This was specifically requested by one reader, you know who you are, and I hope it doesn't disappoint.

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Mason calmly wrapped his fingers around the vase's slender neck. The antique porcelain felt cool to the touch and smooth in texture. He gripped it tight. It wouldn't break in his hand no matter how strong he held it. Lifting it above his head, he hurled it at the wall. Years of history shattered, leaving everyone in the room petrified with shock.

"How are you liking Hamilton Prep," Senator Kensley asked Mason.

Holding onto his mental image of the breaking vase, Mason smiled the same smile he'd been trained to wear since he was ten.

"I'm honored to be at such a prestigious school," Mason said, not knowing the voice that left his mouth but knowing it was the one everyone in America heard. "Getting to be a place my family helped built is like walking in family heritage each day."

He could picture the scandalized faces that would all turn to him after he threw the vase. He could even hear a few gasps. Somewhere Senator Olivia would shriek, he knew how she loved antiques. He knew in depth the items she owned. He'd been tortured by her mind-numbing monologue before.

"I know you're a junior, where do you plan to study political science?" Senator Kensley asked.

Study political science. Follow in his father's footsteps. Walk on the road that millions of pompous, overbearing, stuck-up men and women had trampled on before.

Mason mentally grabbed the same vase again and flung it at the wall. This time pieces of it hurtled through the air and even cut some of the politicians' cheeks, leaving red lines of blood.

"My father has talked of George Town," Mason said, pleasantly. "It is his alma mater after all."

An answer that said nothing. George Town. Mason would run away and join a gang before he'd step foot in the place his father went.

What kind of rebuke would he get for breaking the vase? Would he be called out right there? Or would he be escorted away?

"An excellent school. You know, I went to Brown myself," Senator Kensley said. "Let me tell you about my time there."

Mason took the vase again and smashed it over Senator Kensley's head. The man crumpled to the floor. This time there were screams. Men charged in and tackled Mason to the ground. The weight of them crushed him and he laid there, waiting for it to completely suffocate him.

But of course, it wouldn't. The men lift him to his feet. Before him stood his father. This time his father looked at him.

But would his father see him?

Would anyone in this room see him?

Or would they, all like his father, look at him but see nothing?

"I'm so sorry, Senator," Secretary Charlotte said. "I'm afraid I have to steal Mason for a moment."

A rescue. Someone was rescuing him.

"His father would like to see him."

No. Not a rescue. A kidnapping.

"Of course. A pleasure talking to you, young man," Senator Kensley said.

Mason smiled and thanked the man without ever betraying how he'd hit him over the head with a vase in his mind. As Mason was guided through the party of polished men and women, he smiled and no one knew. No one knew he could easily cause a scene. No one knew he wanted to scream out at the top of his lungs for all of them to shut the-

"Mason, there you are," his father said, holding out a hand to bring him into the small circle of people.

"Here I am," Mason said in an easy tone.

The people in his father's circle responded with warm looks. Yes, Mason played his part. He, like his father, could be at ease no matter where he went. He smiled at everyone even as he strangled the vase in his hand, ready to throw it, ready to let the sooth musical chime of porcelain breaking fill the air.

"Mason," his father said, gesturing to a man across from them. "You know the French Ambassador, Philipe?"

French Ambassador. He was not a son but a monkey brought here to dance. Mason waited to throw the vase this time.

"Ambassador," Mason said, holding out his hand to shake. "It's a pleasure to meet you again."

His French came out natural, flawless. Of course it did, the hours of lessons after school had guaranteed it would. Hours where at the end of each his mother would walk into the room and ask how it was going. If it had been his father that asked, Mason would have become the dumbest person on the planet, never knowing what language was.

But his mother...

She, he couldn't disappoint. She asked because she wanted to see him succeed. He worked for her. For the moments when she'd taught him Spanish, creating a small world where only they lived and spoke in. The French he learned because of his father, Spanish he learned because of his mother.

"You speak French wonderfully," The Ambassador said in French.

"I'm pleased I haven't butchered your beautiful language," Mason said.

"Not at all. I'm very impressed. I wanted to introduce you to my daughter, Penelope," The Ambassador said.

He lovingly placed an arm around a girl Mason's age. She looked like Mason, looked like him in the way that nothing was out of place, photo ready. Though when she smiled, it felt genuine. Mason smiled back but his smile didn't hold the truth hers did. In his mind, he still clutched the vase.

"We thought you two might enjoy talking," Mason's father said. "I know that these types of events can be boring for young people."

Mason didn't look at his father, afraid that his father would be able to see the vase in Mason's mind, the one he destroyed over and over again in order to survive these events.

At that thought, Mason did meet his father's gaze. But The President merely smiled at him.

Mason wasn't sure why he'd expected anything different.

His father only saw what everyone else did. He didn't see the son who was...

He didn't see.

"The balcony has a nice view," Mason said, motioning to a set of double doors.

"Sounds great," Penelope said.

As the pair walked off, Penelope leaned in closer. "Tell me, are we now engaged?"

"In their minds, I think we are already legally married."

"And I didn't get to wear my mom's wedding dress, disappointing."

"I had planned to smash cake in your face."

Penelope laughed and Mason wondered if that was her real laugh or the one curated from her upbringing. Since it was their first meeting, he couldn't tell. Either way, it made Mason relax his grip on the vase.

On the balcony, a set of Secret Service agents nodded at them and continued to hold their posts. Penelope leaned against the railing, staring out at the landscape of DC. With her manner so relaxed, Mason rested on the railing next to her. For a brief moment, he felt he could breathe.

"Did your father have to drag you here?" Mason asked.

"What? No. I love these types of events."

The moment vanished and Mason felt the pressure return to his chest.

"I'm planning to go into politics and I'm fascinated with dynamics." She smiled as she tilted towards him. "Since I'm a girl, and a teenager at that, people hardly notice me. It's amazing what you pick up." She edged back. "I love it. Don't you?"

Mason curled his fingers around the vase again. "Of course. Do you have your campaign for president planned out?"

He doubted she heard the change in his tone. The shift from his natural voice to the one approved by the White House press staff.

Penelope laughed but went into detail about her future plans. Her enthusiasm for her future didn't force itself on Mason and so the vase remained unbroken but it stayed in his tight grip until the point he felt his fingers going numb from strangling it.

When Penelope was called back inside, Mason didn't follow. Instead, he stood there, at the railing. He looked down wondering how many bones he'd break jumping one story. Though high, he thought he might manage to only break one leg if he landed right. Could he move with one leg broken? How far would he get before he was stopped?

"Mr. Douglas."

Mason started at the voice and turned to see one of the agents next to him.

Carter's father.

Though they'd never talked, he knew who he was. It was no wonder Owens had knives for eyes, she got them from her father. Under his gaze, Mason felt dissected. Maybe he saw what no one else cared to see. Maybe because he saw something in Carter worth loving, he could see it in others. In Mason.

"I think you should head inside," Agent Owens said.

Mason felt his hand shaking from holding the vase. Throwing it would not be enough to relieve him. He needed to...

Mason cut through the mass of people until he found his mother. Her laughter and warmth spread out around her, like a candle flame that gave off a bright glow.

When Mason reached her, she looked at him to let him know she saw him but kept with her conversation. Only when there was a break, did she smile at him. It was the smile of the First Lady playing her role for the evening, it wasn't the smile of a mother seeing into her son's mind.

"Can I be excused?" he asked.

His mother glanced at the ornate clock on the fireplace mantel. "You can. Sleep well."

She tilted her face towards him and he kissed her cheek. She squeezed his arm once and turned back to the circle around her.

Mason calmly made his way out of the ballroom and through the halls. As he went, guests smiled at him, their eyes saying they wanted to stop him. But Mason nodded at them and kept moving.

"Goodnight, Mr. Douglas," Smith said as Mason arrived at the residence quarters.

Mason wanted to say something but could only nod. He walked through the foyer to the living room and stopped. Over a dozen items worth millions of dollars and hundreds of years old lay around him. All of them could be reached in a few steps. How many could he break before Smith came in and stopped him?

Mason knew it wouldn't be enough.

Leaving the living room, he went to his bedroom, the vase in his mind slowly slipping out of his grasp no matter how much he tried to hold onto it. His shoes didn't make it past his doorway. His suit jacket and tie landed on a chair as he headed to his closet.

In the back, he grabbed an old thick sweater that should have been given away a long time ago. But Mason still used it. Never wore it though.

Clutching the sweater, he ducked under the line of his suit jackets to the narrow gap between the wall and the chest of drawers. He'd discovered the small space his first month in the White House and had widened it as he'd grown.

The vase slipped from his grasp. Tucked away in the darkness, where the world couldn't be heard, Mason pressed his face into the balled-up sweater and screamed with every fiber of his being. Every muscle tensed as he wrung every ounce of emotion and energy from his body.

Completely emptied, he twisted onto his back and laid his head on the bunched-up sweater. The vase no longer existed in his mind. Nothing did. Only a blank space where no thought penetrated.

Lost in this void, he eventually fell asleep.

******

The chime of Mason's alarm woke him. Slowly, he opened his eyes and stared blearily at the row of hanging suit jackets. He'd spent enough nights in the tight space he'd taught himself not to jerk awake or he'd give himself a bruise in some place. Rotating, he pried his phone out of his pocket and shut the alarm off.

Though he knew Smith would come looking for him in half an hour, Mason didn't care to move. The day stretched endlessly before him. A day he'd smile through. Laugh at nothing he found funny. Wear a mask no one ever doubted.

His phone dinged and he lifted it.

Mom: I might not see you this morning. Have a good day at school. Love you.

Mason dropped his phone to his chest. He didn't want to move but he did. He awkwardly slid out of the gap. Grabbing his uniform, he headed to the shower. Eating a part of what the staff had left in the dining room, Mason found his backpack and opened the door out of the Residence. Smith nodded to him in greeting and Mason nodded back.

Their shared silence held for the drive to Hamilton and remained as they entered the hallways. Within seconds, Mason was surrounded and pelted with his friends' stories of their weekends. Playing the role he knew he needed to, Mason engaged with them, cracking jokes and laughing.

But through it all, he could feel himself throwing vases at the wall.

When Mason felt his mask might fracture, he sent his friends off and looked for the only person who he didn't need to wear the mask with.

He found her at her locker.

"Owens," Mason said.

He didn't get beyond that before Carter slammed her locker closed and whirled on him.

"Mason, I swear you say one word to me I will murder you and happily go to jail. Do not mess with me today, I can't deal with you."

Carter stormed off, the path in front of her clearing. Mason watched her go, jealous. How easily she could yell and no one even blinked an eye. She could even punch someone and everyone would say it wasn't surprising.

The gazes that had turned to Carter at her outburst shifted to Mason. The mask didn't fracture, it remained intact, impenetrable.

As if nothing bothered him, Mason walked down the hall. He cut towards the boys' bathroom and pushed open the door. It shut behind him, keeping Smith on the other side.

In the back stall, Mason dropped his backpack on the ground. He left his phone inside it. Taking off his jacket and tie, he shoved it in. He found a baseball cap and glasses and put them on.

Climbing on the toilet, he unlocked the window and hoisted himself through. He dropped to the ground and causally headed toward the parking lot, staying close to the wall to avoid the cameras' gaze.

As he walked, he rolled up his sleeves, knowing with his glasses, baseball hat, and causal appearance, he wouldn't instantly look like a student. He made it beyond the walls and to the metro. He checked his watch, calculating how much time he would have before Smith found him.

When Mason walked out of the metro at the heart of the city, he made a circle, trying to decide what to do. What would make his father see him?

Even the tamest ideas he knew would cause a storm, after all, he was the First Son. He could walk into slow traffic, yell at a driver and it would spread across the world. Hours of work would take place to deal with what Mason did. Laws would be laid down on him to put him in line. One action and Mason could cause endless trouble.

Mason took a step towards the street, almost amused at the thought of yelling at a driver and seeing the domino effect of it all.

But he paused. But to what end?

He could do this but what would that change? He was a cog in the workings of his father's career. If the cog got out of line, the cog was fixed and put back. The cog was never asked why it stopped working.

Mason stood on the street, not moving.

He'd done this before.

He'd acted out, trying to get the world, his father, anyone to see him.

But it had never changed anything.

What would this change?

Mason walked. Walked without direction or care. He wondered how far he could go if he kept walking until he physically couldn't take another step.

"Good morning, half day off today."

Mason jerked to a halt at the cheery museum worker who held her hand outstretched with a flier in it. Without a word, Mason took the piece of paper. The ad for the Newsmuem stared back at him.

"My favorite room is the tv newsroom," the worker said, still smiling at Mason.

"Where?"

"Second floor."

Mason handed her the paper back and headed towards the museum. Inside, he paid and followed the directions to the tv newsroom. Three rows of theater seating sat before a wide screen displaying endless clips from the most historical moments on tv. Mason took a seat and watched as news story after news story played out.

The news didn't affect Mason, it was after all in the past and long dealt with. But what Mason focused on were the moments where average people told their stories or were seen on screen. The world they knew had fallen apart in some way, but none of them stopped moving or living their lives. They faced the worst and chose to go on.

In comparison, his troubles seemed pathetic.

But in a way, they were the same, something in their lives was out of their control and a constant source of pain.

But they got through it.

Mason watched, hearing story after story. They all got through it.

One day at a time.

Mason didn't look over as Smith took the seat next to him.

"Are you mad?" Mason asked.

"What do you think?"

"I don't know if it's worth anything to you," Mason said. "But I apologize for running off."

"You do?"

"Yeah."

Smith sat with Mason for a long while. He didn't ask why Mason ran off and Mason didn't tell him. Saying anything to Smith guaranteed it being taken back to his father. His father wouldn't see his escape as a desperate act but a rebellious one. It would change nothing.

"Are you ready to go?" Smith asked.

Mason stared at the screen for a second longer, at the people who survived. The ones who made it through by taking life one day at a time. That he could do.

He stood. "Yeah. I'm ready."

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Sup...

Ummmm... You good?

I honestly have no idea how you will feel or react to this chapter. So telling me if you can. 🗯💬💭

I think it turned out how I wanted. Sometimes I think something turned out how I wanted to and then sometimes I lose all sense of it and how I wanted it to be.

Haha this is weird, I don't even know what to write because I'm not sure who I feel about it.

Oh jeez, I hope it turned out alright. If it didn't, don't tell me.

Yeah it's the next day and I still no idea how to write this author's note. Maybe I've lost part of my brain. While I go look for it: vote, comment, follow!

Also here are some pandas to help cheer you up!