I have written a short story about Winston Churchill

Sir! Sir! The Brits are Indians!

Welcome, to the Twilight zone.

NOOOOOOOOOO-

Churchill wakes up in bed sweating through the sheets, his head aching as if about to split down the middle.

Another nightmare.

He has been having many like them now.

He never remembers any of them. Only a feeling of existential dread remains. Of carrying the sins of generations, of a certainty that the chickens are coming home to roost.

Knock knock.

The heart almost jumps out the throat. Winston yelps, then bangs the bed a moment later on purpose.

Feigning an injured toe he shouts in a slightly growlier than usual voice,"What is it!"

A letter slips through under his doorstep and all is silent again.

The stout man does not waste time changing. Lighting the candle next to his bed ( He always preferred them over the light bulb in his own room at night ), he opens the letter in the low glare, his eyes well adjusted to the night.

Hands tremble involuntarily as he goes over the letter.

It is a missive, requesting aid of food to India.

For a split moment the image of a brown family walking happily down the streets of London flashes before his eyes and once again his head is split into two and he grunts in pain and crashes to the ground in convulsions, foam flowing freely out of his mouth.

"Drink. I must drink." He fumbles around with his hands on his desk. Barely able to see. Small objects dropping to the ground whenever he hits them. He stops and drops back to the floor as he hears a THONK of hard glass landing on the ground.

Jumping towards it like a dying man after his last chance, he lands on the prize, opening it with trembling hands, he half guzzles and half lets flow the contents of the bottle all over his face and shirt.

He looks more porcine than man in his posture. Minutes pass in such a state. Then he is sucking on air with his lips still clasped to the lips of the bottle. It takes a few moments longer before realization sets in, and once again he is onto another desk looking for another bottle.

At last he lets out a burp. He does not remember how much time has passed but his head no longer hurts.

He can think clearly now, with blurry vision and an unsteady walk, he can finally focus all of his mind on important matters of the state. This man is a genius once his mind no longer needs to focus on the running of limbs or waste energy on the precision of sight.

The letter. Again a flash but he no longer remembers what he saw before or now.

With a steadier hand he reads the letter. His hand holding it steady.

Lips curl in disdain.

These Indians. These bloody Indians. Do they not know there is a war going on?

They want food. Food! Rations taken away from the war effort! For peasants and beggars and men who make children like rats on a mission!

It is almost an automatic movement made without effort. Coming naturally from thousands of repetitions over the years. A hand moves the letter over the open flame of the candle, and he watches as it burns. When the flame has reached the tip of his fingers he drops the remaining parchment, and stamps it with his foot.

Ashes lay scattered over the ground along with his bottles and pens and papers and a spilled over inkwell.

He doesn't even deign to notice the muck he has left in his own room. As comfortable as a pig in shit. Knowing that the job is beneath him to even pretend to care.

Churchill lies back down in the bed. Within minutes tossing and turning again, as images of brown and black hues pass over the streets of London in his mind. Dreams he will never remember, but whose mark will be felt upon his actions in the waking world.