oh, mr president | H.S.

TWENTY: Thin Lines and Tight Ropes

"The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable." - James A. Garfield

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T W E N T Y : Thin Lines and Tight Ropes

        She was weary. Her knees were crackling from the pressure of her weakened body while her lungs did not distribute oxygen correctly. Her breathing was irregular, but she did not draw attention to the beginning of her anxiety attack. Her fingernails dug deep into her pale palm, scratching at the surface and possibly leaving marks behind.

        Elizabeth Yang was indeed a devilish woman; what human being could empty out someone else's personal life on national television without losing their sanity first? There were a thousand words, emotions, and questions in Ophelia's head, but her nude lips were pressed together like a mother pinching a child's skin in discipline.

        "Ophelia Kensington. The daughter of the socialite and political figure, Richard Kensington. She attended one of the finest universities in the country, and graduated at the top of her class. Within two years, she was employed at the biggest law firm in Cambridge, along with being the speech writer for the president of the United States. You would think her childhood was full of boarding schools, and fine dining, but that is far from the truth," Elizabeth reported, hitting Ophelia with each word like a tiny stick pin to the chest. "Her mother, Valerie Morgan, first held custody of her daughter. Teachers from her former schools inform us that Ophelia would often come to parent-teacher meetings alone, but they would know what was actually going."

         Oh, no, Ophelia thought, she's going to tell it all. The moisture from her throat disappeared in thin air and she was left to fight for every breath her lungs inhaled. Everything blurred into doubles, fuzzy images that she could no longer make out. Her hand slammed to the edge of Lauren's wooden desk, gasping and panting to open up her passage ways.

        The startling sound of her hand to the thick wood alerted Harry instantly. His head snapped seeing Ophelia lose her balance and the alignment of her steps. She trickled to the floor, and Harry jumped to her rescue. Lauren freaked out and darted for her receiver where her fingers rapidly punched in the three digit emergency number.

       "Yes! I need an ambulance at the White House please! Someone is having an severe anxiety attack!" Lauren's begging and negotiating with the operator funneled in and out of Ophelia's ears like she was in some sort of tunnel.

        Harry's faint whispers for her to remain calm did not help entirely, but as his hands pressed to her soft cheek and sang his sweet lullabies, her body did not bend with violence repeatedly. She was hushed into her black abyss, her world closed for business temporarily.

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        Ophelia caught her breath, jumping out of her sleep. She frantically observed the room, and how there were a lack of bodies within it. From the springs underneath her butt, she concluded that was on a mattress. The scent of the room was familiar and she decoded the mystery location as Harry's bedroom. The darkness and the slight sheer of light from the blinds helped her to realize that it was in the dead of night. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed over and over again until her breathing was normal.

         To her right, the sheets were sunk in. The person was missing, but their shape remained in the fabric. On the girth of her thighs, she was no longer wearing the sweatpants from earlier. Her body was wrapped in one of his KISS tee shirts that she found weird inside of his closet, and a pair of white underwear. She awkwardly ran her palms to the skin of her thighs, then heard the bed creak when she maneuvered where the soles of her feet met with the wood below.