oh, mr president | H.S.

TWENTY EIGHT: Say Something

"The man who is swimming against the stream knows the strength of it." - Woodrow Wilson

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T W E N T Y E I G H T : Say Something

"We have some news to share with you."

        Harry's heart was a strangulating collision. He was contracting air he could not breathe, and loosing each strand of his lucidity for reality subconsciously. He knew that being the president was his number one responsibility, but he could not hold on to a brave, unshaken expression for long.

       The doctor's face did not have a simper for positive news or a frown for negative tragedies. He was neutral as his fingers spread along the brim of his surgical, cloth hat.

        "Ms. Kensingtonーwe managed to save her," The doctor reported with his head nodding in victory, "She is breathing as we speak, but she can not see visitors right now. It is up to her body to wake up from her sleep." 

        "B-but, I saw her," Charlotte interjected, "being rolled away!"

        "After we completed the fourth time of the defibrillator, we switched an extreme voltage machine," The doctor was proud of his accomplishment. You could tell in his smile, and body posture that was straightening his vertebrae. "We got a heartbeat then, and switched her to the intensive care unit."

        Harry comprehended all the information and absorbed it like a sponge. His insides were able to function again, and muscle up the will to smile. The ends of his mouth wigged and whimpered as he was delighted that the lady of his life is still here. There is so much he would like to say or proclaim to her, squeeze her palm that was enriched with warm blood flow.

        "S-she's alive. . ." Charlotte wanted to say the news from her own lips, identify emotionally and physically with the fact that Ophelia, her best friend, is alive. She wasn't mourning any longer; she was joyously clinging to Niall's body with leap. "She's alive! My best friend is alive!" She said when she came to the realization.

        Ophelia's memories inside of Harry were revolutionizing from the monochromatic filter, to vibrant ashes of pigment. Being restored to its  vintage value for him to flip through like a picture album for pleasure. He could now fathom how her skin would feel, and have the ability to gaze his fingertips against its supple texture. He could imagine the life he would have with her, and not think of it as a regret, but as a virtuous, rich future.

        The doctor sauntered away from the celebratory group of loved ones for Ophelia, and resumed his normal night shift as a dignified medical professional. A dignified medical professional that was determined and stead fast on saving lives.

"I-I have to get her flowers, the best kind!" Droplets of delirious happiness dropped from his enthralling, sparkling kaleidoscopes of green, glistening with the water's translucency. Ophelia's favorite flower was a Southern Magnolia from Louisiana. He could recollect the story of when Angela picked up her from school, and bordered the family's private jet to travel to Louisiana. She fell in love with the magnolias instantly when they ventured through a garden, and smothered her face in a bouquet of them. Harry was gleeful that he was in love with her; he could flip through all her favorite things without hesitancy.

"She likes Southern Magnoliasー"

"Southern Magnolias, I know," Harry's hilarity mixed with Charlotte's. Somehow, they knew more than the average person about Ophelia. "I would like to buy them and bring them to her when she wakes up."