It is time for me to confess.
For six long years I have lived here, and the people around me have thought me mad from the moment I arrived, kicking and screaming at the silent community. Oh, it was true. I was quite crazy.
I am here because I refused to confess those seventy two months ago. I refused to tell them what they thought was the correct version of reality, the one to which they adhered to. But theirs is wrong. There is no place for giants who stalk the streets at night, no place for snake-faced temptresses who wait as you stare beyond the mirror. They call it fantasy and insanity. But there are none so blind as those who will not see.
It will not be long now until the blind are forced to open their eyes to the reality which is so apparent to me that it will blind them again, fearfulness etched, burned onto the gel of their eyeballs. He comes for them, and he brings the truth with him.
Rather, I will reveal it. It’s not as if I have a choice.
It was seven years ago I first heard him, panting and scratching at the dirt. He was bigger than any other I had ever seen, and his own eyes glinted with malice. I knew he was there for me. It sounds funny, doesn't it? A dog who’s out to get you? But I knew that he knew what I was doing. It was right there in the mud by his maw. I picked it up, stuffed it into my pocket, and rushed back to my house. My wife seemed no more dangerously enlightened, so I regained my composure and climbed upstairs. Pulling open my wardrobe, I took it from my pocket and shoved it at the back. My wife would never find it; never find out about her. I checked my shoulder for long blonde hairs - that’s how they always find out in the movies - then brushed my own brown mop.
That was the first time I saw it, but it was not the last.
The next week, it brought more to the same place. Every morning when I left for work it was waiting there with another symbol of my wavering loyalty. One day it was a perfume bottle she’d used while I watched, the next day the dog’s fur was soaking wet and the tangy sharp scent of a mix of sweat and spit floated on the air.
I knew it had to go. Either I would crack, or it had to.
That night I sat on the sofa while my wife slept alone, my eyes staring at the rubbish which I flicked through and my mind whirring, anxious to come up with a solution. It came to me quickly. How do you put down strays? You poison them. Fast, painless, effective.
The next morning I walked past the dog quickly. For once it seemed to not relish its job, and was content with watching me squirm as I passed it. On the way home from work I took a detour to a gardening centre. I picked up poison meant for killing moles, supposedly more humane than the traps. I only hoped it acted fast.
I went to the store beside this one and picked up a small carton of dog food.
I picked up the poison the next morning. It was a weekend but that meant nothing to this dog who tortured me. I looked at the time - one in the afternoon! I had overslept. I immediately panicked. I tucked the poison into my pocket and dashed outside. My suspicions were confirmed and my heart sank. I swear I felt it hit my kidneys. The dog was gone.
I should have been celebrating, but I knew the truth. My wife went for a jog on Saturdays at eleven o’ clock. I was too late.
I found her in the lounge, sobbing quietly to herself. She clutched a piece of paper tightly in her hands. I gently pried it from her hands and turned it over. It was a photo, one of the ones she had taken on her phone.
The other she.
I said nothing. What could have corrected it? She knew everything now, everything that was of importance, and we were finished. Over. Done.
“I’ll get you a drink.” I said softly, and padded away to the kitchen. I poured a glass of wine for her, then heard a tap at the window. There he stood. Watching me. Judging me. Pressuring me to end it all. How could I live with myself now? It would have been better if I had confessed my guilt earlier, so much earlier.
I took the sachet from my pocket and tore off the top. My hand shook as I tipped it in until all the powder had left the packet. I stirred the drink until there was no powder left.
I took it back to her. She drank deeply, barely stirring from where she sat curled up. An hour later, even the tiniest of twitches were gone. I called an ambulance.
The next three months are a dream to me. I remember the sirens, the banging at the door, the bang of the door hitting the doormat, the yells and the questioning. I remember the inquest and the trial, though they are like a haze. I remember coming here, where I have been ever since. I am not surprised they put me here. I would have done in their case. The blind will never believe anything they cannot see for themselves, which is to say, everything. After all, who would believe the story of a behemoth of a dog who forces you to drown in your guilt?
For just over a week shy of two thousand and two hundred days I have refused to confess. Now, with a nurse who wields a tape recorder beside me, this is my confession.
For six years I have had blissful silence. Now, in the back of my mind, I can hear him. The hound is coming again. No walls can keep him out. No prison, no ward is too secure. The blind do not notice what they cannot see slipping past.
This is my confession. By giving up my last vestiges of secrecy and guilt, perhaps he will spare me.
The dog whispers into my very soul with his footsteps, and I shiver to my very core. He is coming.
