I have an itch. It’s just below my left calf. It’s been there for nearly an hour, but nothing can be done about it right now. I’ll just have to focus on something else. The wall. No, too broad. The wall is bigger than my house. Have to pick a spot. A little spot, but big enough to see details. That usually helps when I get an itch. Last week, I got an itch under my nose and focused on one of the columns to take my mind off of it. There’s a small crack in the marble about seven feet up on it. It looks like a little lightning strike. I can’t look at that same column now, I know it too well. My eyes won’t study it properly. They’ll go right to that spot and see the little crack. There are six columns in front of me, and I’ve studied all of them for hours. I’ll have to find something else. One of the doors maybe. I worry that eventually I’ll know this place too well. 

‘He’s coming.’ I hear from next to me. I don’t answer. Not allowed to answer. Not allowed to talk. The guy next to me shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know who it is because I came in from the right side and we’re not allowed to turn our heads during our shift. I only know who is to my left because I marched in behind him. Later, I can walk ten paces forwards and back again so I don’t pass out, but I’m not allowed to turn my head. 

I know who’s coming already. There’s only one “He” and everyone knows who he is. Most of us were here before he was, but he said that we can stay if we agreed to serve him well. I didn’t see a problem with that; the job is more or less the same. My dad wasn’t happy with it, but I suppose he’s the one without a job now, so he can keep his opinions to himself. A door opens. I see it in the periphery of my vision. It’s the President. The new president. One day he’ll be the old president. But he doesn’t know that yet. None of them seem to. But that’s not my business. My business is to stand guard, and keep the President (whoever he is for now) safe. 

The President strolls past us, and we all stiffen a little, gaining maybe half a centimetre in height. The President is a very big man. As he strides past us, a small gust of wind follows in his wake that ripples the back of my trousers. The itch disappears. He is currently my favourite president. Beside him is his top advisor, Mr Wimpole, who is very sharp. Everyone knows that it was him who got the President into power. Behind them is the First Lady, who is far too beautiful to be with the president in normal circumstances. She is much more suited to someone like Mr Wimpole, in my opinion. I think she looks at me on the way past, but I cannot be sure. I do not dare turn my head towards her. The three of them go into the President’s office, and remain there for quite some time. I stare forward and watch the sun go down from the windows of the palace. When it is dark, I am relieved. Another good day on the job. 

Over the next few weeks and months, the President is very busy working on a number of reforms for the country. He promises these reforms will benefit us all. My dad tells me that the President is spending money that we don’t have, but I don’t know what that means and I don’t care. My job doesn’t change. Within a month, the President tells us he is doubling our wage. A month after that, he tells us that our money is only worth half of what it was. So really my wages haven’t changed, so I have no need to complain. The President spends more time in his office with Mr Wimpole, and sometimes doesn’t come out until morning. 

In the months that follow, the President starts losing support among the population. His detractors form a new movement, but his supporters double-down on their support. So really nothing has changed. My dad tells me he’s joined the new movement, and encourages me to do the same. I tell him I have a job to do, and that I don’t know or care about politics. The President tells us he will take care of us if we continue to serve him well. We all agree initially, but some of the guards start to change over time. We don’t know what happened to the other ones, and we don’t ask. 

Things start getting a little more tense around the palace. The President spends just as much time inside his office, but we can often hear him shouting. One day, the First Lady leaves his office weeping, and we don’t see her go back inside with him again. The Captain of the Guard tells me one day that I need to stop talking to my dad if I want to keep my job, tells me my dad is too involved with the new movement who wants to overthrow the President. It upsets me, but I tell my dad that it’s the way it has to be if I want to keep my job. It upsets my dad, but he agrees and we don’t talk again after that. Later we’re told our money is worth less than it was a few months ago, but this time our wages are not going up. More guards start to disappear, and no one has to ask where they’ve gone. 

One day the Captain of the Guard tells us we won’t be going home, and that instead we’ll take up quarters inside the palace. This works for me as housing has become too expensive, and this way I’ll be able to keep more of the money that I make. They tell us that they’re expecting protests outside the palace, and now the President never leaves his office. Mr Wimpole comes and goes however. 

The protests start out peacefully, just people gathering outside with placards, shouting things, demanding that the President steps down. I wonder if my dad is with them. The Captain of the Guard tells us there is nothing to worry about, we have guards outside the palace as well. The protests go from once a week to every day. We hear nothing but shouting from the President’s office, and sometimes Mr Wimpole shouts as well. Lots of advisers go in and out during all hours of the day, but they never speak with the President. Only to Mr Wimpole. 

I stare forward all the time, and never break my watch. Breaks become few and far between but it’s okay because there’s plenty to look at now. I haven’t felt an itch in weeks. The protests become louder and louder. Some of the protesters start to throw things. A woman holds up her dying child in front of the window to try and show us. Another throws a rock towards the palace window and cracks the glass. It looks like a little lightning strike. 

Because of the window incident, there end up being more guards outside than inside. Most of them have guns. Soon enough, we all have guns. I hope I never have to fire mine. I hope my dad isn’t outside with the rest of them. 

The shouting from the President’s office intensifies day after day, and soon enough his voice starts to break. Eventually Mr Wimpole’s voice is the loudest in the room. We overhear him telling the President that he needs to rest, but the President doesn’t want to. A lot of the other guards start to get nervous about the protests. One of them asks me what I think and I tell him I have no opinion. I tell him I have a job to do just in case this is just a trick to make me say something that will get me in trouble. Over weeks and weeks, guards change so much that there’s nowhere left who I remember. More protesters start to throw things at the windows of the palace, making more cracks in the glass. The woman who held her child up to us is here again, but the child is not with her. She looks wild and mad and throws a brick at one of the guards. They respond by shooting her, and all hell breaks loose outside. The guards fire indiscriminately at the crowd, who scream and run away. I am forced to watch it all. I cannot turn my head while on watch. I don’t know how to feel, but my instincts tell me this is wrong. 

Mr Wimpole eventually convinces the President to take some rest, and he emerges from his office looking like a hermit emerging from a cave. He’s not the same as he was. All his charisma is gone, his eyes are heavy, his back hunched, his body skeletal and dirty. He orders us not to look at him as he passes. We do not see the President for many days. Mr Wimpole takes over duties in his office after this, and meets with the head of the army a few days later. The meeting is brief and no one shouts. The next day, a tank rolls up outside the window, surrounded by soldiers. The Captain of the Guard changes to someone we don’t know. We start hearing gunshots regularly, some outside and some just down the hall. 

One night, the First Lady visits the President’s office to see Mr Wimpole, and spends many hours inside. They blast music nearly the entire time, and when she finally leaves, her dress is looser than before. She smiles at me as she walks past.

‘Whore.’ the guard next to me whispers when she’s gone. I do not answer him. 

The fighting starts again outside, but this time both sides have guns. We are ordered to remain where we are for the time being, but to open fire should anyone get inside. I hope it doesn’t come to that. One of the windows finally smashes. The tank fires, and soon after the fighting dies down for another day. I think about my dad sometimes but decide it is probably better not to. We start to hear gunshots down the hall on a daily basis. The Captain of the Guard changes four times in two months. None of the guards talk to each other in their quarters anymore. They’re all too scared to speak. It’s fine by me because I don’t know any of them. I don’t even know their names. 

The head of the army visits Mr Wimpole one day and unusually we hear them shouting. Two of my colleagues are ordered into the room and escort the General out. We never see him again. Every night, the fighting continues outside. All we hear are gunshots and screams. Some of the guards start deserting their posts and are shot. I remain where I am, where I’m safe. 

The first lady starts visiting Mr Wimpole in the President’s office every night, sometimes not emerging until the morning. They don’t bother playing music anymore. There’s whispers around the palace of a coming insurrection, but no one is surprised. I thought that was just how we elected presidents. Soon enough, it feels like there’s more shooting inside the palace than outside it. 

One night, the First Lady visits Mr Wimpole in his office. They are there for about an hour before the President comes down the corridor. He looks crazed and half-dead, and carries a pistol in his hand. No one stops him going inside his office. He’s the president, after all. There is a lot of shouting which is eventually cut out by gun shots. The palace is silent for a time. Finally, the President emerges from his office and tells us the city is surrounded, and that soon the palace will be too. He seems unfazed by this so I follow his lead.

‘You guys can probably go if you want to.’ he tells us casually before leaving. He then thanks us for our service. After he’s gone, everyone but me leaves. I stay because someone has to keep watch, and I don’t like the idea of going outside either. The fighting starts again soon, and this time it feels like the other side is winning. The palace starts to shake. Windows are broken. Rubble falls from the ceiling. I do not move. Instead I listen as the palace doors are breached, and people rush inside, firing guns. Eventually, fewer and fewer people from our side are firing. Flames erupt outside and the tank fires round after round. I don’t think it will last until morning though. There are people climbing onto the tank and I think they mean to open it.

I remain where I am, looking forward. I do this because I am a guard, and this is my job. Tomorrow there’ll be a new president, and he’ll promise me a job if I promise him I’ll serve him well. Just like the last one. I just hope I last until then.