar is unmatched!
either way, don't think of them as their real selves in this. i know whoever's reading this probably won't, but like... they're not spies! guys please.
nonetheless, here i am. all the more frazzled about the world, politics, and people. let's try this again.
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AUGUST 16TH, 2019
OADBY, ENGLAND
ENTRY 1 | DEACON
Dear Diary,
I think I'm going insane.
I've finally begun sixth form, and God, let me out! I don't think I have ever felt this tired in my life. I'm trying to find the "light at the end of the tunnel," but the light won't come for a couple more months. I just have to wait it out, y'know?
Maybe I should apply to Oxford. Columbia? NYU. As if! I just need to leave this damn country , or this city at least, and do something with my life. Become an electrical engineer or something. They make good money, right? Sixteen-going-on-seventeen, and I don't have this shit figured out yet. Does anyone?
Well, I guess we'll see what happens later. For now, it's just another day at school. Mum told me to try the diary thing, and I don't think I feel much better. I'll just write whenever I feel bad.
J Deacon
Summers in Oadby only grow warmer. The streets grow rougher (potholes, right?). Kids grow older. Adults grow denser. The world spins faster. Tip, tip, tip, until the teacup tumbles. Shatter!
Everything's going to shit.
At least, that's how John felt. Like a black hole with all time, light, and space collapsing in on itself, he felt his own personal implosion was imminent. Bit by bit, he trudges on. Backpack, denim jeans, tight-lipped, hands-clenched—it's just another walk to school. His sister marches behind him.
"John, did you pack lunch today?" she huffs. She's only twelve. She doesn't know what's coming.
"I did," responds John. He says nothing, until the thump, thump, thump of her footsteps grow more irritating. She wants something. "Why?"
"I didn't."
"Sucks."
She doesn't need to make her request. He already knows it. "Pretty please?"
"Julie," the moody-bitch turns around to face his sister, and he sighs, "I'm hanging by a thread here, and all I'm looking forward to today is eating my cheese on toast at lunch."
"How horrendously sad do you have to be for cheese on toast to be your lifeline?"
"I'm not sad. I'm just... tired." John trudges on.
The A.M. isn't as cold as John would like it to be. He tugs onto his jacket, feeling a dribble of sweat accumulate in his gross, teenage armpits.
God, he stinks!
So does everyone else at school. Some call it the school air—John thinks it's the skunks. We know that it's because everyone's wearing a hoodie in the summertime. On campus, he catches sight of his raggedy blond: the myth, the legend, Roger Taylor. He brushes past him, wanting to find a seat first before being met with an unfathomable amount of energy at eight-thirty.
