The Secret of a Second Person

A man has a secret that could destroy his family. Join his excruciating journey toward the truth. My attempt at 2nd Person prose.

You always wake up earlier than necessary, but today is particularly wrenching. Towers of blankets and pillows pack you down like a walrus wading through deep waters. Your wife slumbers without pause. Something nicks at the back of your mind. You’re hasty to remember the previous night; you recall your secret.

You hang at the edge of your bed like a brooding bat. Sulking in your own betrayal, you keep your head low. For minutes you feel the cushion of the king-sized mattress, biting your lip. You tell yourself you need to get moving or else darkness would take hold.

You wander through the mists of an early morning drowse, feeble and snapping like a dead bough. You chuckle at the mess your son has made with his decorative building blocks, scattered across the kitchen floor. You think, I wish I could see him more. And you mean it. You’re hungry, but not for food. You pine for the love of your family. You wish that last night hadn’t gone so well.

And so subsequently awful.

After a pitiful, forced breakfast of diluted eggs, half cooked hash browns, and ice cold milk, you feel a little better. Work looms over your head like an anvil. All you want to do is crawl back underneath the covers and sink into oblivion. But you can’t. You won’t. Because if you don’t go to work today, she’ll know something is wrong.

Yes, your wife.

The scalding water of the shower cleanses you. But not your soul. You recognize each stinging drop, quenching your sorrowing corpse. Indeed, you feel limp and empty as you lean against the taciturn tile. Like a zombie riddled with sores and festering wounds, your body cringes at each new thought that enters your mind.

Even the absurd “truth” idea floats around in the steamy chamber.

Once your tie is securely fastened and your suit finely tuned, you pace the family room that is recovering from your son’s recent tirade. You weren’t there to see it. You weren’t there to help your wife.

As suspense and terror overcome your weakened state, your eyes cannot escape the magnetic picture frame, sitting with pose upon one of your end tables. It shows your little trio, smiling against the sun, backlit by your trip to Disneyland.

But all you can think of is her.

No, not your wife.

No, you’re remembering the only other female you invest your time with. She’s nimble, determined, a little weary of new situations, and most of all, beautiful. You think of her shimmering mane of gilded hair, her touch, her silken body.

But you cannot move. You’re frozen because your wife is standing at the hallway’s threshold, arms locked in a wrap.

“Where were you last night?” she asks. You are already annoyed. The love you once felt has melted away in your lust.

You say nothing, which only makes things worse. Your wife approaches you with a permanent stare of sparking coals and masked rage. But you hold strong, making the carpet your new admiration. 

Your wife isn’t stupid or naïve. She is well aware of your time spent away from home. Too many dinners had gone uneaten. More play dates had fallen on “business days.” But how could you resist such an enticing draw?

Now with tears in her eyes, your wife breathes threats. You are too detached to listen to her argument. Your mind is forever on your other love.

It is only when your three-year-old son steps into the room that you realize the truth has to come out. The truth you so hopelessly tried to keep at bay.

“Where’s Sammy?” he asks, rubbing his eyes and padding to your debacle without reticence.

Your wife stops her sunspot glare and looks around. That’s when you know it cannot be contained.

“Last night I did something terrible,” you say, almost trembling. Your wife gives you a look of utter apprehension, cupping her mouth. “And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to take it back.”

Unable to resist, your wife slaps your face. But you deserve it. It is your fault for not using the leash last night. It is your fault for chasing her.

You drop your head and unleash your secret, “Last night I lost Sammy. I lost the dog.”