He sits straight in his worn brown chair as his advisors enter his office. They did not knock. Before berating them, he notes the looks of concern evident on their faces and frowns. He throws his papers haphazardly on his already disheveled desk and stands.
“Mr. President, they’re coming.”
He freezes. A shock of frigid cold shoots through his veins. Gripping the sturdy wooden edges of his desk, he stumbles over his words before sputtering out a feeble “What?”
“They’re coming.” The advisors say in unison. Their eyes are wide and fearful.
“Declare a national emergency.” He throws his chair backwards and stumbles over his untied dress shoes. Shoving past the useless, terrified counselors, his heart threatens to burst out of his chest. They shouldn’t be here. How did they get in? His blood still pumps icy chills through his body as he tugs on the brass doorknob. It doesn’t budge. Why isn’t it moving?
“Watch out, Mr. President,” his secretary taunts. “They’re after you.”
He shoots a petrified look at her as he slams his hand on the door.
“This is useless!”
He slides down the door, shoes squeaking on the polished tile, and he curls inward, his eyes stinging with tears. He sobs into his knees, staining his grey suit with salty, terrified tears. They’re here. They’re here. His breath catches in his throat and he struggles to inhale. Chest heaving, he risks a glance upwards.
The faceless figure is standing before him. His assistants fade into the walls. The President stutters out futile denials as the figure cocks his head with a clear, ringing snap. The President, trembling, raises his chin.
“You’re not supposed to be here.” His voice steadies as he stares at the figure. “You’re a bad, bad person. And you’re in the wrong. I will have you sued. You have no power against me.”
“I have no power?” The figure jeers. “So why are you, the President of the United States of America, weeping on the floor like a child?”
“I-I-” He stammers, his blood still pumping thunder. The oppressive silence of his office amplifies every sound and he wonders why the alarms haven’t gone off yet. Does anyone know that he’s in danger?
Step. Step. The floorboards creak under the figure’s dark shoes.
“I’m not here to kill you. That would be too quick for what you’ve done. No, I’m not letting you off the hook that easily.”
The President cries out in terror. The piercing sound echoes through the otherwise silent office. Step. Creak. Step. The figure is a mere two feet away now. Could it hear his heartbeat? Could it hear his blood thrumming through his veins?
“You can’t do this! I haven’t done anything!”
The figure reaches a scaly finger out to graze the President’s temple. Its fingernail digs a red trail into his skin and he shrieks.
Suddenly, the President’s vision fills with red; blood? Anger? He slams his fist into the figure’s arm and throws a wild punch at its face. It calmly steps back. Step. Creak.
“Well, I always knew you were weak, but not formless!” The figure laughs gleefully. “There’s so much I could teach you!” Its laugh fades. “Too bad I’m only here to punish you.”
The President struggles to his feet. “You are going to leave. And never come back here,” he says in a measured, cold voice, “You have no right to terrorize me. I am in control.”
“I am in control.” The room fades around him.
“I am in control.” The figure sputters uselessly.
“I am in control.” The President shuts his eyes tight, forcing the last bitter tears out.
I am in control.