'"I may say an excellently well-constructed house." These walls - are you going, gentlemen? - these walls are solidly put together:" and here, through the mere frenzy of bravado, I rapped heavily with a cane which I held in my hand upon that every portion of the brick-work behind which stood the corpse of the wife of my bosom."'
Awaiting in our hearts and minds is that dirty, black secret. The one that only takes a moment of bravado to unleash in all of its blind fury. It will come, assuredly we tell ourselves truthfully. It is only a matter of time. And 'they' will know and I will be undone.
Desperate, I've tried. I did my best to hide it. Fettered it, buried. Allowed the dross of dust to cover it and bury it in forgetfulness. But it still lays there - in the floorboards, in the wall, in the confines of my soul.
Poe hid his pain behind the thinnest of veneers. The Black Cat had the corpse behind a wall. The Tell-Tale Heart in the floorboards.
'"Many projects entered my mind. At one period I thought of cutting the corpse into minute fragments and destroying them by fire. At another I resolved to dig a grave for it in the floor of the cellar. Again, I deliberated about it casting it in the well in the yard - about packing it in a box, as if merchandise, with the usual arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it from the house."'
How long will we cling to safety? Do you believe in it?
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