Can a painting really control our dreams and affect RL. In some cases, let us hope so!
|***Word count 1925***
"What does Trump want with is cleaning out this old cellar anyway?
Questioned a man in a black suit who now was covered in a thick layer of dust.
"Probably to hide more bodies in," The man with him joked. "Nah, we supposed to find some piece of art he heard rumours that were stashed in here over seventy-five years ago because some sprit haunted it."
After hours of searching the dimly lit room, lit only by a single light build, one of the men cheered.
"I think I found it!" as he gently pulled out a horrific-looking with photo and brushed the dust off with a hand.
"Well, no wonder he wanted it so bad look at the family resemblance." the man in black joked as they dragged it into the right light in the hallway.
Trump stood back in the Oval Office, admiring the art piece and wondering where it should be placed. Part of him felt it should be on display for everyone to see because he thought it was a perfect example of the white house censoring great works of art. Though since he was a selfish ass, he knew exactly where to put it. He picked up his phone and barked some orders before hanging up again.
"I've got a picture in here with me that you must hang up in the presidential bedroom now!"
Trump sat his far ass back in his chair behind the resolute desk. He knew he didn't belong there, but that was the people who voted for him. He was the President again and would soon be for another found more year thanks to the "Cult of Trump," Two individuals came into the room with a dolly to load the picture up.
"Where you want this boss?" one of the workmen asked.
"Across from my bed so I can admire it before I fall asleep." Trump chirped like an overgrown grey rat commonly found in Mexico.
"I'm taking that with me if they ever get me out of here, but my next term, I plan to make it, so there is no limit on terms. " Trump thought as he reached under his desk and pulled out a bucket of greasy fried chicken. The Idiot believed this was healthy for him, but coming from the same man who cleaned, we should shoot up bleach to control the current pandemic; well, His advice he gives should be taken lightly.
That night Trump laid in bed, flipping through news channels to see who talked about him most because even though he claimed he only watched fox. He truly did love CNN, not the channel, but he had this secret love attraction to Chris Cuomo. Trump secretly wished he could have as many fans as him. He often wondered if they had met in better circumstances, could they have been lovers? It was too late now, couldn't show favour; they were all fake media.
Trump rolled himself into the middle of the bed like a beached whale. This was his favourite place to sleep since the "First Lady" stopped sharing a bed with him over two years. He looked up at this beautiful piece of art he acquired today. For a minute, he even thought he saw a little bit of family resemblance in the picture.
Surrounded by fried chicken bones and cheeseburger wrappers, Trump fell asleep in awe of the painting. The heart attack waiting to happen fought a war in him that even the devil in the hell didn't want him. Rumour is that he sold his soul to the almighty dark lord back as a teenager. (Which is you think about it explains a lot)
Trump's dreams that night started off as they did every night. As a little boy, he chased his father for attention that was being deflected towards his older brother—the family's great hope. He yearned for love from his father so much that he cried deeply in his dreams. His dreams would then switch to how his father had struck him in the awful school where he was beaten for months by other cadets; he would beg to come home.
The dream would usually end around here, but instead, he found him sitting in grandmother's kitchen with her. There were two cups before them of a dark earl gray tea. His grandmother sipped her tea and look at him deeply before speaking.
"Well, Donny boy, you really screwed up this time. Now the world is crumbling, you people are dying, and you sit on your ass all day hiding in the office of your eating fried chicken."
Trump's eyes began to tear up, and before he could continue on, his grandmother continued to speak.
"Your father always thought you were a disappointment, so did the rest of the family. Always having to bail you out of your mistakes. It should have been you dying instead of your brother Freddie; at least he had people who truly loved him."
"But grandma..." Trump stumbled.
"No, buts, listen here, you have the blood of thousands on your hands. No matter what you do, you created one of the largest mass murders in history. All because you had to be a toddler playing an adult. Shame on you! Do the world, kill yourself now. The world is really better off without!"
Trump snapped away, soaked in a cold sweat. He did a quick look around the make sure the scene from his dream was gone. He was shaken visibly, and the rest of the night, he just spent it channel surfing news channels to see what was being said about him.
He went for breakfast that morning, per usual his son ignored him while he ate, his so-called wife barely acknowledged he was there; his day went about pretty much the same as usual. Eating hidden chicken, threaten world peace, claiming the media was out to get him. A typical day for him marked by his famous words "Fake News,"
That night Trump went to be again. Alone as there no surprise there. As Trump rolled across his nightly mess of chicken bones, burgers and diet coke, his obese body screamed in pain because it wasn't made for that much exercise. He needed a smaller bed or something. Less wheezing when moving. He laughed to himself as he finally thought why people called him a pumpkin because he was orange. ; they would really call him one if they saw he rolled around like one too.
He looked up his newest piece of the arm again as he fell asleep. He felt peaceful until he found himself back in his grandmother's kitchen also. Two bone white china cups sat on the table, steaming as if his arrival was expected. His grandma took out a pan of hot cookies, not one of the ones he liked.
"They were Freddie's favourite," she spoke as almost reading his mind. "Why have you come back, my chubby Donny. They not feeding you enough at that expensive white house you live at?"
"Yes... Perfectly fine, everything I want. I don't know why I am here again." Trump whimpered, defeated
"I'll tell you why yo back. This is a safe space for you or you think but my dear grandson, you will get no comfort here. Don't you see you are a killer? There is no comfort for someone like you. I see the blood-stained on your hands. They drip with it. Look at what you did to my table and my good china!"
Trump looked down at his hands and wiped them furiously on his pyjamas.
"Donny boy, my sweet fallen angel, that blood is never going to come off." His grandmother continued. "You're stained for life. For life." His grandmother let out a bone-chilling even laugh.
She continued on. "This blood will always be on your hands, you knew how deadly this virus was going to be, but all you cared is playing politics, destroying a legacy that would have you prepared for something like this. You instead put that tail between your ass, let millions get sick and Omg, Donald. The innocent deaths, those kids who died from it."
"I've been trying to make everything right," Trump whispered.
"A little too little and a little too late. You want to be President again Donny, Your better off jumping off a bridge and plummeting into the cold water. You'll drown and be dead in minutes. You're a big boy now; you know the mess you created. Do you even have any sympathy for those outside your walls suffering?
"No Ma'am," A defeated Trump said.
"I got the perfect place for you to see tonight."
Trump followed his weary grandmother up a set of stairs he had never seen before. She stopped at the top of there, and there was a door never seen before.
"This is the room of memories; once this door closes, you will not be able to exit till you have dealt with all these memories, the good and the bad." his grandmother explained.
Trump stepped into the blackness of the room and heard the door slam behind him. Flashes from his childhood, starting zipping into his mind. All the bad things he did to his siblings, all the lies. His teen lies came into the picture. Everything bad or mean he has ever said or done was inundating his senses. He was being overwhelmed. Memories he suppressed, all these memories. Was this hell? He cried out for someone to make it stop, but these memories just kept assaulting him.
"Make it stop!!!" Trump screamed over and over.
The more he screamed, the worse it got.
Then it suddenly stopped, and a woman's voice spoke to him from the dark. She stepped out of the darkness. It was the woman in the painting.
"There is only one way to make this end." the voice said.
"How?" Trump begged.
A gun was tossed into his hands.
"Just one bullet to the head in there, the pain will go away, and you can function normally again." The voice explained some more.
Slowly Trump looked at the gun in his hards, and he grasped it clumsily when he went to hold it. He raised the gun slowly to the temple on his head.
"I can't do this." He cried pitifully.
"Do it now or be damned here forever." The voice commanded.
Trump pulled back slowly on the trigger, crying with every breath.
The world fell black—no more memories. There was nothing.
"We take you to the White House this morning, where it seems that Our dear President has been found dead. Sources say of a self-inflicted gunshot to the head. This is a very sombre day for the Nation." A reporter reported from in front of the white house.
First, a god awful picture was brought out and thrown in an industrial waste bin. It looked almost burnt from the reporter's angles.
Everyone watched anxiously for the body to be removed from the White House so intently that they didn't notice the increasing amount of reptiles appearing at their feet. They wheeled the gurney carrying Trump's body out slowly. They stopped because the zipper on the body bag had become loose and his head became exposed. Out of the gaping hole in his head, a vast frog appeared.
In a chorus of a million forms suddenly speaking English, For miles, all that could heard was,
"Long live our Frog King; we shall rule again!"