STEFANO BOSCUTTI - “DELIRIUM” (SHORT STORY)

President Donald Trump floats naked above the gilded carpet.

The air grows thick. Time bends. Reality shifts. Walls breathe and somewhere beyond the concrete and the security cordon, history unravels.

“Delirium” is a psychological short story about the illusions of power.

What happens when the most powerful man in the world loses his grip on reality?

And what if reality itself is never what it seems?

1,000 words / 4 minutes of visceral reading pleasure

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‘Only the dead have seen the end of war.’ Plato

STEFANO BOSCUTTI

DELIRIUM

Copyright 2024 Stefano Boscutti
All Rights Reserved

PRESIDENT DONALD TRUMP floats on his back above the gilded carpet of the Oval Office soundstage.

His naked body is lean, lithe. Makeup artists have removed his fat suit, latex jowls and hairpiece. His natural hair is white. His arms are outstretched, eyes closed, like a crucified Christ. His body ripples as if floating on water.

Light is shimmering through the set on the soundstage deep underground. A dying sunset weeps on the giant ultra-high definition LED screens through the white-framed windows and French doors.

The second hand on a brass clock on the Resolute Desk ticks to a stop. Trump’s eyes snap open and he is suddenly seated behind the desk. All the drawers are empty. The upright phone is not plugged in.

Time has become elastic, stretching and contracting like a living thing. The leather of his chair breathes as he shifts. The sound echoes strangely in his ears, each murmur stretching into a symphony of texture. His mouth is dry. The taste of copper lingers on his tongue.

‘Sir?’ A VALET stands in the doorway, but the voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. ‘The Joint Chiefs are ready.’

Trump’s body feels simultaneously leaden and weightless. The air feels thick and his chest grows tight.

A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. His heart thunders - tachycardia, one hundred and twenty-six beats per minute. He can count each one precisely, can see the red blood cells rushing through his body.

He stands and the room tilts ten degrees to the left. He grips the edge of the desk, the grain of the wood flowing like water under his fingers. The walls breathe and time folds in on itself. He sees entire civilisations rise and fall in the spaces between seconds.

Somewhere in the distance, through layers of concrete and centuries of history, a siren wails.

‘Just a moment,’ he says, but the words come out twisted, consonants bleeding into vowels. The overhead lights pulse in time with his racing heart.

His vision tunnels, then expands. The room is both infinitely vast and crushingly small. He is everywhere and nowhere, stretched across all of space, all of time.

The Valet’s face pulls into focus, then recedes. ‘Sir, is everything alright?’

Trump’s hippocampus misfires, temporal processing disrupted by cascading neural dysfunction. Past and future collapse into an eternal present moment. He is simultaneously taking the oath of office, standing in this room now and lying on his deathbed. All moments exist at once.

Through the fog, he hears rapid footsteps, urgent voices. He swallows hard, a chill snaking up his spine. He blinks, and in the dimming light, he senses something - a shadow, a shape - hovering just beyond his vision. When he turns, it’s gone.

Every heartbeat echoes through his body, thudding louder until it feels as though the entire room is pulsing in time with him. What is time? Past and future are illusions, constructs keeping you from experiencing the eternal now.

Trump recalls something his grandmother once told him. ‘The present is all you have, and when you’re afraid, it’s because you’ve forgotten that.’

Her voice echoes through him. He starts to speak, his voice breaking. A searing light slivers his mind. Memories spill out, a flickering reel of images, voices, faces.

The overhead lights pulse and flitter, and the walls close in, narrowing, pressing. He sinks back into the leather chair, clutching the armrests.

The walls ripple, and he’s sure he can feel his mind fracturing in waves. His thoughts loop in fragments. Time itself seems to slow. Time is a game. Step outside, and see.

Trump closes his eyes. He inhales deeply, trying to centre himself, to find the now, the true now. But his senses betray him. The lines of his life blur, merging with the shadows.

He exhales, finally, and the fear dissipates. The weight of time, the crushing sense of purpose, falls away. He opens his eyes, calm.

His gaze shifts to a recessed doorway. As it yawns open, a squad of armed guards in battle-ready gear are stationed like sentinels in the sprawling soundstage. At their feet, a web of snaking cables and extension cords across the concrete floor.

A FILM CREW hovers around a bank of video monitors. STEVE BANNON whispers in the DIRECTOR’S ear. The Director nods and calls out to a TECHNICIAN.

‘Cue dawn on the horizon.’

‘Dawn cued.’

‘Roll the sunrise.’

‘Rolling.’

Steven Bannon breaks into a wide smile.

‘It’s showtime.’

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Copyright 2024 Stefano Boscutti

All Rights Reserved

The moral rights of the author are asserted.

No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or copying and pasting, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing.

Stefano Boscutti acknowledges the trademark owners of various products referenced in this work. The publication or use of these trademarks is not authorised or sponsored by the trademark owner.

This is a work of fiction. While many of the characters portrayed here have counterparts in the life and times of Donald Trump and others, the characterisations and incidents presented are totally the products of the author’s agitated imagination. This work is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It should not be resold or given away. Thank you for your support. (Couldn’t do it without you.)

Discover novels, screenplays, short stories and more by Stefano Boscutti at boscutti.com