Please, would you take a look at my short story The President, part five, and correct my mistakes.
The beautiful garden bathed in sunshine has a soothing effect on the President’s body and soul. He breathes deeply and fills his lungs with the scented air. He is invigorated and full of new thoughts. He is aware that the guards follow his every step, even if they are invisible, and that surveillance cameras monitor every centimetre of the garden, although they have no influence on the state of his mind.
“Good morning, Mr President,” he hears the gardener greeting him in his raspy voice and greets him back. “What a splendid day!” the gardener says, holding in his hand a red rose, pointing it towards the deep blue sky. “Beautiful,” the President says, and thinks about the old man who will soon receive his well-deserved pension and spend the rest of his life enjoying his hobbies of fishing and chess playing, as well as his grandchildren. Unlike him, the President will never be able to relax. Even when he is no longer in power, the establishment and the media will not leave him in peace.
They will want to hear him speaking, giving his opinions and predictions. They will mob him with their stupid questions and expect of him definitive answers which will solve their current problems. He will surely not disappoint them, but he will charge them the highest possible fees and then laugh at them. Not that he needs their money, but to see them part with their wealth which they value more than anything. After all, they do not see him as the leader of country, but as a means to accumulate more riches. They will approve of any war if it makes their bank accounts hefty. They will ignore any number of killed and wounded as long as it does not affect the financial market. They will invite him to dinners and parties to thank him and promise him their full support for any future war. And he will sit among them, pretending to be amiable and kind when inside him he has a deep aversion to the establishment. Being of humble origin, nothing was given him on a plate. His success has not come by chance or contacts but though his own hard work and sacrifices.
Strolling along the gravel path surrounded with splendid flowers and plants, the President feels contempt for his fellow human beings. Their behaviour is predictable, their feelings, beliefs and opinions easy to manipulate. One day they will fly all over the universe, and learn how to conquer death, but they will still respect the powerful and despise the weak. Although he is not a fortune-teller, he knows how they are going to react when they hear the news.
For some he will be a war criminal and for others a hero. There will be demonstration against him; they will call him a butcher, a callous killer, or even worse. And they will be demonstration in support of him. The media will invite so called experts who have never met him, but they will describe him a schizophrenic, psychopath, deranged and madman. There will be hundreds of news articles attacking him and demanding his resignation. There will be death threats and desperate men and women ready to kill him to forget their own miserable life. But he will stay steadfast and implacable, not because he is without feelings, but because he has learnt to suppress them. Nevertheless, they come up to the surface as nightmares which haunt him for years. When his pain becomes too difficult to bear, the President goes into the bathroom, turns the shower tap on full blast, sits on the bath mat and cries. He will need that bathroom many times soon. His heart is going to bleed as never before, and his pain almost unbearable. Grief-stricken mothers will come and ask him, “Where are our sons, Mr President?” They will stare at him, demanding answers, explanations and apologies. His face will become crimson and sweat gather on his forehead, but he will remain silent. After all, even God remains silent despite all prayers and questions.
To be continued.