Houston Democrats

An American Nightmare
Pseudofiction by Amy Branham

PART I – THE WOMAN
George climbed into bed beside Laura, tired from the long day of work. Running a nation isn't easy. It's really hard work. The war in Iraq wasn't going well and disapproval by the American people was growing by the day. His economic policies were awash. You have to make hard decisions when you are President of a country, he told himself. I'm the President and I can do what I want. The people elected me, and that gave me the freedom to do what needs to be done.
George drifted off to sleep with that thought running through his mind.
In the night he was awakened by a sound. He opened his eyes and scanned the room but saw nothing. Laura was still peacefully sleeping, undisturbed. Unconcerned, George closed his eyes. The White House was teeming with security at all hours of the day and night. He was safe. Nothing could happen to him here.
Just as he began to drift back into dreamland, he heard the sound again, louder this time. It seemed to be coming from the far corner of the bedroom. This time George sat up in bed and looked around. The sound continued to grow steadily louder. Crying, someone was crying. Who would be in his room crying at this time of night?
George sat there in his bed for a moment, not able to decide what to do. Where were those Secret Services agents that were supposed to be protecting him, he thought to himself. George rolled out of bed, slipped his feet into slippers on and grabbed his robe from the back of a nearby chair as he headed for the door, intending to find out where his guards were. As he did so, he looked back to the corner where the noise was coming from and stopped.
In the corner stood a woman, her head covered. She was weeping and moaning, a sound that came from the depths of her soul, eerily ghost-like that almost gave George a chill. He turned to face the woman.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?" George demanded of the woman.
The woman said nothing, but took a step toward George. He stood his ground.
"How did you get in here?" George demanded of the woman.
The woman still did not answer him. She continued to advanced toward him, her cries growing louder and more shrill with each step. George looked to the bed for help from Laura, but Laura was still sound asleep, her chest rising and falling gently with each breath. How could she not hear this?
The woman was now just a few steps away from George. He found himself backing away from her. One step. Two steps. Three steps. His back was now against a wall and he looked around, panic stricken, trying to find a way out. The door, there was the door that led out of the room, he thought to himself. Just get to the door and you can get out, call security.
There was no escape for George on this night. He was caught in a nightmare of his own making.
As he tried to inch his way along, back against the wall, the woman spoke to him.
"Mr. Bush, you killed me."
"What? I haven't killed anyone," George replied.
"Mr. Bush, you are responsible for my death. You killed me with your bombs. I was in my home, sleeping in my bed. Your bombs came and hit my house. I died."
"I'm dreaming. This is a nightmare. I didn't kill anyone." George said to himself as he began pinching himself on the arm trying to wake himself up. "Wake up, George, wake up!"
The woman continued, taking a step closer to George, "Mr. Bush, you invaded my country. You killed me. My children are now without a mother, my husband without his wife. They cry every day, Mr. Bush. My country is a war zone and an unsafe place to live. This, Mr. Bush, you have done."
"No, no, I am bringing Democracy and freedom to your country! I have freed you from a tyrannical leader! I have killed no one!"
The woman's hand reached out from under her robes, her skin the color of death. With her hand she pushed back the cover on her head, revealing a terrible gash that almost made her face look inhuman, unrecognizable.
"Mr. Bush, your bombs did this to me."
George looked with fascinated horror at the woman's face, his stomach feeling queasy. Then he looked away from the woman, unwilling to accept what he was seeing with his own eyes. "This is only a nightmare, a really bad dream. This isn't real."
"This is real. Now, you are coming with me." The woman's hand reached for George and he pulled away. Her cold hand touched his arm and instantly he was gone from his bedroom, transported to a cold, dark deserted road in the blink of an eye.
George was still pinching himself. The pain from the pinches was getting stronger each time, but he still was not waking up. George was confused. He looked down and saw the slippers on his feet, his blue terry cloth robe on his body, the red and white striped pajamas he remembered putting on just before climbing into bed with Laura.
"Follow me," the woman said simply as she opened the door to a building off the road. George had no intention of following this woman and he stood there in the road, looking for a way out.
"Help me!" he shouted, hoping someone would hear him. "I'm the President of the United States and I've been kidnapped! Help!" George yelled. No one came out of the buildings. The street was deserted. George looked around and saw buildings made of stone and dirt all around him, buildings that seemed only slightly familiar, but he could not quite place where he had seen them before.
The woman motioned for him to follow as she stepped through the doorway of the nearest building. "Come, Mr. Bush."
George had no intention of following that woman. His mind was filled only with thoughts of escape, of somehow getting back to his bedroom at the White House where he would be safe. How can I do that? He thought to himself. I don't know where I am. I don't know how I got here. This is a dream, a really, really bad dream.
The woman came back out into the road. "Mr. Bush, you must come with me. I have much to show you this night." She turned around and walked back into the building.
Reluctantly, George followed the woman through the door. Inside, he found a spacious room lit with the soft light from candles. One of the first things he noticed was that the room was cold, as his body shivered. George closed his robe more tightly to keep out the chill and wrapped his arms around himself in an attempt to get warm. As his eyes adjusted to the light he was able to look around the sparsely decorated and furnished room. There was a table in the center of the room, at which a man was sitting, staring off into the night. In his hands he held a picture.
George took a step towards the man. "Hey, you, you gotta help me! I've been kidnapped! I'm the President of the United States!"
The man didn't so much as twitch. He continued to stare off into space, unaware of his guests.
"He cannot hear you." The woman said. She was standing next to George.
"This man is my husband, Abdul. The woman in the picture is me, before I died."
"Hey, you!" George called out to the man, unbelieving, desperate to escape.
"Mr. Bush, listen to me. Abdul cannot hear you. He cannot see you. We are invisible to his eyes and ears.
George walked over to the man. He looked over the man's shoulder at the picture in his hands. It was of a beautiful woman. Her long, dark hair framed her face beautifully and her dark eyes seemed to pierce his soul as she looked back from the picture. George placed his hand on the man's shoulder, but his hand went right through the man's flesh. The man shuddered, not aware of what just happened to him.
"Whaaa -----?" George exclaimed.
"You are not really here, Mr. Bush. Your body is back at home, lying next to your wife in your bed. It is your spirit, your soul that is here tonight with me, Mr. Bush." The woman told him.
She went on. "Mr. Bush, tonight you are to see some of the death and destruction you have wrought upon my people, my country. For this you are responsible. Tonight you will see the sorrow and despair of my people, my family. You will begin to rethink the occupation of my country that you call a liberation."
With that, George was once again transported from the room he was standing in to another place he did not know. He found himself standing in a pile of rubble. There were people shrieking and screaming all around him, running in different directions. Smoke billowed up into the air and dust was falling all around him. In the distance he could hear sirens blaring, coming closer.
"Another bomb just exploded here, Mr. Bush. I want you to watch closely. Pay attention to everything." The ghostly woman next to him whispered in his ear.
As George watched, a man somehow climbed out of the rubble, covered in dirt and blood. Other men saw him and scrambled to help him. The man stumbled as he tried to take a step and the others nearest him caught him before he fell.
"My wife! My children! They are in there! Please, Allah, help them!" The man cried.
A swarm of men, young and old, descended on the rubble, pulling it away with their bare hands, piece by piece, calling the names of the family members stuck in the rubble. Shortly a body was pulled from the rubble, a young boy. A man silently and with tears running down his cheeks, carried the lifeless body to the father.
Others were pulled from the rubble, some lifeless, covered with blood and dust. A young girl was rescued, barely alive, with a broken arm. George watched as the rubble was pulled from the body of a woman, her body curled around the form of a baby as though to protect it from harm. The baby was alive. The woman was not.
"No. No. NO! This is a dream. I am not awake. This isn't real!" George said of the carnage before him. "In a little while I will wake up and forget all about this terrible nightmare!" George insisted.
"This is not a dream, Mr. Bush. It is very real and you will remember it when you awaken in the morning," said the woman next to him.
George looked away, turned his back on the horror and destruction he was witnessing. "Take me away from this," he begged the woman. "Let me go back to my bed, back to my sleep…"
With a start, George awakened from his sleep and sat up in bed. "Wow." He thought to himself, "that was quite a dream I had last night. What a nightmare!"
George got up and began to dress for the day. He went down to breakfast where he found Laura finishing her first cup of coffee.
"Good morning, dear," Laura said as he entered the room. "Did you rest well last night?"
"Yes," George answered, the dreams of the night already gone from his little mind.
As George poured a cup of coffee one of his aides came bustling into the room.
"Mr. President," said the aide, "there has been an incident. If you will follow me, Sir, we will brief you. This needs your immediate attention."
"It can wait a few minutes." Responded George.
"Sir, with all due respect, this needs your attention immediately. It cannot wait," the aide insisted.
"What in the world could be so important that it can't wait five minutes for me to have my breakfast?" The President asked grouchily.
"Sir, about two hours ago civilian homes in Baghdad were bombed. There are hundreds dead. There's a huge outcry from around the world. You must come now, Sir."
"I'll be there after I finish my breakfast. You are dismissed." The President took a swig of his orange juice and dug into the pile of biscuits and gravy on the plate in front of him.
The aide stood stubbornly in the middle of the room, staring at the President.
"I thought I dismissed you." Said George.
"Sir, I was ordered to bring you to the Briefing Room immediately. I'm not leaving until you come with me. I don't think you understand, Mr. President. This incident is all over the news. It is imperative that you come with me now, Sir," responded the aide.
Finally, with one last swig of his orange juice and a last bite of his breakfast, George wiped his mouth on a napkin and got up from his chair.
"This had better be good," he told the aide as they hurried down the corridor. "Otherwise, your ass is fired." By this time George was thoroughly irritated.
"Yes, Sir."
The aide opened the door to the Briefing Room and stepped aside for George to walk through. As George entered the room, he noted that most of his highest level aides and cabinet members were already seated, discussing the events. All immediately stopped talking as he entered the room, standing up from their chairs to greet him.
"Mr. President," they said in unison.
"All right, what's so goddamn important that I had to be dragged away from my breakfast this morning? It had better be good!" snarled George as he took his seat in the empty chair at the head of the table.
"Mr. President," began his Security Advisor, "there has been an incident in Baghdad."
"Yeah, so I've heard. Get on with it. I have a busy morning."
"I suggest you rearrange your schedule for the day, Mr. President. This one is big," replied another advisor.
"Just how damn bad could it be?" The President replied.
"Just watch." With that, the Security Advisor pushed the button of a remote control and the TV at the end of the room, came on. George watched as a sense of déjà vu descended upon him. He absent-mindedly rubbed his arm and sensed a touch of soreness as he did so. He watched as the events on the television screen played out, exactly as he saw them in his dream the previous night. Rubble everywhere, men scrambling through rubble as far as the camera could see, pulling broken bodies out. A man being pulled through the rubble covered in dust and blood, his friends catching him as he stumbled. Another man carrying the body of a dead child to him. A little girl was pulled from the rubble, alive, her arm twisted and distorted.
"Enough!" shouted George. "Turn it off!"
"Mr. President, last night numerous homes in this neighborhood of Baghdad were bombed. We received intelligence saying this was where some of the masterminds of Al Qaeda were staying, planning suicide bombing missions. We called in an air strike," Donald Rumsfeld told him.
"Did you get them?" Asked George.
"Sir, we don't know. I don't believe they were ever there at all. We are receiving reports that there are at least 25-30 dead Iraqi civilians, Sir, many of them women and children," another aide continued.
"Leaders of nations across the world are furious, calling for a statement from the United States, an explanation of what happened, the events of the night." Mr. Rumsfeld stated.
"What do we tell them? What do we do?" The question hung in the air.
George sat there, trembling, not believing what he saw on the television screen. "No, no," he thought to himself. "It was only a dream, only a dream." He sat in silence, unable to answer the question.
"Mr. President," Ms. Rice said, interrupting his thoughts, "We need to make a statement, say something, do something."
"Yes, yes. Continue the course. We are fighting terrorism and sometimes civilians get hurt. This is a war and these things happen. We are sorry for the loss of life. We are bringing Democracy and Freedom to Iraq. Stay the course. Stay the course…" George rambled.
He had to escape this room, go somewhere and be alone, gather his thoughts. "It was only a dream, only a dream. I'm still dreaming. This isn't real." George repeated over and over silently to himself.
"Excuse me, Mr. President? What did you say?" asked the gentleman sitting next to him.
"What? Oh, I must have been thinking out loud. Y'all take care of this. You know what to say. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have business to attend to." With that, George got up and left the room, leaving the attendees of the meeting in mute shock.
Somehow, George got himself out of the room and ran down the hall to the nearest washroom. Once inside, he locked the door. He went to the sink and splashed cold water on his face in an effort to wake himself up. "Only a dream" he muttered to himself as he looked at his face in the mirror. "Just a dream. Not real." He rubbed his arm once again, realizing it was a little sore. Quickly he unbuttoned the cuffs of the sleeve and pushed the sleeve up. He was surprised to see bruises up and down the length of his arm. "What the hell," George muttered.
There was a knock at the door.
"Mr. President, are you all right, Sir?" a voice on the other side of the door asked.
"Yeah. I'll be out in a minute," George replied. He took another minute or two to pull himself together.
George emerged from the washroom feeling shaky. He rubbed his arm as he walked down the hall on his way to the Oval Office.
In his office he found Condi and Rummy waiting for him, talking quietly.
"Mr. President." They acknowledged as he walked into the room.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Mr. President, we have got to deal with this situation in Baghdad. Already this morning the switchboard has been deluged with calls from around the world." Rummy stated.
"Handle it." George said.
"Mr. President, we need a statement from you," stated Condi.
"What the hell do you want me to say? Oh, I'm sorry. We had bad information. We bombed your homes and killed your families. This is war, a war on terror. These things are going to happen in a war. It isn't pretty. What the hell am I supposed to do about it?" George exclaimed.
"Sir, this has become an international incident. I advise you to not make light of it. This is a disaster for us – for you politically. Now we have to do some kind of damage control. You have to appear before the American people and the world, come across as being sympathetic and apologetic. You have got to say something," Rummy told him.
"Screw them. Screw them all! We are bringing Democracy and Freedom to the Iraqi people. We took Saddam Hussein out. We are fighting a war on terror!"
Condi took a deep breath. "Sir," she said, "Members of the United Nations are holding an emergency session tomorrow. They are calling for a vote regarding America's so-called occupation of Iraq. Before this incident our numbers were falling, our support from the American people and nations around the world was already plummeting. This is a P.R. disaster for you and for the United States. In order to even begin to turn this around, you, as President of the United States of America, are going to have to appear on television, give a speech. Make a statement about this. You can't just ignore this situation. It's not going to go away."
George stood at the window, looking out across the lawn as he rubbed his arm absentmindedly. Turning away from the window he said, "We have to stay the course in order to honor our commitments and the loss of life."
Condi and Rummy looked at each other, eyebrows raised in question.
"George," Rummy said, "what are we going to do? What are you going to say?"
"I'm not going to say or do anything right now. One of you can prepare a statement and send it out. I'm going to go finish my breakfast." With that, George left the room.