Abraham's Dream

His house was so quiet. Strange, he thought. At this time, not long after the crack of dawn, his younger children would be running around and giving the attendants a heart attack as he would be swarmed by a couple assistants with messages of importance. There would be breakfast coming up from the kitchen and through his bedroom doors, provided that the children didn't accidentally knock it over again. Even his wife would join in the fray, yelling at the boys to knock off the horseplay while keeping an ear on the daily hustle.

Today, though, there was no noise. Heck, there was barely any light in his room even though the drapes were drawn.

Getting out of the bed, he turned and faced the doors, still closed even when he went and dressed himself up. He looked into the mirror, reminiscing of the days when his wife would be looking at his reflection from across the room as he confided to her about certain subjects, mostly involving the war. Even with the whole of the reflected room contained around the man staring back at him, the image felt empty. Lifeless. He shook his head and headed to the doors, grabbing his stovepipe hat off the end of the table and, with a final brush-off of his jacket, headed out to the hallway.

Again, he was greeted by a silence. As he closed up the bedroom, he couldn't help but marvel at how everything here seemed untouched, as if a strong wind was allowed inside to collect every follicle and particle from off every facet, nook, and cranny inside his house under the condition to take such outside, then honoring such an agreement and leaving only an unmoving atmosphere in its wake, with the breath of the doors intrare et exire being the only things stirring the air. The servants at their best performances couldn't match this clean environment even with a heavy incentive, yet here was the dirt-devoid hallway greeting him first before any person.

But therein lied the question; where was everyone?

Though he strode with his usual gait befitting his physical and official stature, it felt like he was gliding across the floor in a weightless manner, barely making any noise whether upon the carpet or upon any hard surface his shoes touched upon. The portraits of great leaders, many of whom served in a war just as harrowing as his, loomed taller than his own being, looking down upon him in a stern judgement as though expecting him to have done better, but what more could he have done? Even the busts seemed to be watching him in solemn demeanor, appearing to be whispering gossip and opinion that would otherwise be disagreeable only to put said conversation on pause and stare at the intruder of their lives mulling about. He pondered that thought; him, an intruder in the lives especially of those long since laid to rest.

As he pushed on, a noise finally broke through the silence. It was soft at first, almost inaudible. Then it grew louder as he persisted the last stretch of the floor, but there was still no one around. This sound did not come from the other rooms on either side of him, instead heralding its existence via downstairs below his current vicinity. As if the ambience of the earlier silence was not harrowing enough, the current disturbance stabbed everything in its path with a slow dagger in every cavity within and without the human body; sobbing was being heard loud and clear. After pausing to process this sudden sensation, he headed below.

The sobbing was louder, but there was still not a soul in sight. The noise, however, was easier to pinpoint, and he turned in its approximate direction. Again, it felt like he was gliding. As he moved, he couldn't help but perceive a sense of foreboding; was he supposed to be here? Was he supposed to see what was before him? The sound was louder now, just barely muffled by the double doors appearing in front of him. He gripped the knobs, turning them with considerable reluctance, and then opened the doors.

Ah, here they were!

Every staff member was gathered here! There were his generals and colonels, senators and representatives, friends from both days and years ago, and even a few neighbors. There were doctors, cooks, consultants, his own personal lawyer, and ambassadors from across the ocean. He looked around and finally saw his children, all gathered near his wife. Her face was veiled, not lifting up to see her own husband enter the room.

His tall presence, adorned with his suit and stovepipe hat, did not sway even a hair from the mass, which seemed to pour from the outside like a frozen tidal wave with so many sobbing that the aforementioned analogy could become a reality. Given that they faced a certain direction, he followed the points of their noses and leaned, bobbing heads and turned to the sight of their misery. Here, in the center of this room, was a catafalque completed with a great solid walnut coffin, lined with dark cloth and completed with silver handles and silver studs with no sheen due to this dimly lit environment. The heavy lid was open, with the vestment of the corpse within barely peeking above the edge. A line of guards stood at attention to the left and right of the deceased, the right side holding the flag of the Commonwealth of Kentucky and the left side holding the Star-Spangled banner; neither waved, for there was no wind to liven them up.

He pointed at the large casket resting upon the framework, wherein the covered body lied in the middle of the room. "Who is in there?" he called above the sobbing, his voice echoing in this room of death.

A soldier, one whose name was not known to him, turned to meet his eyes and stated in despondency:

"The President. He was assassinated."