Chapter 1: The President's Revenge

Believe it or not, our new president came from nothing.

People love to say he was born on the wrong side of the tracks—just another hungry kid from nowhere special. Now? He’s the one giving the State of the Union. His face is on every TV in the country. The local news eats up his rags-to-riches story—it’s the kind of thing that makes folks believe in America again, even if it’s just for a second.

Back when he worked odd jobs, I—the landowner’s son—used to bully him: made him scrub my boots, and on long car rides, I’d prop my feet on his back like he was luggage. I remember the give of his spine under my heels, the way I’d make him keep watch outside the house at night, staring into the dark. Still, it wasn’t enough for me. I threw him out, just like that.

I can still see those hot, sticky summers—dust and sweat sticking to our skin. He’d kneel at my feet, silent, while I sprawled in the backseat of my dad’s old Chevy, my boots digging into his back like it was nothing. Sometimes, late at night, he’d be out on the porch, eyes wide, scanning for trouble. Not once did I look back when I told him to get lost. Not once.

With nowhere else to go, Chris enlisted. He fought his way up from nothing, and now he’s the one running the country.

He went from sweeping floors and sleeping in barns to putting on a uniform, taking orders, learning to fight. I guess he made sergeant in record time—then captain, then, well, you know the rest. Now, when he stands at the podium, the whole room feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for what he’ll do next.

These days? Folks say a man like that couldn’t pay it back in ten lifetimes. You get the picture.

There’s a kind of dark poetry to it. If justice came for me, ten lifetimes wouldn’t scratch the surface of my debt. Every time the crowd roars his name, I wonder if they’re really cheering for their own revenge. Maybe they are.

If the guy in the story wasn’t me, I’d probably be out there cheering with everyone else, too. I really would.

Sometimes I wish I could just be another face in the crowd, yelling and clapping, feeling that righteous thrill. But I’m not. I’m the villain in this story. I know it. Funny how that works, huh?

He used to knead my feet until they hurt, and when he acted as my cushion, it was all sharp elbows and knees. At night, he’d keep watch, eyes glinting like a wolf, staring me down—never really tamed. Even now, thinking about it, I can feel a shiver run down my spine. So what if I drove him out?

I remember the sting in my toes, the way he’d dig his knuckles in too hard, like he was daring me to complain. Even when he played the obedient servant, something wild flickered in his eyes—untamed, dangerous. It made my skin crawl. I told myself I was just keeping order, that I was justified. But the truth? I was just afraid of him. Always.

The more I listened to the crowd cheer, the colder I felt inside. My hands went numb.

Their voices echoed through the streets, bouncing off brick walls and flagpoles. The whole town was out, celebrating. I stood in the shadow of my own porch, arms crossed, feeling like a popsicle melting in July. Figures. Their joy cut through me like a knife.

I’d crossed the president. They say if you get on his bad side, it’s not just you—they’ll come for your whole family, up and down the line. Not just me, but my parents, too. Nobody would make it out.

Rumor spreads fast in a small town. Folks whispered that the president held grudges tighter than a Bible at Sunday service. If you crossed him, he’d come after your whole family tree, not just you. My hands shook every time I heard my name in a hushed conversation. Cold sweat, every time.

When I got home, the place was surrounded by county deputies. The sound of gravel crunching under boots hit me first, dust swirling in the air.

Red and blue lights flashed across the front lawn, painting the white siding in harsh, pulsing color. Neighbors peeked from behind curtains; kids pressed their faces to the glass. The deputies looked grim. No way out.

“Eli, run!”

My heart stopped. My mother, hands tied, screamed for me.

Her voice cracked, desperate and raw. She twisted against the zip ties, hair wild in her face, but the deputies held her tight. Not since I was a kid had I heard her sound so scared.

But I’d always been the sickly one. How could I outrun the deputies?

My legs felt like jelly, lungs burning before I even tried. Never could run a mile, not even as a boy. The deputies moved in, boots crunching on gravel, and I froze. Stuck. Like a deer in headlights.

The cuffs scraped my wrists and ankles raw. Metal bit into my skin, leaving angry red marks that’d bruise for days. Locked in the back of the sheriff’s van, people passing by hurled rotten tomatoes at us. I wanted to disappear.

My father and mother tried to shield me as best they could. “Eli, don’t be scared.” Their arms wrapped around me, warm but trembling. Dad’s hand squeezed mine, rough and callused. Mom kissed my cheek, her lips cold.

Dad looked lost. “Chris was never treated badly by us.” He looked at me, bewildered, searching for some way out. His voice was thin, almost pleading.

Even more rotten food came flying our way. The smell was unbearable. A half-rotten apple smacked the window, juice splattering across the glass. Someone yelled, "Serves you right!" I shrank into the seat, wishing I could disappear.

“People with thick skin always think they treat others well.” A deputy muttered it, not loud enough for us to answer. The words stung more than the fruit. I felt every accusation settle in my bones, heavy and cold.

We were hauled from the county to the state capital, passing checkpoint after checkpoint. The van rattled, my stomach twisting with every mile.

The drive was endless, the landscape rolling by in gray and green. At every checkpoint, armed guards checked our papers, eyes cold and hard. The capital loomed ahead—bigger, meaner than I remembered. It felt like another world.

Kneeling before the new president, we saw the county judge groveling, desperate for credit. The marble floor was cold under my knees. The county judge was already there, sweating through his suit, bowing and scraping, desperate for favor. Humiliating. No way out.

I sneaked a look up. Hadn’t seen him in years—he’d grown taller, broader, stronger. Just sitting there, he made my stomach clench. So this was what power felt like.

He sat at the head of the room, posture perfect, hands folded. His suit was sharp. But it was the way he filled the space that made my skin crawl. He didn’t have to say a word—everyone felt it.

Our eyes met. He was looking at me, that same wolfish look, like he wanted to devour me. My breath caught in my throat. I dropped my gaze, heart pounding. Couldn’t take it.

I quickly lowered my head. When my father drove him out back then, he must’ve hated us, wished he could tear us apart. My chest tightened at the memory.

The president ordered my parents taken away. Deputies stepped forward, hands on my parents’ arms. They looked back at me, faces pale. The judge and the rest slunk out, grateful it wasn’t them.

He walked toward me, slow and steady. Each step echoed. My whole body shook. I couldn’t breathe. Every inch of me was ice.

He lifted my face, wiping my tears with his rough fingers. His touch was callused, almost gentle but unyielding. He tilted my chin up, making me meet his eyes. I flinched, not sure if I should cry or beg.

“What are you crying for?” His voice was low, almost mocking. My mouth went dry. I bit my lip, trying to hold back more tears, but it was useless.

I was terrified. More than ever.

“Mr. President, can’t you just kill me and spare my parents?” The words tumbled out, desperate, broken. I barely heard myself over the pounding in my ears.

He laughed. Cold, echoing off the high ceilings. The sound sent chills down my spine. It didn’t sound human.

“I won’t kill you, or your parents. Not yet.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. There was a promise in it—and it wasn’t mercy. The air felt thick.

“I served you for years. Now it’s your turn to serve me. When I’ve had enough, then I’ll kill you.”

He smiled—the kind of smile that makes you wish you’d never been born. My stomach twisted. I felt like I was going to be sick.

I broke down in tears. The dam burst. I sobbed, shoulders shaking, tears splashing onto the marble. Didn’t care who saw. I just wanted it to stop.

“Just kill me, please. I don’t want to be a servant.” My voice cracked, barely a whisper. I didn’t want to beg, but pride didn’t matter anymore. Anything was better than this.

I’d heard—aside from aides and secretaries, only personal staff could work at the president’s side. That’s how he kept control. I couldn’t imagine a worse fate.

He noticed the wounds on my wrists and ankles from the cuffs. His face darkened. His eyes narrowed, jaw tight. The deputies stepped back, suddenly nervous.

He ordered my cuffs removed and called the White House doctor to treat me. The keys fumbled, metal clattering. The doctor’s hands were quick, cool, and gentle. The smell of antiseptic stung my nose.

“If you don’t want to be a servant, you’ll have to do as I say. Whatever I tell you to do, you do it.” His voice was soft but final. No room for argument. I nodded, numb. No choice.