I didn’t mean to do it. I wasn’t planning on lying that day, but that pesky cat ruined it all for me. I was helping an old woman clean out her basement. Sure, I was getting paid, but I still enjoyed working for her. It gave me some purpose. On this particular day, I was helping her move her couch and tear up some carpeting, and after about 45 minutes of cutting along the perimeter of the room, and tugging up the hideous shag carpet, I was tired and in need of a rest. I slumped down on her pulpy couch, easing the tired muscles in my back. I hadn’t bothered to take off my shoes, as I figured nothing would come of it—my mistake. To make a long story short, I accidentally tore a hole in the weak fabric with the heel of my shoe. I remember being shocked as I looked down to see the yellowed padding of the couch peaking through. I didn’t think my shoes were that rugged.
I moved gingerly as to not further rip apart the cloth. You see, I really didn’t want to upset the old woman. Her baseline of calm was hardly that, and I had seen her wring her hands and pace upstairs while I worked a staircase below. That’s when I saw the cat. It made its way from behind the couch, almost asking to play a part in my trickery. If I remember correctly, my bright thought process was, I say the cat ripped the couch, I fix it, and I still have something to do on Sundays. And it wouldn’t hurt if I got that bit of extra money.
That’s a little white lie, hardly anything at all. But it wasn’t hardly anything at all. Like clockwork, the old woman made her way down just as I placed Mittens, or whatever its name was, on the couch. Looking back on this, I would have given anything to keep that cat curled up where I would never have seen him.

“The cat ripped the couch,” I said, immediately. Cutting her words, whatever she had started to say to me, to a bitter end. Lie one.
She took a deep breath. Clearly unphased she replied, “And just how did he do that? He was declawed 10 years ago.”
“They grew back,” I said. Stupid, I know, but I wasn’t thinking. Lie two.
We both turned to face the cat, smugly sitting on the worn sofa. She slowly made her way to his paws, and with a shaky hand, examined them carefully.
I still remember right when I allowed the situation to consume me. Any cautions instilled in me since a child I threw to the wind. As the silence continued to fill the partially de-carpeted room, I ran my mouth.
“He must have bitten it, then.” My third and final lie. For my only three lies in life, these sure were dumb. The worst part was I don’t know why I kept lying; maybe it was because I really didn’t want her to be mad at me.
Or how I longed for a grandmother of my own. 

But it doesn’t matter now; I’m in my afterlife. My teenage years still haunt me, as they were all I ever got to know. I wish someone told me that you die when the last lie leaves your lips.