A secret is a odd enough thing isn’t it? No, not really. You say. Since you are a little ignorant. Though please don’t be upset about this, it’s only through fortune that you come to be so. You see it’s only that you have never had to hold a secret like Henry Hooper’s for as prolonged a period of time as had he, that you haven’t been given the time to reflect on it. Unless you have. In which case you’ll know a secret is not only odd enough, but torturous in its nature.
Henry was no behavioral zoologist or cognitive psychologist, but he’d reasoned on the concept often. He’d come to figure that chocolate tasted sweet and good because it provided the human body with energy and sugar, that a hand in fire writhed with agony as to tell the human behavior not to indulge in the activity again, and that a film or a book felt a pleasant way to pass the time as it provided stimulation to the human brain. But when our words were made to remain unsaid, why they would transcend from weightless constructs of expression to heavy objects in the blood, how they could come to burden him painfully and physically, he remained unable to answer.
Reasoning however is a delightfully frail tool. Finding no answers in its wielding, Henry turned to forgetting. Ignorance would be bliss. He tried hypnotherapy, herbology, aroma-shoddery, every which-whology sort of hogwashery he could find, even trying chiropracty, not because he had a bad-back, but solely because the word he read sounded of correct ilk. All to no avail. The information stayed, and without being able to distribute it outwards, it continued to remain only inside, to grow there, and to burden.
Sensing a last appropriate moment to relieve himself of what had haunted him a lifetime, he grabbed his wife’s hand. His old childhood sweetheart laid in bed and met his eyes. Remember when we were 18, and that night you decided to break up with me? Yes, she whispered, a tracing of a smile mapping itself around parts of her lips. Remember then the next day you came back to me, and said you’d made a mistake? Yes, again she whispered. Well… That night I went down to St Kilda street and picked up a few of the prostitutes one finds there, and, well, absolutely ravaged them the whole evening. There was a pause. ‘Why did you just tell me that?’, she managed to mutter. And then she died. On her deathbed.
Henry Hooped saw his life-long love go lifeless. He prepared himself for the emotional burdening that would weigh down on his chest and heart for the rest of his days, though was at least glad that he had managed to take one off, before accommodating the next.