oh, mr president | H.S.

SIXTEEN: Whiskey Abuse

"Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power." - Abraham Lincoln

________________

S I X T E E N : Whiskey Abuse

"Please let me have another drink."

She was begging Chef Daniels for one single refill of tequila into her crystal glass cup. He had refused for the last three times she insisted, and it pained him to see her intoxication hitting a sudden rock bottom. Her clothing was disheveled and sloppily put together, which was unusual for the blonde curvaceous woman of such high beauty. He stored the liquor bottles on the top shelf as the president proposed, and avoided all her schemes of retrieving the alcohol.

"Ms. Kensington, I am not allowed to give you anything but food and water. You need to sober up," Chef Daniels advised as he observed the woman groaning and tossing her limbs about in a childish manner.

Her winter UGG boots dragged her frame to the elevator shaft, and sunk her finger into the button's spring. She awaited the metal compartment to drop to the basement level, and when it came, she trudged on to the carpeted area. The elevator traveled to the top floor of the West Wing, and into the spread of government employees who did not forget to criticize her outfit choice. Being intoxicated made anyone forget their surroundings, including judgmental individuals within the building.

There was no one to save the troubled woman from herself. There was Harry, but he was pre-occupied with running the country and could not help her as he might of wanted to. Charlotte was off on a charity trip with the Vice President and his team, and texting could never replace physical contact. She did not know about Ophelia's past, so texting her would be a waste.

Ophelia pulled open her office door, and plopped on the small couch in front of her desk. She laid there shrinking into her oversized sweatshirt, and the moment she closed her eyes, memories haunted her like a Halloween ghost. Her head snapped up from the cushion to lay staring at the wall with fear. When will she ever be able to move on from the trauma?

She repeated the night before; her knees pressed to her stomach as she cramped herself against the arm of the chair. The only person that distracted her from it was Harry, and she did not want to bother him more than she already has. There were no options.

Harry was bombarded with his subordinates layering paperwork and binders full of bills to be thought about, and other issues that have tramped into American soil. He could not get away for only one minute to talk with Ophelia, but he would find some time during a break in his busy schedule of meetings. He asked Lauren before if he could at least have fifteen minutes, but she replied, "I'm sorry, you are all booked up until three."

The date last night was successful, but this morning her hangover did not stop her from continuing to drink. He ordered for all alcohol to be put away until she sobered up. Harry let most of her antics slid because of her battling issues, but he did not want her to slid down a slippery slope to alcoholism.

"Harry, I found a spot for fifteen minutes," Lauren interjected herself into the president's office, leaning her shoulder to the door frame. "Fifteen minutes and that is all. You have a meeting with the prime minister of England."

        "Thank you, Lauren!" Harry stood from his chair, then sped past his best friend to see the condition of Ophelia.