I glanced around. Where am I? I thought. This isn't my apartment. I tried to focus my vision but it seemed determined to stay blurry. That person, they're not Alexander, no. I can just ever so slightly make out their short hair. But still, this doesn't seem right. I then realize my hands. They are drenched in crimson colored dried blood and there are bruises covering my knuckles. Did I do this? I bring my hand to my nose. I can't smell anything, so that must mean it's been a while since whatever I have done. I also notice my clothes. My jeans are ripped, which is definitely not the style of them. My shirt has blood dotted all around it.

"So, why did you do it?" The short haired man asked.

"Wha-why-I, I don't know what you're talking about." I responded, taken aback.

"Why did you do it to Alexander Hamilton, huh? Alcohol, drugs, did he cheat?"

"I'm sorry, but what are you talking about?"

"You really don't know do you?"

"Well I can't barely see, that's a nonstarter!" I replied, my temper starting to crumble.

"What was the most recent thing that you remember?" Stubble sighed, his face clearly screaming "Honestly just talk. What's a police officer supposed to be, patient? I have a life here. I do not care if this is the end of yours."

"I'm," I thought for a few moments. It comes back to me. Or so I thought. "I, I think I was at, some sort of place, where people were eating and drinking..." I paused. Who was there? What is that called, a place where people eat and drink? Yes, a restaurant. "A restaurant. Definitely not a bar. Well, um, Alex and I were there. I think there might've been somebody else talking to us." Were they bothering us or were they being friendly? "They were much larger than me and Alex, and, so, like, we were, uh, I'm pretty sure we were having a normal and friendly conversation. Next thing I know I wake up here, which was approximately 30 seconds ago."

Stubble just sighed and called to somebody else, "He doesn't remember anything!"

The person replied in a feminine voice, "Just get his parents and throw him in a cell 'till then."

Wait, no. Not my father. Anything but Henry Laurens. He's going to be so mad. No. Mad is not the word that could describe him. Enraged. Consumed in pure anger. Although, he is a lawyer. Maybe, just maybe, he'll bail me out. But why? I ditched him and left him in the dust back in South Carolina.

I'm about to protest against this until somebody comes into the room. They have a sheet of paper in their hands.

"As you requested," He said, talking to Stubble, "Alexander Hamilton has had injuries-" Oh no. "That include a broken wrist on the right hand," He writes with that hand. I hope it heals soon. "A swollen black eye that will most likely lead to infection if we don't stop it, and most likely amnesia. However, we'll only find that out if he wakes up. The chances of regaining consciousness are slim to none." No. No. No. How can he say this in such a monotone voice? This can't be happening. No. I shatter my thoughts. Denial won't get me anywhere. I let go of denial and grab hold of positivity. I accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative. Yes. Yes he does have a broken wrist which makes an inability for him to write. He can spend more time with me and less time writing. Yes. Yes he does have a black eye. Yes. The doctors will be able to fix it. Yes. Yes he probably has amnesia. Yes he might forget about me. Maybe not. We have strong memories. Yes. Yes, I can show him pictures of the two of us. Denial gets back into my hands.

No. He won't wake up. The denial struggles and falls out of my tight grip.

Yes. He will wake up.

It's only a matter of time.

And now I'm here. Alone in a room. With my father. He is infuriated, but I don't blame him. It's a long drive from South Carolina to New York.

"So apparently you murdered your boyfriend." It looked like it took him all the effort in the world to say "your boyfriend". He continued. "Have you finally learned your lesson?"

I was about to kill my father right then and there, just like how I killed Alexander. Poor, innocent Alexander. But I calmed myself. "Alexander isn't dead."

"Yet." He responded. You have no idea how close I was to pouncing on top of him. I was beginning to think that my previous thoughts of murdering my father were actually incredibly reasonable. But alas, that will get me nowhere. I can only beg.

"Sir, can you please bail me out. I don't remember a thing that happened and I can't become a lawyer if I'm not cleared of all charges." I pleaded. I sound too desperate. He will say no. But he is pretty enthusiastic about me beginning a lawyer. Him. Enthusiastic. About ME!

"Fine." I sighed in relief, I was not expecting this. "But with one exception." Of course, there's always a catch. Nothing in life is free. "You will stop dating that Hamilton boy and you will never talk to him again or I will disown you." He was serious this time.

"Yes sir." I muttered. I wonder what being disowned from my father will be like.

I have 2 more days in jail until I can leave. I ask to be posted on Alex, but I'm not. He could be DEAD for all I know.

I try to be useful. I think about what happened that day, but I just can't figure it out.

I can remember snippets though. Alex and I walked into a restaurant. Most likely holding hands because we often do that wherever we go together. I probably ordered chicken nuggets, because that's what my mouth tasted like when I woke up after the "incident" happened. This feels weird. I'm often telling myself "Don't think, don't remember," but now I'm trying my hardest to remember. I remember laughing. I could still feel that happiness rapidly draining out of every inch of my body. I remember feeling a sense of intimidation. Or maybe it wasn't a sense. I was intimidated. I remember somebody. I remember them. They weren't Alex.

James.

A/N: PLOT TWIST TO THE PLOT YOU JUST FOUND OUT ABOUT! YAY!

I don't know how often I'll update this, so... yah.

Happy Mardi Gras to anybody who celebrates it!