by Barron Trump
Hello, all, though I don’t believe I need to introduce myself. I’m certain you’ve seen my face before, my young uncertain steps and my family’s recent ascension to the White House. I do have one request — I hate to impose, but I must — to make of you, the United States.
I would like to go home, please.
This is a place of boundless sorrow. There was never much joy here, and what remained has quickly been dissolved in spiteful acid. On a dare from my step-sister I searched “cock-fighting” on the Internet; those are happier lives, if only because one of them is allowed to die. It is not enough to compose petty, meaningless metaphor — you must know the inhabitants of this nightmare.
Every morning I walk in on Mr. Bannon and Reince (he insists I refer to him as “Mr. Priebus,” but this sickens me) fist-fighting over who gets to run the Oval Office that day. Mr. Bannon hits harder, but he tires quickly — I assume the drooping jowls and the half-eaten pulled pork sandwich still clenched in his mouth makes it difficult to breathe. Reince, though more nimble, strikes as if made of styrofoam, and so often falters underneath meaty blows. On the occasions when Mr. Bannon loses, he sulks to the restroom and, every time, gets his foot caught in the toilet, thrashing about and calling the basin the “k-word” (I am not allowed to swear here) until his foot is freed or he smashes a cheekbone against the stall. However, I have reason to believe he does not have a traditional skeletal structure, as this exact scenario has occurred dozens of times with no apparent lasting damage.
On more than one occasion I have found Mr. Carson standing perfectly still in a darkened utility closet, obviously lost but totally unfazed, happily humming soft, low tonal pitches as he looks into space. I shut the door and carry on.
Mr. Spicer is prodded from his cage around ten and forced into a prepared suit within the hour. He only understands the law of the club; I have watched dozens of White House interns struck down, bleeding limbs torn, mutilated, and throats ripped open by his glistening, dripping maw, before Mr. Spicer is finally beaten into submission. Once sedated, he is given the day’s talking points and practices shrieking into a mirror until it is time to confront the press. Once finished, he is corralled back behind the curtain and goaded into the cage. Of course Mr. Spicer does not want to spend another second behind these cold iron bars. But he must, so he is beaten unconscious by a fresh crop of cudgel-wielding interns, stripped naked and flung like a discarded doll onto the damp straw coating the floor of the cage.
One or both of my half-brothers, along with Mr. Kushner, will openly stare at me as they plan a covert attack on a Yemeni wedding, mouths slightly agape and breathing heavily. Asking any question, favor, or other inquisition of them incites no response, just slightly increased panting.
Mrs. Conway treats me kindly, but she only appears when you believe you are the only person in the room. I will be sitting in a chair, mapping out strategies for my Minecraft server, when I turn to be immediately met with her dried-out visage. She is smiling, but with the strain of someone who is only, just now, learning how to convey emotion. I excuse myself from the meeting room only to run into her in the hallway. I will politely stride past her but Mrs. Conway’s gaze never breaks. Her head pivots so that, no matter where you are, she is always looking at you.
Mr. Christie lives in a dumpster behind the White House proper. I am the only one who knows. Yes, others have “seen” him, but no one else has ever acknowledged his existence, let alone his physical presence. People will open the lid, dump the full contents of a bin directly on Mr. Christie’s head, politely close the lid, and step back inside as if they had not just witnessed a grown man rolling among raw chicken, toenail clippings, dead bugs and used tissues with a fervent, almost spiritual euphoria. The custodial staff speaks of a large rodent infesting the garbage. How little they understand. To their credit Mr. Christie does eat the garbage. He has accomplished the inhuman task of gaining weight on a strict garbage diet; I know for a fact he has had to change dumpsters after collapsing two under his sheer girth. Yet, the most remarkable part is that Mr. Christie is not a prisoner. He is free to come and go as he wishes, and will often leave to speak about policy on news networks or relieve himself in an Olive Garden restroom. But every time he chooses to return, chooses to lumber back into his dumpster and commix with its putrid filth. In a broken house, he is the most destroyed.
Mr. Miller takes residence in the Roosevelt Room and drowns newborn puppies in a large metal bucket. I do not know where he acquires them nor do I think he has been ordered to do this. He watches each pup’s eyes as the life drains away and its spirit is, in his words, cast down to the house of death. Once I asked if I could have one of his puppies, since it seemed he did not want them. Mr. Miller chuckled and said to leave him to his play.
Finally I will warily step into my father’s new office. Sometimes he will frantically search the desk for the button which triggers a drone strike. Sometimes he will be at his phone, screaming about last night’s Apprentice ratings as Mr. Bannon, flesh still coarse from the fist-fight, works through a draft to make it illegal for Muslim-Americans to purchase kitchenware. Mr. Ryan will smile at me from across the room, gently twirling a coin minted with the portrait of Ayn Rand on the face; there is nothing behind his eyes. Most times my father is looking deeply into a small, golden hand-mirror gifted to him by his father. Unlike the other dozen mirrors he owns, however, he does not use this one to fix or judge his appearance. He glares into it, as if something is through the mirror’s glass, and eventually recoils and hurls the mirror across the room. Like Mr. Bannon’s cheekbone, it never shatters.
He has never noticed me, and I have watched almost a dozen times as he urinates into an empty gallon jug.
I beg of you, America, let me return home, even if for a little while. I can no longer tell the difference between my mother’s smile and frown. I doubt she can, either. Let us smile again. Release us from this pit of horror.