The Morning After (Part Two)

At length he opened his eyes, made himself see the room before him. The first sight that met his eyes made him wince, but he fought the instinct to slam them closed again. He would have to face this. Have to own his part in it.

The Egyptian cotton bed linens were marred—a smallish but impossible-to-miss irregularly shaped dark red-brown stain. The crimson appeared vibrant, fresh, though he knew the mark to be now hours old. The sin would have been hellish enough, but confronted with this further evidence, this proof of primacy—a fresh wave of guilt and nausea threatened to turn his stomach again. He’d have to destroy the sheets.

He was thinking like a criminal now. About getting rid of the evidence, about what lies he would have to spin to cover it all up. He was trying to figure out how to get away with it. A sudden awareness of his own nudity catalysed him into action—the first step to burying this unholy corpse of a mistake was to get dressed. Like Adam in the garden he was overcome with the shame of his nakedness and needed to be hidden from the eyes of … well, there was no God, but certainly from the eyes of that fallen angel on the floor.

Looking down between his legs he saw faint traces of a matching crimson and sorely wished he could dispose of this burden the way he planned on eliminating the sheets. Dimly he knew he would scrub and scrub at himself later, to wash away what he’d done, but had the vague understanding that the damned spots would never really come out.

She had the topsheet, covering her modesty, and his pants were across the room. Reaching for a pillow seemed tacky, like a cheap farce. Striding across the room in his state of undress seemed pornographic. Disliking his options he finally settled on pulling the blood-stained sheet from its snugly fitted grip and wrapping himself in it. He felt a bit like a pagan priest or a sinister mockery of an ancient god.

How much time did they have, before someone found them there together? He stood alert, listening for early morning sounds of stirring within the house, but heard nothing. As quietly as possible he moved to the door, which he was relieved to find was at least locked, and listened harder.

“There’s no one home, remember?” but she whispered it, as if caught in his paranoia. He didn’t remember. In fact he was having a great deal of trouble remembering the particulars of the previous evening.

Standing, swathed in the mute testimony of their guilt, within the scene of the crime, he finally turned to face her. She had stopped weeping now and he saw that she was alert, watching him keenly. He saw her large round eyes widen at the sight of the stain he now wore, but she did not recoil, instead she let her eyes seek out his.

He tried to see her as he must have seen her the night before. He stood, studying her face for a long, silent moment but nothing could make him see her through that lens; even though he could tell she was looking at him in that unnatural way. She was no longer his as she had been but was now his in an entirely new and primitive way.

‘I’m Sorry’ was the first thought that tried to find voice but it dried up on his tongue before utterance. Not because he wasn’t sorry—he was desperately, whole-heartedly sorry—but because the simplicity of the phrase seemed too frail and puny for the enormity of the occasion.

It occurred to him, then, that he needed to be very, very careful with how he proceeded. He’d already likely traumatized her with his visceral reaction upon waking, and while he was still reeling, still internally shaking his fists and cursing the fates, outwardly he needed to project kindness, steadiness, assurance. It warred with every natural instinct he had. He wanted to rail at her, blame her, punish her. He wanted to shake her until she understood the irreversible and aberrant nature of her folly. He wanted to tell her to get dressed and get the fuck out.

But he did not.

He understood his own culpability. Felt the crushing burden of his own liability. No matter what she’d done this was his responsibility.

“Are you alright?” The words felt almost as feeble and inadequate as ‘I’m sorry’, but he had to start somewhere. His tone was flat, but, he was glad to hear, without malice. He almost sounded normal.

She gave him the faintest hint of a rueful smile. “I think so.” She worried her bottom lip between her teeth and he had to look away. “Are you ok?” She was worried. He’d vomited and retched and had what was likely a bit of a panic attack before her eyes, this man who had ever been her rock and her hero.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” He told her quietly. He was referring to his episode, but he thought it might be much more than that.

She opened her mouth to respond but closed it again without words. He wasn’t the only one having trouble finding language to address the occasion.

He had the urge to flee, just then, to grab his clothes and wallet, retrieve his glasses and walk away from this house forever. He clenched his fists and ground his teeth together. Instead of fleeing he turned his feet in her direction and approached her. He put his hand out to help her off the floor.

The timid way she looked up at him, and tentatively extended her own arm to reach for his offered hand made his heart literally ache and he had to draw a deep, steadying breath. When she stood it was too close but he didn’t step back. Their gazes were locked for too long, but he didn’t look away.

“Viola,” He spoke at last, gently but firmly, “I need to know how this happened.”