oh, mr president | H.S.

TWENTY THREE: Drunk and Dumb

"Great lives never go out; they go on." - Benjamin Harrison

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T W E N T Y T H R E E : Drunk and Dumb

        Churning in the limousine, fingers dangerously close to snatching the short, blonde strands from her roots. Echoes of the memories tipping into her already overflowing glass, the liquid sorrow spilling over the rim. She felt like she was going psycho, and the tiny voices and whispers intensifying into loud, pounding sounds against her eardrums. She wanted them to stop; she wanted her life to resume to the boring one she had before she took her job. Before her life was struck down with lightening.

        Ophelia wanted to overthrow the voices. Her screams were bloodcurdling like nails sliding down a chalkboard with evil intentions. Her head dropped between her knees, and the pitch bouncing off the leather. It alarmed Harry, and by the expression on his face, he did not know how to handle her behavior. Of course he knew something like that would occur, but he had no inclination how to prepare for the outburst. Harry acknowledged that her strong, ambitious personality was not able to withstand the secrets people were keeping from her. 

        "Ophelia, babyー"

        "I don't want to be here anymore!" Ophelia snapped her neck to ensure Harry could hear every word and understand that she meant it. Being alive . . .was not worthy the fight.

        "Don't say that, don't say that baby," Harry murmured to her, his lengthy arms to surround her inner demons and drown them in his optimism, even though he only had one percent of happiness inside. "We can get through this. Together."

        "N-no. . ." She denied his suggestion because it was clear that she could not hold up her side of such a senile word. She couldn't do it, and she did not want him to wait around to experience her failure. "Harry, please don't make me. . .I-I can't. . ."

         To paint the salty tears on her face was painful to Harry. He despised the appearance of them and her falling apart. He cradled her in his arms in defeat of words as his own eyes leaked from everything toppling over from the highest shelf. Ophelia's fingernails dragged his button up's fabric and she couldn't hold her screams inside.

        "Mr. Presidentー" Victor was about to offer some advice, but Harry's frustrated grunt shut him up.

         "Please do not call me that," Harry grunted, "I am not meant to be. . .that."

         Victor was not intimidated by the president at all. In fact, he considered him a close friend over the last year of driving him during campaign rallies, and fundraising events. He could clearly see that something tragic happened in the Styles' family home, and he couldn't stand to see Harry in that form. Especially not Ophelia, the bright sunshine ray in his often nebulous sky. The limousine cruised to the side of the street, easing to a slow, steady stop.

         "Sir, I don't know what exactly happenedーand I would rather not knowーbut, I will be here regardless if you are not meant to be president. Whatever that may mean," Victor's eyes was seen from the rear view mirror, gazing at Harry with the upmost seriousness. "Now, for the young maiden, we need to take her to a calm place. Do you have any ideas?"

         "I-I have an summer home of my own that no one knows about." Harry remembered his very first adult purchase after completing law school. He wanted to treat himself, buy something where he could go when the sirens of the world got more complicated than usual. The visits piled up when Xavier's abuse started, and he even planted half of his closet inside. Part of his morning routine was to stuff the metal key to the home into his suit pocket.