oh, mr president | H.S.

SEVENTEEN: Punches and Stars to the Heart

"I feel incompetent to perform duties... which have been so unexpectedly." - Andrew Johnson

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S E V E N T E E N : Punches and Stars to the Heart

Warning: This chapter contains material for mature audiences. You have been warned.

        Unidentifiable bruises, decorated with violet and dark red, were stared deeply into by Ophelia's judgmental and senile eyes. The pads of her calloused fingertips dragged across each one as she stared into the mirror within Harry's bedroom. He was fast asleep; he was taking care of her all day and handling the free world within the twenty four hours Ophelia insisted to be removed from the hospital.

         Whenever the president wasn't focused on her (which was limited), she would scribble across her notepad and finish the speech she did not bother to finish since everything had transpired one after another. She did not properly evaluate her emotions like a normal person should have, but she would rather bottle herself up instead of releasing it pointlessly. Her pen flashed between the lines as the vision Harry wanted to create was established in her thoughts. Harry's shuffling caused her to pause writing, and place her pen to the notebook as he began to notice her body's removal from the space beside him.

        "Ophelia?" He panicked, jerking his body for the mattress to search for where she had gone. In the darkness of night, Harry's frantic state was seen, and Ophelia sighed heavily in the air.

        "Harry, I'm here. Go back to sleep," She growled.

        "Where are you? Are you on the floor? Are you hurt?" His questions were shot right after another, preventing her from answering them. "Please come back to bed."

        "Alright, alright." Ophelia figured she would go with his demands. He was rather persistent for the last two days, and she did not want to start another argument that would add to the others they've had already. "I'm coming you dork."

        The bruises did prevent her from walking normally because of the pain, but it was nothing a few aspirins could not fix. Her thighs wobbled to her bedside, and she crawled into the sheets. Harry felt the bed weigh down, and he adapted as his arms to circle around her proudly. He was protecting her, and that's what he desired most to do.

        "Have you stopped freaking out yet?" She murmured to his chest that was inked with hidden tattoos that only a few individuals knew of. Her finger traced about over the markings in the low light that the moon light provided through the blinds.

        "Yes, I have, now that you are beside me. That's all I want, Ophelia," Harry admitted as he circled his fingers around her waist. Her body was adorned in a sports bra and black lace underwear that he was addicted to looking at indefinitely, but he had to remind neutral for Ophelia's sake.

         She kept silent. That's what Harry was used to since she left the hospital. She would include herself into conversations here and there, but it was not how they were use to communicating. He found it completely unhealthy how she never reacted to the incident; there was only confusion and her passing off humor as a defense mechanism. He worried that if she did not eject what she is feeling that one day, she will explode and he could potentially be the victim.

         "I would like for you to empty yourself out," He suggested, leaning to glance at the digital clock that read 3:34 a.m. on a Friday morning. He adjusted to sit Indian style in front of her, and align her frame with his. "You need to let everything out, babe."