Trumped

six // it all comes back to lindana

It all Comes Back to Lindana

My eyes burn as numerous cameras flash in my face, desperate for a good article. I can see where they're coming from, for plainly I am a charming man. Though, the press would be a smidgen more bearable if they weren't up in my face all the time. (But I can hardly blame them; who wouldn't want to interview me and be in my presence twenty-four seven? I'm the best thing since sliced bread!)

I feel dizzy and my head spins as I try to avoid their clutches and cameras, but it is no use. I'm practically trapped, there are photographers surrounding every possible square inch of my yard. (They're trampling my vivacious garden and contaminating the fountain's—once clean—water! Oh, if only I had a way to get rid of these rats...)

Hillary must be worried sick, perhaps there's a way to get back inside. I wriggle around in the throng of paparazzi and luckily, I am able to make an approximate one hundred eighty degree turn. Now I'm facing the window of the main living room, and if I squint my eyes enough, I can barely make out a figure in the shape of my love, Hillary. It'll be backbreaking and excruciating to get past these nuisances, but I'm sure that if I can run for president, I can run for my life.

The gaggle of photographers surrounding me continue to take photos of me at every angle. I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath. I channel all of the aggression I have deep within me—and let me tell you, it's a lot. My chakras are aligned and I feel a sharp burst of power surge throughout my body, and my toupee becomes rearranged. However, now is not the time to focus on my amazing hair; I must now do what I meditated for.

I take another deep breath and I force my way through the group, pushing and shoving anything that dare be in my way. I feel my face get hot, no doubt it's red by now. I move them out of my path of destruction, laughing mirthlessly as they lie on the pavement. At last I have made my way through these disgusting excuses for human beings and I reach my front entrance. I turn the solid gold doorknob and the fragrance of my living place hits my nostrils the moment the door is open.

Hillary gasps at the sudden noise, and pads over to where I've just entered. "Donald, are you okay?" she asks frantically. "Check the news, they probably have thousands of stories out by now."

I nod in agreement, pulling out the smart phone that I use for the Internet. As quickly as I can manage, I go to Google and type my name, along with Hillary's, in the search bar; the results that appear are enough to induce nausea.

The news articles poke fun at my and Hillary's romantic affairs, and I can't contain the fury I have toward those imbeciles. My face burns in rage, and without thinking, I let an enormous yell of anger escape my mouth.

"Donald!" yelps Hillary, and she puts a hand over her mouth in shock. "Your face is all red! Are you okay, darling?"

I try to speak, but no words come out. The vexation I have for the insignificant people who wrote those articles is immeasurable. The only thing I manage to let out is a choking noise; perhaps it'd do me well to shut my mouth for a few seconds and recollect myself. But the hatred of the photographers and journalists is too strong. I'm feeling faint, my head is pounding. Suddenly, I can barely breathe. I feel as if I may pass out–

✯ ✯ ✯

"W-what happened?" My voice trembles—which is most definitely a sign of weakness. I need to get my act together—and I am hushed by Hillary.

"Donald, you fainted. I was going to call the police—"

At once, she is interrupted by a knock on the door. "Shall I get that?" she inquires patiently.