It is a somber day in the White House built on my son's blood still rusting on a lonely stage in Springfield, Washington, still nestled over Mellie's dress, my tie. Wine glasses clink; scotch is spilt; Cyrus is in the campaign room victory dancing to Green Day. A somber day indeed. My son died last night and this is all those blasted politicians and opportunists can think of—Republican supremacy. I should scold them. I'm the leader of the free world. I have that right. Instead, there's a cracked door at the end of one of the East Wing's various vestibules, and I'm staring at it with little remorse; it is far removed from all the news reports, statistics, and polls. Light emanates from the gaps. I can hear the high octave of Teddy's carefree laugh, loud and striking from even where I stand listening, smiling slightly. It only hits me—I only realize it—when I continue to approach, as I savor the cheer in his tone: Teddy will grow up without a single memory of his older brother. He is too young. Jerry was too young. I feel old.

The door continues its path open with a single nudge on my part. Teddy is sitting on the carpeted floor with his legs sprawled outwards. A pile of large legos sits before him in a messy mountain. He picks a few up at random and proceeds to throw them down; a giggle accents the clinking of the toys. He likes this game, whatever in the world it is. He doesn't even look up to greet me.

To the left of the toddler is Karen, who watches her younger brother soberly and with tired, grooved eyes. She has stolen one of my ratty Navy t-shirts and is wearing nothing but that, revealing spindly, tan legs that are pulled to her chest; she acts as though this is a normal thing to do in a political palace full of proper dignitaries—go around half-naked and in boxer-cut underwear, no less. I applaud her audacity; I find it quite endearing, too—how little she cares. She is her mother's daughter through-and-through. I lean down and kiss Teddy's forehead on the way to her side. I gently lower myself down to her right. My knee brushes hers.

"Hey." She doesn't look at me when she says it. Teddy continues to play with his blocks, occasionally peering over to check on us. He's an inquisitive, little tyke. He likes to know everything that's going on.

"Hey yourself." A smile tugs at the corner of Karen's lips; it trembles a bit at the top. Mine is equally reluctant. My jaw is stiff. I work to loosen it. I wish to unhinge the words trapped on my palate, but they're stuck and rather cliché. This is unfamiliar territory for the both of us. We haven't visited it in so long. Talking. Acting as a father and daughter normally would. She doesn't look at me. Her focus remains on Teddy. He is no longer enamored by blocks; his tiny eyes scan the room for a more interesting amusement. We sit in silence for a little while longer. Karen shifts her legs.

"He said that Teddy was a political move," she says, rushing through her words before tacking another few to the end. "Jerry did." Her fingers twitch. She is nervous.

I don't say anything; I don't want to let her know she is right, that her brother is just a sham, a figment of America's imagination. I want my little girl to still believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. (Though I accidentally ruined those illusions for the kids a few years ago; Jerry found the receipt to Karen's Christmas bike.)

"Seems like my whole life is. At school, they expect us to be shining examples of good kids. We're supposed to get the best grades and give the best performances." She glances my way once. I meet her eyes levelly; they are a dark brown, clear and velvety, full of injury. "I guess I learned from the best."

Monologuing skills—also from Mellie. I continue my silence. I let her speak. She brushes a long strand of sandy hair from her face, tucks it behind her ear.

"I don't wanna pretend anymore. I don't wanna pretend like everything's fine. Not this time."

Not this time.

I freeze.

I can't find my voice for awhile. It is swimming in the implications of her words. Teddy has found a new occupation; he rolls a toy car back and forth against the ground. The wheels are muffled in the carpet.

"Is that what you do, Karen?" Please say no. "Do you pretend like everything's alright?" Do you lie to protect me?

"Yes, Daddy."

I am just like Big Jerry. Something inside me breaks. I feel the edges of whatever dignity I have left, crumble. The tightness in my chest further coils. I was supposed to protect this little girl; that day in the hospital, when I first held her sleeping form in my arms, I promised to keep her heart from breaking at all costs. I promised to be her daddy. She isn't supposed to be strong for me, for the family. She isn't supposed to carry that burden.

But they all have, haven't they? Mellie? Cyrus? Olivia? Karen? They've—

I've failed as a father. I didn't hide Karen from the monsters; I didn't hide her from me. I forced her into a world where she pretends to smile, where she pretends to like school; I'm making a machine, not a girl.

"I'm sorry, Karen." I can't muster weight behind the words; I can't sound sincere. My throat tightens; I can't say anything to help. How can I? How can I erase the pain? "I'm so sorry."

"He was my best friend."

My shoulders fall.

"I know."

Karen sinks into my arms. I pull her close to my chest; I tangle my fingers in her hair, holding on for dear life. Her shoulders shake.

"He was my best friend."

—

Tom and Hal guard the Presidential Suite tonight. Ever the professionals, they stand at least ten inches away from the wall; they are not lazy agents; they would rather take back pains than be caught slacking. They're good men. Noble men. Uncompromising.

"Tom. Hal," I greet, stopping at the double doors. They are firmly closed; they look as though they've been this way for awhile.

"Good evening, Mr. President."

"Is the First Lady alright? Has she said anything?"

Hal, short and strongly made, looks up to meet my eyes; his own are laced with sympathy as he shakes his head in the negative.

"No, Mr. President. She hasn't said anything."

"Is she asleep?"

"I'm not exactly sure, sir."

I nod in reply, but my stare returns to the doors. I should go in and check on her; it's been a few hours since I had last done so. I'm apprehensive though. My muscles tighten and every primal instinct I own tells me to run the other way, to Olivia and Vermont. I don't want to see what's on the other side of the door. I don't want to see a broken Mellie. It gives me incentive to stay.

"I can knock if you would like me to, sir," Tom offers. I realize I had taken my time staring.

"No thank you." I inch a step closer, my left hand coming to a halt at the door handle. "I can do this."

"Of course you can, sir."

The handle bends under my fingers and the door opens with the pressure I gently apply; the hinges creak and I stop. I opt to just slide into the room, my shirt pressing against the white panels as I go. Strains of yellow light from the hallway ease into the suite with me, pervading the darkness that once held dominion. It is cold in here. I could probably see my breath if I tried. I shut the door behind me, then turn on a lamp with a nearby switch.

Mellie is not in the room.

I look for indications as to her whereabouts. She couldn't have left. Tom and Hal would have told me.

There is an indent where she had once laid on the bed; it conformed to her slim figure; it seems stagnant though, like she hasn't been there in awhile. A scotch glass sits empty on her bedside table. Her high-heels are neatly positioned at the corner of the bed. There is a tray of untouched food on the dresser.

The bathroom door is open.

I take a step towards it, but a thud has me running. I flick the light switch. My head swivels to locate the source of the noise. It is Mellie. She is sitting in the shower fully dressed, wearing her dress from last night. Jerry's blood splotches the front with a sickly crimson.

"Mellie," I breathe. I rush to her side. The shower hatch is open. I'm able to kneel beside her; I take her hand. It is white, pale, and covered with spidery veins.

"I wanted to take a shower," she explains. There is a distant quality to her voice; it is like I am hearing her through a glass wall. It is not assertive and full of life. It is not Mellie's voice. "I need to get the blood off." She doesn't look at me. She stares at the water nozzle; her blue eyes have a mistiness to them. They are covered in fog.

"Can I help you?" I begin rubbing circles into her hand; I remember she used to like that. "Do you want me to help you, Mellie?"

She shrugs; her eyes close. The grooves underneath them are more pronounced now. I begin to slip the sleeves of her jacket from her arms. I slide one arm under her back to prop her up; she is deadweight. She isn't all too keen on helping.

"Did you get any sleep?" She opens her eyes to glare at me, and I finally notice the red capillaries coating the whites. Mellie's drunk. This little Southern Belle has drunk herself into oblivion. I should have poured out those hooch bottles her father sent weeks ago. Who knows what that hillbilly put in them? "Bad question, I see."

I go to zip her down, but the sight of dry blood stops me. It cakes her neck and mats her hair. It is our son's.

"How did this get here, Mellie?" I can see her undergarments now. I'm careful not to pinch her soft skin as I zip downwards. Her muscles are loose with inebriation. "The blood?"

She is silent for a moment. I take this opportunity to gently stand her up. Her head rolls back. Her feet slip from under her. Mellie is not a graceful drunk, either. I begin to pull the dress down. It is resistant and stiff. It's not an easy process, no thanks to her.

"I held his hand. Didn't want him to be alone." Her syllables are broken now; she is stumbling through the words. "His hands were bloody, but I held the left one because I didn't want him to be alone."

A single tear slips down her face; it drips onto her bloodied neck.

Vermont becomes an impossibility is this very moment.

A/N: Thank you for all the kind reviews. I enjoyed reading them and duly appreciated them.