The night when President Donald Trump killed himself: A story

He was standing at the edge of the roof of the Trump Tower in New York. It was midnight and he was alone.

’Ridiculous,’ Donald Trump said and stepped one step forward into the dark.

It happened in the eighth year of his presidency and in the sixth year of the big war.

During the day, he couldn’t have imagined anything similar would happen to him. Even though the morning didn’t begin the way as it used to begin before.

’I feel white…’ Donald Trump whispered staring half-asleep at the white ceiling above his bed in the Master Bedroom of the White House. ’…empty…’ he sighed.

Then he made a funny face because he really surprised himself. He had never been the touchy-feely type. He had never spoken about his feelings. At least not honestly. Not even to himself.

He sat up and looked around. During the last six years more American soldiers and civilians were killed due to his orders than had been in all the wars combined in the nation’s history. But you couldn’t tell this seeing his bedroom. It was huge and immaculate. Whatever expensive bedroom shit you could imagine, it was there. They were supposed to protect the President from having contradictory feelings.

But that morning the money spent on expensive bedroom shit didn’t work. The President felt that he had no reason to live anymore. He was the most powerful man in the world. And he was the wealthiest man in the world. And he was the most whatever-the-fuck-you-could-imagine man in the world.

And the world had become small. And uninteresting.

And there had been nobody left whom he could defeat. Putin, Kim Jong-un, the Iranian douchebag and all the other fuckers didn’t count. They were all soldiers and the President was not amused by war.

He loved wars fought by tweets. He loved wars fought by lawyers. But a war fought by actual weapons and actual soldiers was not his thing. Naaah…

He couldn’t care less who would win the big war. It was America’s war. Not his.

As he looked down from the top of the Trump Tower, he was curious. Does it really work like this? Or he could survive? Even this? That’s an interesting thing.

He tried to figure out what his father would say to him if he was alive. Donald tried this every time when he was planning something big. But now the old man didn’t say what he usually had said. No „Grab them by the pussy!” advice. No. This time Trump Sr. was angry.

’Don’t you dare! You coward!’ he shouted at his son.

But Donald didn’t care.

’Ridiculous,’ he said and stepped one step forward into the dark.

He didn’t jump. He just fell down. He just went gentle into that good night.

And the good night embraced his son.

He couldn’t breathe but he didn’t want to. He felt wonderful things he didn’t understand. He felt just as he had felt before his birth.

There was no stress. No frustration. No fear. No guilt.

He was light. He was free. He was beautiful.

He was flying.

For the first time since his birth he felt that he was the part of something bigger than himself. For the first time since his birth he felt that he didn’t have to compete with anybody.

That he didn’t have to defeat anybody. To be worthy. That he didn’t have to win. To be loved.

He was enough.

He was loved. By that good night. Around him.

The first passer-by who saw the mangled body told the journalists that the President’s face was unnaturally quiet.

This quiet had never been seen before on this face.

All was well.

Finally he rested in peace.

About the Author
Barukh is a Hungarian-Israeli poet. He and his family have started a new life in the desert. He writes therapeutic free poems about soul, home and world peace. Barukh is me.
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