THE SHOWER CURTAIN

He'd sworn it was the dog that came into the bathroom that morning while he showered but he couldn't be exactly sure.

But after he'd fallen badly and broken his foot, he worried his mind was playing tricks on him again. This had been a common pattern for him of late, questioning his own memory of things and in what sequence they occured.

Regardless of the pain, collapsed on the floor of the bathroom, he quite enjoyed the peace of just lying there with nothing of global concern to bother him for a short while. Perhaps this was the quickest way out of the White House, the office he'd once so badly desired, but now felt so completely and utterly overwhelmed by.

Timing is everything with history, and although he'd agreed to run for office back in 2019, he now regretted it. His mind had said yes but his body repeatedly said no. Still, he had been spurred on by persistent past and present colleagues close to him. Repeatedly assured he was the only one of the Democrat nominees who could wrest power from the 'Orange Hitler', who back then had scared half of America into believing he wouldn't relinquish the office he had nefariously gained, Joe felt compelled as a national duty to step up and Carpe Diem the son of a bitch.

Now, however, he felt the opposite way. He personally couldn't relinquish power fast enough, except the team around him simply wouldn't let him. They were basically holding him hostage. He was a prisoner of his own electoral success and could now be considered more a Manchurian Candidate than the all-American saviour he'd wanted to be all those decades earlier when he first decided to run for President.

Lying as still as a statue on the bathroom floor reminded him of being a child again, those innocent days of youth when you would lie in secret locations and zone out, drunk on the atmosphere of magical places where you could hide for hours.

He wished he could hide again for hours, but he was in the direct glare of the world's media now he commanded the most powerful office in the land.

Dreaming of those lazy pre-pubescent days in Delaware, New England which were positively elysian for him, he only wished he could have remained forever ten years old, buried in sand up to his head on those dune covered beaches where he'd spend days gazing toward the Atlantic ocean and admiring pretty girls that passed by.

But here he was on the floor of his bathroom, 78 years old with a broken foot and he felt kind of hopeless. Not even reminding himself he was President gave him much comfort.

"What are you doing down there, Mr President?" Jill asked, standing in the doorway of the bathroom.

Worried he'd say the wrong thing and add more concern to his wife's increasing stress, he went with his first story.

"Please don't make a fuss, Dr Jill. The dog came in and I pulled its tail is all."

"The dog is outside, Joe. He's been out with me in the garden all the time you been in here."

"He has?"

Joe felt unsettled by his increasingly fragmented relationship with reality. It felt as if his mind was now a glitchy computer that kept turning itself off and on again. The worst thing was relying on others to explain what was really going on. He hated the feeling he was losing control of his mind whilst still being aware he was being observed by everyone. They'd done well to keep his public appearances to a minimum lately, but the longer the gap in which he appeared before the world, the more questions were asked and pressure piled upon him to give the impression he was holding things together. It was an awful lot for a man of his age. He only wished he'd turned down all those pleas and bargains to run for President. He could now be enjoying idle days in the storybook countryside of Delaware, having day long picnics by the river. Instead, he had a pandemic to contend with, the numerous threats of rogue nations to say nothing of the constant internal fighting within the Democrat party. It hurt his head to think of it all. Sometimes, he even cried. That was when he appreciated how much of a mother his wife Jill had been to him. What would he have done without her, for chrissake? She kept him dosed up to the eyeballs with all the appropriate pills and potions to keep him going.

"Do you think you broke anything?"

"I think so. My foot. I can feel it throbbing."

Jill tutted.

"Don't move."

"Don't worry. I won't."

"I don't think we can afford for you to take showers alone anymore after this."

If it wasn't for being President, Joe wouldn't have minded being further infantalised by old age. But he still had pride he was holding onto. He only wished he'd held onto the shower rail as well.

After the first of the photos leaked of President Joe with his orthopaedic boot, he felt strangely relieved. He hated having to hide things. It made him feel even more of a senile fool.

And just to be clear, he often sternly told his staff he was nobody's fool.

He was, in fact, the President Of The United States of America.

But as he sat behind the famous desk in the Oval office and was brought up to speed by his Chief Advisor on national and international events, his mind began to wander again.

Replaying the events of the morning of the accident over in his mind he was convinced for sure he had seen that damn dog in the bathroom.

Besides, he thought to himself, even if it wasn't true, it was now the official line for the press office when reporters would inevitably ask about what exactly had happened.

And what did it harm anyone to not know the truth?

After all, this was the age of fake news.

People'll believe anything, he laughed to himself.