The Man And The Secret

The Man And The Secret

'Sorry sir, you're sadly mistaken. Our lies were just for fun.'

Shh.

Those words played silently in the back of his mind, as children in a playground would. Hushed and content, yet somehow impatient for a chance to let loose. To break past his lips, the barrier which so forcefully contains them against their will. It's not that he doesn't want to free them. Quite the opposite, actually. He'd rather not have the responsibility of all this wordplay. He'd rather be rid of them and carry on, like before, in his ignorance. He liked not knowing. It was much easier that way. No worries, no watching out for word-slipping or tongue-tying, or any sort of thinking before he spoke for that matter. Now he fumbles his words even in reply to the simplest of questions. Someone had asked his name the other day. For some strange reason, he'd muttered under his breath a name which sounded similar to his, but as if it was coming out of the mouth of an old homeless man with no teeth and too much whisky. 

Perhaps the heady mix of a secret and a promise was starting to get to him.

Those words weren't playing now. They were shouting, screaming, like kids in a supermarket throwing tantrums because they 'wealy, wealy want to eat dose choklits!'. They were agitated, losing all of what little patience they had to begin with. His complexion is changed now. His eyes are nervy, strained and stained red from all the sleepless nights. Most were spent talking to himself, a futile effort at comforting himself. His hair is ruffled and unkempt, though he never notices, never even cares about that anyway. The only thing he sees in the mirror is worry. The most noticeable change though, is in his lips. Pale and dry, like a man parched, thirsting for a gulp of cool water to relieve him of the agony. They trembled and twitched, itching for a reprieve. He looked just as an innocent man on death row would. 

Those whispers were turning into screams. And he couldn't take it much longer.