A Perfect Mess

In a moment of sudden clarity I stood and, stripping off my bedclothes, slipped into a sweater and jeans and prepared to walk out the door. I don't know where I was planning to walk; the idea seemed reasonable at the time, just start walking and find out where I'm going when I get there. In my mind I saw myself trudging, one foot in front of the other, to show up at the door to Max & Erma's, to see for myself if my love is healthy and whole. The idea is foolish, as I knew the entire time I was preparing to leave.
My heart hasn't settled yet.
Suffice it to say that the best laid plans derived from an unclear mind are the most horrible ideas imaginable. However intelligent or decent they seem, there is always a catch - one small thing forgotten or ignored - that invalidates all rational thought. It came from me.
And now it's all my fault, a charge I embrace and accept wholeheartedly. I would rather be burned on a pyre of ill-thought confession than to see my love, my other half, take the fall for something he doesn't entirely understand. His was the voice that spoke, but mine was the thought behind it. I told him what to say in the crucial moments, and what to do and what not to do, and the fault, the blame, is all mine.
Still waiting for my pulse to settle...
There are two sides warring inside me. There's anger, rage that this is happening, because the circumstances leading up to last night are very little in our control. They're completely unreasonable, and I'm itching for a fight. The other side, though, is paralyzed with fear at what might happen. I just want to rush in, fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness for losing my presence of mind and allowing things to transpire the way they did. I want to beseech them to show clemency to my darling, much as I imagine medieval wives must have done when their husbands were sentenced to execution.
Chances are, I will be able to do neither - at least, not right away. Right now my beloved is under involuntary quarantine from the sight, sound, and knowledge of me. It will never work, but I fear it may rob me of the chance to make things right. This wasn't him; this was me. Crucify me, make me write a million times on the wall "I will not be a bad influence..." but don't....please, don't make him pay for this. It's a debt I willingly take on.