Please, would you take a look at the third part of my short story The President and correct my mistakes.
It is a great feeling to know that there are people around who support him, who appreciate his sacrifices and his patriotism. It is because of them he will never give up as long as he breathes and has blood running in his veins. He carefully folds the paper and puts it aside. At the same moment, as if through an invisible signal, the waiter enters the room carrying a silver tray with the breakfast. The president thanks him and then inhales deeply the smell of earl grey tea flowing through the spout of the white ceramic teapot into his cup.
He skilfully peels his boil egg, slice it elegantly with a knife and, with his thumb and index finger, pick them up one after the other and put them into his mouth. He drinks the tea, which is always without sugar, and proceeds to cut a bread roll in half. He first spreads the butter on the soft surface and on it pomegranate marmalade. He bites into the bread and chews it. It is rather a mechanical, repetitive and tedious process, even for the leader of the state, so the President’s eyes wander to the window where he can see his gardener pruning the roses. They are crimson red, and the President stops chewing for a while. The scene is symbolic. Pure coincidence or a message from some unknown power? Red like communism, like sun, like cherries, like blood. The last word evokes his childhood memories and the day when a boy stopped him on the street and slapped him in the face without warning.
The boy was tall and strong and known in the area as a troublemaker, but the future president did not hesitate for a moment to respond. He hit the boy with full force right in the nose, breaking it. Shocked by the damage he had caused, he wished he had not it hit him so hard, because blood spurted and splattered all over and the boy’s face became a contorted mask, which he did not dare to look at. The boy was screaming as if someone was cutting his body parts, trying in vain to stop the blood with his fingers, which seemed to be pouring out of every pore of his face. He wanted to help him in some way, at least to tell him a few kind words to alleviate his pain, but he knew that showing any feelings would mean weakness. So he simply walked away without turning his head, pokerfaced and calm, as if nothing had happened. However, after the incident he was known as a boy not to be trifled with.
To be continued