Author's note: Longer note at the bottom. Sorry to break from my usual formatting, but I doubt anybody on here even knows what that is, and I have a lot of things to say about this so I figure I'd better put them down there.
Trigger warnings (Extended): Suicide, sexual assault, mentions of self harm, panic attacks, really intense self deprecation. Do not read if your mental health is at stake.
Mom.
Sick.
My mother went to the hospital when I was thirteen, and that's what they told me. They sat me down in a waiting chair and fixed their calculating gazes on my face. I was the one to shove their arms from my shoulders, telling them that I hated the silence and I wanted them to just talk. Just tell me what was wrong.
"Alex," they'd started, and I'd cut them off there, snapping that I absolutely loathed the nickname.
"Call me anything, but if you call me Alex, this conversation is over." My tone was cold and glazed over with my own anger. It was probably clear that I wasn't going to be an easy kid.
"Alexander, your mother is going to be... going away, for a while."
I hated it when they spoke like that.
"She needs some, erm, special treatment, and she won't be coming back for a long time."
I don't remember when I got angry, or when I shoved them away and pushed the chair into the white wall of the waiting room. The secretary stared at me, the other people who were waiting stared at me too, and I can't imagine what they could've been thinking.
"I'm thirteen, not five! Is she going to fucking die, or not?"
There was really no doubting the purity of my youth, nor was there the anger in the words that I spat at them. They were so surprised, staring at me as I breathed and tears made my eyes shine. I could see the answer in their faces, in their shock. I could see it, and nobody can understand just how clearly I could see it.
"Just let me see her. Please." And they did. They led me to her room and let me get into her bed with her as she lay there. I never could understand why she cried so much, or why she held me so tight, but I knew that if I held on, I could pretend that I was never going to let go and see the doctors- so patronising and so surprised and just so horrible. I could pretend that I was safe, and that she wasn't sick, and that she'd never lost everything on the trip to America.
I don't know why I didn't cry when I woke up and she was cold and all the doctors could say was sorry.
E.
Now I'm seventeen, and I've realised that every wound eventually scabs over. When you pick off the scab, you're either ready to do so and there's healed skin underneath, or the wound reopens and it hurts twice as much. I don't think I'll ever be able to pick off those scabs, so whenever John Laurens or Hercules Mulligan ask me why I'm always so awkward about my family, I say that it's because I just don't feel included there- not because they aren't actually around.
"Yo, Alex, you're spacing off again." John Laurens is teasing me, bumping my shoulder with that bold glimmer in his eye. I usually trust that glimmer, but I know that he's just calling me Alex to piss me off, since I hate the nickname so much.
"Did you hear something?" I ask Hercules Mulligan, indicating towards the blob that might be one of our best friends. "Because I hear a faint wind that blows, 'I'm an aaaaassshoooooleeee...'" I trail off, shooting John a contempt filled look to convey my irritation. Hercules laughs, but John does not. He smiles slightly and lets the expression drop.
"Okay, okay. Alexander. But really, you need to stop doing that. We were just asking if you wanted to tag along to the movies with us after school." Ugh, gross. I hate movie theatres. The hygiene in those places is enough to choke a horse- and I don't say that lightly. In order to evade saying a direct no to my friends, my eyes scour the cafeteria for some excuse to pull away. My eyes catch on her, sitting in the corner of the mess with her hood covering her face like always and her hands working at a sketch pad.
"Her" refers to the nameless girl that I'd ended up partnered with for a class project. We were the only two left anyway, and I wasn't sure what her name was to begin with- but when I asked her name, she muttered something then walked over to the teacher to tell him that we were pairing up. I had heard a bit of the letter E to begin with, but wasn't sure, and I certainly wasn't going to ask again.
"I'd love to." I end up telling John, just so I can face his really light blue eyes without feeling too guilty about my imminent refusal. He smiles for about three seconds before I continue. "But I can't. I have to do some homework and I have a partner project that I need to get to work on too." I indicate towards her, all the way in the corner, and for a second, I don't think he sees her.
He does.
"I, uh, I see." He looks disappointed. That makes my gut clench in regret, but I'm standing before he can pat my shoulder the way he always does- because right now, my skin crawls at the thought of any and every piece of physical contact and I don't know why- and jogging across the cafeteria to her. She doesn't even look up when I sit next to her. The only way that I can see that she sees me is that she tenses just the slightest bit before relaxing again and continuing to draw.
Drawing. She's doing a piece of art. She catches me watching and lifts her head, holding out the pad for me to see. Uncertain, I'm already reaching out and taking it to look at what's got her sitting on the dirty floor of a cafeteria. She scrutinises my expression then looks away when she catches my gaze. It's weird; I don't usually see her eyes. But now, in the corner, I see the hints of dark, intense dark eyes staring at my face. I clear my throat and turn my eyes back to the drawing.
The figure of her focus is pretty nice looking, though really familiar. He has a strong jawline and clouded, distrustful eyes. I don't see much of the details yet, but his hair is curly and disheveled. I wonder where I've seen it before, but the way his teeth are set remind me of an expression that I've worn before. A lot. Is it me? The thought occurs to me, then I wonder just how accurate this girl's art is. I look up at her eventually and offer it back to her.
She's not embarrassed even though it's obvious that I know that she was drawing me.
"Maria and a few other girls discovered that I was doing some art and wanted me to do some select portraits of a few classmates." She explains unblushingly. "They were going to pay me to do it, but I politely declined. You were one of the requests. I remember because you were listening to Ms. Adams talk about anatomy and you looked so unhappy with life that I couldn't get the image out of my head."
Um. What a confession. I nod, then try to look as comfortable as I can. "It's really good, uh, E." I say, then wonder if she'd be confused with the letter. But she doesn't look mad or upset- just mildly baffled. She does not, however, say anything, instead brushing her pencil over the art and continuing on it. "Look, um, about our project, do you think we can meet tonight to work on it?" I don't add that I used it as an excuse to worm out of going to the movies with the people that I treasured the most in the world. I don't even add that I don't know what we're going to be working on, but I'd be fine with just talking about her art. Maybe. Not that I'm curious.
"I'm busy tonight." E says, but she eventually reaches up and pulls down her hood, revealing a pale face and high cheekbones. Her eyes are even more intense than before, drawing into my soul and reading my thoughts like it's nothing. Her hair is pulled into a bit of a messy bun and she looks moderately exposed without the hood up. I think about the colour of her sweatshirt and the way that it kind of just swallows up her small frame before deciding that I like her more without the hood up. Her eyes, though, intense and penetrating, make me think of the way she drew mine- distrustful and whirling with sadness. "We can meet tomorrow. Here, I'll give you my address."
She writes it down on a piece of paper and hands it to me. I look at it and slide it into my pocket, because it would be weird if I told her that I'd already committed it to memory. There's a lot that I want to tell her- how pretty she is, how she's quiet but I like talking to her because she's so honest, how I want all of my other friends to be like her, how I don't even know her name, or how she's so good at art- but the hood is flicked back up and she's drawing again. So I lean against the wall next to her and slip into my thoughts.
Dad.
I'm walking home after school that day but everything is different. I take a detour through the park to find the address that she gave me. I've been avoiding John and everybody because I want to think about the way that her dark eyes took in every small detail. The house that she directed me to is big and extravagant. It has pale shutters and pastel coloured curtains that flash back at me. I look around the front yard and wonder how somebody so small and unnoticeable could live in a house that is that big and loud. It was made to show off. E is tiny and seems to live to hide.
It's only when a girl peeks through the window and sees me standing conspicuously in the driveway that I panic and run off, berating myself for standing out there for so long. But there's nowhere for me to go, now. My apartment is empty and I only go there when I absolutely have to. I should've gone to the movies with John. It would have been awkward and boring and gross, but I wouldn't be wandering the streets of New York and questioning life.
I end up sitting by an abandoned ice cream parlour for a couple hours until the sun is pulled forcefully over the horizon and I'm walking home. I'm not taking my usual route, and maybe that's what makes me uncomfortable about the way the shadows cross over the street, and the way that the telephone poles just look so much taller than they usually do. I'm not a jumpy kind of person, but part of my mind is lecturing me about what happens when kids go out in alleyways late at night.
No, I think. That's only to girls. I should be fine.
My mind is hyper alert as I hear footsteps behind me. My heart seems to ship with every stray noise. I'm close to panicking, but I don't want to show it, so I hold my breath and keep walking until there's a hand on my shoulder and I'm flipping around.
His eyes are dark and cold, but they're also my eyes, so I stop, calming down a bit. "Dad?" I'm shocked, beyond shocked, staring at him as he moves forward and puts a hand on my shoulder again with a slight, fatherly smile.
"Alex," he says, and gives me a look that implies that he's glad to see my face. Maybe he even is, and I relax. I hate it when people call me Alex, but I'm scared to tell him not to use the nickname.
I still remember the day he walked out on my family, made eye-contact with me and mouthed that he'd come back. Then he slipped from the door and never returned to us- not even when my mother died. I remember the way that he used to always give me the special attention, or the way that he and my mom were so in love until they started arguing about something and my older brother started locking himself in his room. I read a lot during those times, tried to shut it out. And when he left, I sided with my mom. Maybe it was a mistake, but by the way he's looking at me now, as if his eyes can't seem to get enough of my face, I don't think that's what he's thinking.
I can't believe that somebody so tall has a son that's so short.
"Uh, where've you been all these years?" I ask, and can't keep the bitterness from my voice. I could've used a dad around from when my mother died up until now. I'm a senior in high school now. I don't want to suddenly change everything in my life to accommodate for his ass. I hear him answer, but I don't comprehend it. I'm suddenly angry. Really, really angry. And when I try to pull away from him, his hands are around my wrists and holding me in place.
I'm scared, now, because he has the stern look on his face that he always used to have when I'd done something wrong and I had to go into timeout. I want to pull away, to tell dad that I hate it when people touch me. I think he reads it on my face, he reads my fear, because his expression softens. But he doesn't let me go, only leaning forward and brushing his lips against my forehead. I'd almost call it a kiss, but that's impossible, because he's my dad.
"Alex, Alex, calm down, I just want to make up for some lost time." He tells me, and I kind of believe him. He's holding me perfectly still, but I don't realise that he's backing me up until my back hits a wall and my heart hits my chest. I must look crazy and overstimulated, but dad is calm. "I need you to cooperate, alright?" I don't want him to go further, but he's already moving his hand to the fabric on my shoulder and I'm already pulling away.
He looks frustrated. He retreats and steps back, watching me quiver against the wall. I don't trust that he doesn't see my fear, or my horror at having been touched by anybody at all, but he doesn't say that.
"If you don't want me here," dad says. "I'll just leave." And I think he's actually leaving, I think I actually pushed him away, because he turns around and starts to retreat.
My heart lurches. I want him to leave, but I don't want him to leave me. I haven't seen him since I was ten and he promised to come back. I don't want him to go. I'm stepping forward before I know what I'm doing and grabbing his arm, fighting the rising fear that pinches my gut as he turns around, eyebrows raised. "Please," I'm saying, and it's choked through reluctance and desperation. "Don't go."
He's curious, I think, but only for a second because now he's pushing me against the wall again and I'm trembling but not resisting because oh my god what is the alternative? Does he leave? Does he let me here alone after coming back?
I'm vaguely aware that he's touching me in ways that he used to, in ways that I had grown to associate with any touch in general and pulled away from for. I'm aware that his hands and his mouth and his legs are coming to dominate how small I am, and how fast my heart beats because my god every single touch feels so wrong but some part of me is enjoying it.
After a bit, though, touching me and squeezing certain areas isn't enough for him. I don't know what he's doing when my shirt is thrown onto the ground, or why I'm trying to speak as he spreads marks across my neck. I hate the way that I can't push him away, or that I don't want him to stop because that means he'll leave and I'll be alone again and the night air is just so cold but at least when he's here I have a gross form of warmth.
My torso isn't good enough. My pants are off soon, and of course he just has to touch every part of me. Some parts, he brushes over with a tenderness, but others, he takes his mouth to and sees how long it takes for me to cry out. For me to yell for him to stop. He doesn't care that somebody might come, or that somebody might see him hurting me, but I feel so disgusting, and I just want for him to stop and take me home. I start wishing, chanting for myself to be home, wishing and praying and wanting so much for me to be alone in my cold apartment even though I know that dad wouldn't stop now even if I tried. He's too strong, and I'm too small.
I have to pull forward a picture of E in my mind as he goes further, touching me in more desperate ways and in more desperate places. I distract myself, letting him do it, pretending that I don't have a care in the world. I pretend that I'm still sitting next to her and talking about her art. I pretend that I'm outside her house and watching the girl open the curtain and- owowowowow.
There are no words to describe how it feels next, and I can't do anything to stop the way that my screams sound, muffled from the hand that he shoved over my mouth without me knowing it. I can't feel anything, I can't even let myself know that I'm alive, alive and crying, alive and trying to ignore the way that it feels with him shoving me against a cold wall and pressing into me the sickening sort of pleasure that I never, never wanted.
And then it's over.
He doesn't leave; he cleans me up and gets me dressed. He's so soft and sweet, whispering kind things as he takes me into his arms. Loads me into a car. Drives me to my apartment, where I rouse myself and try to get out of the car on my own. But he's already there, helping me up and wiping the tears from my face as he helps me limp inside. He took my key from my pocket, used it to get me inside the apartment. It's so terribly cold and empty but he's holding me up and slipping me into my bedroom.
I don't stop crying until he's gone and I'm on the ground. I'm pretty sure my head hit something on the way there, but I don't know enough to care.
I just feel gross. Gross and exposed. Because dad was so gentle, and he helped me through it, and he made sure that nobody saw me hurting. He kept me hidden.
Just like dads should.
Lying.
"Alexander, you've been quiet all day." John is stern, guiding. My head is down, and my neck hurts. I didn't come to school on Friday, and I really just slipped through my house and wondered if my dad had left me alone. I spent time hoping, pleading, praying that he didn't leave me because I'm so gross and so horrible and he knows it and when I didn't find him, that's what I thought. That he'd gotten sick of how gross and terrible I must've been. "Alex." He's angry, using my pet peeves against me. But when he says it, I think of how stern my dad had been, and I have to choke back a yell.
"Yeah," soft, sad, disgusting, that's how my voice sounds. I lift myself up to look at him, because he's taller than me, and I wonder why he looks so worried for something so terrible. "I'm here and.. alive." Good answer, right? Not worrying. It is a joke, it must be, so why isn't he laughing? He probably sees right through me and I feel so terrible for talking to him in general but he chose to sit next to me.
"Are you okay? You're never this subdued." I am not okay. I am terrible. I am dirty, horrible, broken, battered, tainted, useless, worthless, lonely-
"I'm fine." That came out of nowhere, and it was a lie. I don't lie. Lying is something that I definitely do not do. Before I can continue to lie, because it feels nice to pretend that my body doesn't ache anymore, John is reaching out and tucking an auburn curl behind my ear. It shocks me, and I'm breathless, and suddenly I want to jerk back and shove him away, but I remember my dad, and I remember that he left, so I let it happen until his hand falls to his side.
"I'm just worried about you, Alexander." Worried about me. Why is he worried about me? Don't be worried about me. I'm nodding, getting up, shoving my hands into my pockets. I want to get away. He asks where I'm going, and I'm going to tell him that I'm using the bathroom, but the words fall short and I don't say anything. Instead, I turn and leave the cafeteria because E isn't in the corner like she was on Thursday, so I really have nowhere to run to.
I'm half tempted to walk to guidance. Tell the counselor that I'm horrible and that she should just pull my name off of all of the attendance rosters because there's no reason for me to come to school anymore. On my way, though, somebody falls into step next to me, and I'm surprised that it's actually the girl that I wanted to talk to but couldn't find.
"Alexander Hamilton, you have a lot of friends to be talking to right now." E says it like it's a fact, but I don't respond, shaking my head with a sigh. I should have gone to the movies with them on Thursday, because that would mean being a good friend. But a smaller, more honest part of me tells me that I only wished that I had because I wanted to have avoided my dad. The rest of me spends time berating myself for being selfish. Why would I want to avoid my dad? My dad, who was so sweet and gentle, my dad who came back to show me that he still loves me? I hate me. I don't see what brought him to want to touch somebody so dysfunctional. "Are you okay?"
Her hood is down, and I don't like it, but I stop walking when she does. She doesn't touch me, doesn't move, just stares at me with those intense dark eyes for a moment before gauging that something is wrong. I have to agree with her there, but not for any reason that she could possibly understand. Or maybe she could. Maybe she could better than John Laurens ever could. I feel empty, yet alive, while staring at her and her dark eyes. I remember her face from when she took down her hood before. I remember the way she drew me, sad and distrustful and full of emotion that I didn't think I had.
"Yeah, I'm okay." It's easier to say than when I said it to John, and I hate how much I love the power that it gives me. I hate how safe it makes me feel. I hate that it makes me want to keep lying.
I do keep lying, and each lie I tell slips me deeper and deeper into my disgust. I don't believe that I ever had morals, that I ever interacted naturally. I don't know what is right and what is wrong anymore, when I lie. I don't even trust anybody when they tell me that they worry for me, when I lie. When John Laurens gets angry at me because I'm not acting like me and he doesn't know what the fuck is wrong, but I'd better cut it out because he isn't dealing with that, I don't care anymore, because I feel like I don't know him. When my teachers get angry because I'm not doing my homework and I keep telling them that I don't have it done because I was busy but I promise that I'll get right to it, I just stop answering their queries and start being beyond quiet.
Lying makes me powerful. Some people don't believe it, but there's some sort of pleasure in knowing that I don't tell them anything. It's almost worth the guilt that keeps me awake at night.
Sisters.
The only homework assignment that I care about anymore is the one with E in government class. We decided, as she caught me walking out of school about a week ago, that we'd split up the presidents and work from there. For the past week, all of my homework assignments have been thrown aside and ignored for the assignment that I took on with E. I've been studying, outlining, organising, keeping a neat record of my sources, and getting as much done as I could- but it was all terrible. I spend Thursday night redoing everything for the third time because E and I already agreed that we'd meet and put together our parts on Friday.
Really, the work is simple, but I can't stop worrying about it as I sleep. I don't sleep. Sleeping is something that I don't do anymore. When I close my eyes, I see John being angry, and I see my dad, back in that alleyway. I suddenly feel cold and wide awake, so I get out from under the blankets and sit at my desk, staring down at the work that E and I planned for. I don't know how I can show it to her, because the lines and the paragraphs feel horribly disgusting. I shake my head, biting back disappointment as I stand up and manage to take two steps before I drop back onto my bed and close my eyes.
The next day moves by like a flash. I think Gilbert de Lafayette tried to talk to me about John; he told me that he thinks that I wasn't in the right when I let John pull away, but I ended up staring him in the eye and lying boldly that I don't care.
I think he told me that he hates me. And I think I died a little bit.
But it isn't long before I'm standing at the entrance to the school and staring at the sky while somebody comes up next to me. From the dark fabric of her hood and the fact that she's small enough that she could disappear, I know that it's E. She looks at me for a minute then pulls down her hood.
"Ready to go?" Her phrasing was soft and gentle, worded through an expression that is clouded with mild concern. Maybe I look upset, but people often use that tone with me. I don't know if I know why, but I don't let the thought ride on my nerves. Either way, when she offers me a smile, I have to smile back because her features are so gracefully pulled into the expression that I am compelled to return the gesture.
"Yeah," I say, and I think I actually am. The readiness wears off once we're standing outside her house and she's unlocking the door with a tentative ease. Her eyes scan the lines of the door and after a moment, she's grasping the handle and tugging the door open. Her arm sweeps to let me in, and I slip inside with a murmured thanks. She's right next to me as I look around the foyer.
Her house is big. I'd already mentioned that before, but the interior is elegant and shines with warmth. I can feel the relaxed atmosphere and the smile on E's face and I can guess that she feels safe here. I wonder if my presence does anything to stifle that, and my gut clenches, but she's moving forward as the girl that I saw, and that saw me on Thursday, is stepping up and pulling her into an embrace.
"Eliza!," is what the girl says, and while I'm taken aback by the sudden presence of a real name for the girl that I'd always associated with the fifth letter in the alphabet, I have to look at the girl that she's hugging and gauge her features as familiar. I hadn't seen it through the clouded window pane and through my own panic and desire to get out of there, but I recognise her as a girl who is really, really popular around school. Dark, glossy curls, fair skin, and elevated cheek bones that tell me that Angelica Schuyler really is E's sister. But what I don't see is why I didn't see it before.
"Hey, Angie." E(apparently Eliza, but I don't think of her that way,) says, her smile exuberant. "You got home early." She pulls back and actually pulls out her bun, allowing her long, dark hair to tumble over her shoulders and expose her comfort in the house. "This is Alexander Hamilton. We're partnered together for a project in government class." She adds, pointing to me.
I don't like being put on the spot, but Angelica's dark eyes are less piercing than E's, so I wave and smile a little to show that I can handle it. Her expression is pleasant and her eyes are bright with intelligence; coloured with the dark chocolatey hues that I've seen in coffee. There's an amber tinted sheen to them, and I find her eyes to be intriguing to look at. "Hey, um, Angelica, right?" I say, unable to keep the inherent discomfort out of my voice.
"It's nice to meet you." She replies, very warmly. She looks at her sister, winks, I think, then turns around and slips from the living room. E looks a little if not very disgruntled, but shakes it off and looks at me, smiling. She gestures for me to follow her past the room and up the stairs, so I do, taking my mind off of Angelica.
I see her again when I go downstairs to get a glass of water. E and I spent our time looking over her part of the assignment, and when I saw the use of colour and spacing that I could only see from an artist, I decided that her work was a lot better than mine. I just pulled out my part and gave it to her, telling her that I needed hydration. So she nodded and gestured for me to head downstairs. When I do, Angelica is waiting in the kitchen, but her expression isn't given to the kindness that she got from being around her sister.
"Alexander Hamilton." She says, and the words are almost an accusation. I try to figure out what her deal is, but can't come up with anything except for the fact that everything about me is just as terrible as I'd thought it would be. I wave at her, then walk over to the cupboard to pull out a mug. "I've seen you around school. And I've heard some things about you." She doesn't say it like it's a good thing, so I assume that it's not and walk over to the sink.
"There's a lot to be said." My voice is even, spread over the syllables with an almost fragile uncertainty. I don't want her to know that I'm nervous, but I push away that thought and decide that I don't care. Angelica is smart, tall. She has an elegance that's pulled in with her bright intelligence and a raised-eyebrow demeanour that leads to her own permanently skeptical disposition. Right now, her expression is distrustful slipped in with a little bit of hope. I wonder what the hope is slipped in with, but I decide not to comment, instead waiting for her response.
"People are saying that you're selfish and rude." She presses, slow and soft. "I don't think that it's true, but people are also saying that you just suddenly stopped letting people talk to them. That you always dismiss them before they can share their concerns. I know a lot of people have some problems with the way that you act. My friend Thomas doesn't like how short you were with James Madison when he asked if you were alright because you were sitting in the corner." She finishes with a long winded breath, tucking one of her perfectly accented curls behind her ear. I look at her, my expression empty. Those words are true on some level, and I still feel bad about how I'd treated James, but I don't think her tone perfectly captures the disgust that I hold for myself.
"I don't really know how to respond to that, but I can't say that any of it isn't true." My voice is so quiet, more quiet than hers is. I think of the snowflakes that fall outside of my window in the winter. The way that they fall makes me think of pollen spreading over a field with flowers, or rain falling from big gray skies that dominate the sky, or even the tears that fall when I wonder about my friendship with John and how I'll fix any of it. I feel small under her eyes, under the way that they harden when I speak.
"That's not how you're supposed to respond." She says, angry. I look at her, surprised, letting the water slosh over the edge of the glass that I was filling before turning off the sink with a shock. "You're supposed to deny it, or supposed to promise that you'll try to do better for my sister, or something to tell me that I can trust that my sister isn't going to get hurt here. I can't just hear that you're a horrible person and you know it but you don't even try to fix it!"
God, she is so angry, and I am so surprised. I didn't imagine that I would ever feel this exposed, or this attacked. "I, what? Do you think I'm going to lie to you?" I would lie to her, in fact, I wanted to tell her that none of her accusations were true. I would even tell her that E stands no chance of getting hurt by me, but something about her makes me tell the truth. Something about her eyes and her cold stance are just so honest and there that I can't make myself lie, no matter how much I want to. "That's what happens to everybody who's around me. I can't stop it, nor can I can control it. I'm horrible. There isn't much that somebody can do to stifle the blows."
Shut up, shut up, shut up!
I don't know where the words are coming from, but my tone has some panic slipped in, and I can't stop the words from coming. I have to bite the inside of my cheek and shut my eyes to make myself be quiet. Angelica is silent, shocked, but I'm praying for her to say something because I swear I can't just let her stare at me like that. She's breathing soft now, leaning against the counter and her shoulder is touching the microwave.
"You can't say that to Eliza. She can't deal with that." She finally says, staring at the floor. "She's been hurt so much already and I don't think that she-"
"Can take care of herself?" E's voice cuts through it all and I see her in the kitchen doorway. I want to know how long she's been there, but I can't tell, so my shoulders tense and I watch the water drip down the slick surface of the glass that I already poured. The silence is intense, tugging me into the thought of Angelica standing in the window and looking so curious about seeing me. She doesn't look angry in my memory, just a little surprised, and even a little friendly. I look at her, shocked and silent as she stares at her sister, who is practically on fire with how angry her voice is. "That she can be independent? That she doesn't need her older sister to be the judge of whether or not a person is trustworthy or not? Angelica, I wear this hood for a reason. I don't just go around choosing guys to invite over."
"Well," now Angelica is speaking, and now she's stepping forward, and I'm flinching against the counter because their anger is so startlingly present. "Did you have to choose the one guy that everybody recognises as selfish and rude? Do you even remember what Lafayette told me this morning? Do you even care? How can you just choose the most closed off guy in the twelfth grade and expect me not to say anything?"
"He's not the only one here who doesn't trust people!" E exclaims now, and she suddenly looks a lot smaller than she ever has. The look in her dark eyes is so angry and so vulnerable that I want to tell Angelica to step away from her and stop hurting her sister. To stop fighting. I want to tell them that I'm going to leave and then they can be happy again, happy as sisters, happy because I'm not here to make them upset. But my jaw is glued shut. "Angelica, I'm not gonna judge him based on what your friends, your friends whom have never showed up once when you were upset, have to say about him! Has it ever occurred to you that I hate Thomas Jefferson and I hate how you two act like you're above everybody else? Has it even popped up on your radar that I hate that somebody so exclusive tries to shepherd away everybody that doesn't fit your critique? How can you look me in the eye after accusing Alexander of things and then yelling at him after he admits to them? You tell him about how much I've been hurt, but have you ever wondered who it was that was doing the hurting?" She starts crying about halfway through, taking short, panicked breaths that function more as gasps.
I want to step over there, but I don't know what I would do, so I'm already murmuring that I need to go as I step forward to move past. I look at E, unable to stop myself from reaching out and wiping away just a few of her tears with my finger before slipping past both sisters and into the foyer because I think Angelica is crying too.
Charles.
The man who enters my classroom introduces himself as the new counselor. The last one left without looking over her shoulder, and I don't know why. My eyes travel across the classroom to E, who is seated very uncomfortably in her assigned seat next to John. John, however, looks content for some reason, which I find to be a good thing because for the past few weeks, he'd been hunched over his desk with an exhausted look on his face. I look at him for a few more minutes before glancing at E again and taking in the fact that her old, dark blue sweatshirt has been replaced with a gray jacket that she kept zipped down and did not pull up the hood with. I wonder why she's suddenly showing face.
Then the new counselor is talking, and I have to listen to him.
"I want you to come to talk to me about any problems that you have." His voice is soft and kind, his eyes crinkled with the wisdom of his age. His hair is graying and his frame has the look of somebody who used to be really small but grew into his own weight and is now aging comfortably. His hair is greying around the edges, but I ignore it for the sake of hoping that he's a good person. That kids will trust him. A chestnut coloured cross necklace hangs around his neck, over his heart.
I'm not very religious, since it's hard to believe in Heaven when you're inexplicably alone, but it's easy for me to understand why people would trust him. He talks kindly, tells us that we can call him Samuel, but his official teaching name is Mr. Seabury. He dulls down his words for us, I think because we're teens, but I don't take him as seriously as I think that I should until he starts listing problems that he's heard of kids being inflicted with and elaborating a bit more on why we should always talk to him about them.
"The most common thing that kids have spoken to me about is grades, but it doesn't stop there. There are a lot of reasons for a person's grades to drop. Depression, drugs, insomnia, domestic abuse, relationship struggles, issues accepting one's sexuality, bullying, self-harm, fear, a sudden lack of motivation, and more examples that would take me all day to name. It usually helps to talk about why you don't have good grades so that we can get you the appropriate help. A study schedule, maybe setting alarms, finding a friend to make sure that you do your homework, or whatever might work for you." He's smiling so hard that I think his smile is liable to slip off his face for how large it is. He shouldn't be smiling so much, but he is, and I don't know why.
He keeps the cheesy smile through speaking about so many other things that I almost lose track of. John seems to snap to attention when he starts talking about suicide. Seabury is soft, gentle. But his smile is gone now, because he's telling everybody that suicide is never the answer. He writes the number to the suicide hotline on the board and I even see a few of my classmates copying it down. A lump is in my throat because I didn't realise just how seriously suicide can impact people. I remember hearing that my cousin Peter killed himself, some time right after my mom died, but I didn't know him well. Seabury talks like he's lost somebody to suicide. I see Thomas Jefferson, the guy that told Angelica that I'm a horrible person, wiping his eyes.
And then he starts talking about something that makes my spine jolt straight and my heart pound a hole through my rib cage.
"Statistically, one in six women and girls get raped every year, but rape isn't something that only women fall victim to." Now the class is surprised, and I'm trying to hold back a yell that accuses the teacher of not telling me earlier. I want to tell him that I wish he'd come here earlier so he could have told me and I wouldn't...
"One in thirty three men and boys fall victim to the same thing." I'm distant, glazed. The classroom is tense. "I've encountered a lot of young girls who can't find the courage in themselves to tell me that something happened to them until years after the actual sexual assault took place. But it's much harder to get boys to admit it. There's something in society that brings young teens to think that when they get raped, it's their fault. And when they get raped, they're weak, and nobody should ever know what happened to them because otherwise, what will happen to them? They think that it'll make others believe that they're somehow less worthwhile than they would've been before."
I can't move, otherwise I'd be screaming that all those things play out in my head every day and that they're all true. Even if he starts to say otherwise. He doesn't understand how I could feel, what it feels like to walk into a crowd of people who will look at me differently if I ever tell them, or if they ever stand a chance of being placed with the storm that plays in my heart. I have to force my face into an icy expression to keep the tears from falling down.
"If you every get raped, or if you hear about somebody getting raped, you must tell somebody. It helps to bring the criminal to justice. Nobody will think any less of you if you tell, because it was not your fault that some sick minded person decided that a kid like you was a prime target for their twisted version of an attack. It's not your fault." Seabury was going to continue, but somebody in the class raised his hand, and I was turning around to look at the kid. I recognise his face, but I don't place it, because all I can see is the troubled look in his eyes. The conflict in his shoulders, the trembling of his hands. All I see is me, with his hair dark and his eyes darker.
And then I know that he's the same as me. I don't think anybody else sees, even Seabury, because he calls on him without a hitch. "Yes, do you have a question?" He lets his intensity drop back down behind the pleasant counselor demeanour, and I have to silently give him praise for the sudden switch, but my eyes are locked on the teen who spoke. Charles, I think his name is. Charles Lee. I watch heads turn towards him, I see the confusion on their features because Charles is suddenly speaking.
"Something of one, and it's a little long, so bear with me for a minute." His voice shakes, but he takes a deep breath, and a steely look crosses over his features. "What if, in the hypothetical, somebody got raped, and he... she.. whatever pronoun is appropriate..," his pale features are touched with a bit of a pinkish tint that spreads over to his ears, but he doesn't lose his nerve just yet. "And they don't know how to tell? I mean, sorry Mr. Seabury, but how do you give somebody that information? Do you bring it up offhandedly in the middle of a lighthearted conversation and let them decide how to take it?" He mimics having a conversation. "Hey, how are you? Good, and I'm good, got fucking raped, but that's completely normal." The class laughs, then stops when they see the seriousness through Charles Lee's hardened dark eyes. I tense, waiting for him to continue. "How can you just say that to somebody when you know that they'll never look at you the same? When you know that they'll see you as somebody who got hurt, and they'll pity you, and they just won't see you anymore. They'll see the person who got raped. And then you get left behind for somebody who isn't gross and tainted like you, because nobody knows how to react if somebody they know actually got hurt. Nobody can deal with that. I-," he breaks off there, his eyes filled with pain and a bit of anger.
And then, before people can see the pain behind his apparent carefully composed expression, he straightens and tilts his head. "I guess I'm just wondering how to build up the courage." It's muttered through his shell, and I think my classmates are all dismissing it. But E isn't; she's watching Charles with a pondering expression on her face, and I think that she kind of knows. Not entirely, not like I know. But she definitely knows.
"That's a very good question." Says Seabury, and I almost laugh at the simplicity of his response. "I suggest finding a way that works best for you, however. I'm afraid that I don't have the capacity to tell you how to do that." I choke back a loud cough, fighting the urge to call him a hack because he can't actually want to help if he's being like this. I wonder why he evades the question. I guess it's just an adult thing.
Either way, when class is over, I catch Charles just out in the hallway and speak in a really quiet voice.
"You're not alone."
Because everybody needs to hear that at least once. He looks at me now, and I mean really looks at me, and he must see the mirrored pain in my eyes, because he reaches out and pulls me into a really, really tight hug that I don't find to be uncomfortable. The embrace is stabling. It presses my heart into a calmed state and I silently push my stress into the warmth of the combined rate of our breathing. After what feels like hours, though, he pulls back and murmurs a few words that I can't quite make out before slipping into the crowds of students. But as I get to my next class, weaving through the thick groups, I realise what he said, and I have to push the message into my heart to embolden me.
"Thank you."
John.
My mind is dominated with the look that Charles had on his face for the rest of the day. He wasn't smiling, and that could've meant almost anything, but the look in his eyes told me that even if the rest of the class didn't understand, and even if nobody cared, the fact that I understood, and the fact that I cared made it okay. I wonder why my heart makes a weird sound every time I think of making that sort of difference in somebody's life. The idea that I, as disgusting as I am, could make something worth it to somebody makes me smile larger than I'm willing to admit.
Maybe that's why, when John sweeps me into a hug at the end of the day, I hug back and don't say anything until he pulls away. When I do speak, it's to confront the abnormally happy look in his eyes. I've never understood the bright shade of his irises, nor am I about to start. Blue, but different from my shade of blue. My eyes are more really, really dark blue with traces of violet, but clouded and full of something verging on distrust. That's how E drew me, and that must be how she sees me. His eyes, though, are a really, really light crystalised shade of the colour that takes on an almost sad sheen. They're beautiful, I know, and I figure that practically anybody else would be glad to see those eyes with the light that they have now.
"Are you good, John? Lafayette told me that you...," that he what? That he was hurt? That he wanted to disappear? That's what I want, and I don't know if the feeling goes both ways. Either way, I don't feel like making such vastly generous assumptions, so I let the words hang in the air between us before continuing with an almost embarrassed front. "I'm sorry for pulling away, or for letting you pull away, I guess I just didn't know how to tell you how much I-," the verbal vomit could probably be an endless spew of garbage at that point, but John cuts me off with a smile and a flash of an emotion through those glass-like blue eyes. Regret? Fear?
"You're fine, Alex." That must be the name that he thinks of me as, and I'm so glad that he's talking to me again that I don't even spare any time in calling him out on it. My smile falters, and I think he can tell, because he sighs and shakes his head. "I'm sorry too. I didn't realise how hard things must be for you right now." He inhales through his nose and gives me a determined look. "I just wanted to make sure that we aren't... enemies, y'know? I value you as a friend and I don't..."
"We're friends." I'm already assuring him before I even know what I'm doing. My heart clenches with the words and I think about the way that John smiles, and the way that his blue eyes seem to shatter every time that I pull away from him. I decide that I'm going to be a better friend to him now, that I'm going to be the best person that I can be on his behalf. Even if it's all a lie, the me that I'll become will live up to the title of his friend. I figure that the commitment is either temporary or a show of my lack of a grasp of life, but I push the thought back. "I have some homework to do at home, but I'll see you around." I don't intend on my homework, but I suddenly want to go home.
"Oh, uh, right." He looks sad. Maybe that's why he hugs me again before pulling back out of the embrace and giving me a look like he wants to say something. I stand, waiting for him to gather up the courage or back off, but I figure that John is strong enough to choke back his fear and just tell me what he wants me to know. His eyes are swirling with some emotion that I can't place, and I wonder how he can stand to be so expressive without actually expressing anything at all. It's a few moments of this staring contest that I realise that I must be wrong about his apparent inner strength because he's stepping away with a slight wave and a yell of goodbye. I figure that he can just tell me later, and yell a bye of my own before turning around.
I run into E on the way out, and I tell her that she looks better without the large hood. It must be my mood showing through any forms of fear or anger. Between John and Charles and all the positive energy that I suddenly feel in my chest, I almost forget about my dad and all my disgust and just focus on the way that the light sparks in E's eyes. She smiles, accepting the compliment, and says something that startles me before turning and walking down the block in the direction of her house.
"You look better when you're smiling."
I consider her words, consider the smile that I'm wearing, and suddenly I realise how much the smile hurts but doesn't because feeling happy just makes my heart flutter easier; it doesn't make me unhappy, and it doesn't press any horror into my throat. I practically dance back to my apartment but stop outside because the sun is dropping over the horizon and the sky is always the most beautiful at sunlight. The wind is mild and tepid, tickling the curls that push past my face. The light over the sky is just so vibrant and I'm surprised that I never saw it that way before.
I guess this is what it feels like when I'm happy. I want to keep these feelings in me forever.
Suicide.
When bad news hits you, it's not immediate. Your blood kind of rushes in your ears and you go quiet, trying to catch your breath again through the sudden pressure that pushes in on your chest and your heart isn't beating anymore, and you know that, because if it was, why would you feel so nauseous and gross and so quickly want to drop onto the floor and never get back up? The walls seem to press in on you and the pencil in your hand feels like it's made of lead and you can't really lift it anymore because the teacher's words cut into your head and you don't know if he's being serious or not but you hope to God that he's not because the alternative is unspeakably horrid. It'll be the second repetition that pounds it into your skull, though. That'll be what gets you, regardless of anything else that you might've come up with.
"John Laurens committed suicide last night."
It's not fucking funny, professor. Nobody's laughing. Let loose with your jest already.
I think my eyes are too dry to produce tears, because none come. My eyes find Lafayette, Angelica, a girl named Maria who I don't think knew John but I think knew enough- they're tearing up. Thomas Jefferson pretends that he has something in his eyes. I look at the rest of the class. E is covering her face. And then there's me. I think the reason that I don't process the teacher's words is that I don't believe them.
They just don't make sense! I think of his eyes, shining with happiness and.. content. He was ready to do something. I'd taken it to mean that he was ready to deal with his problems and force me out of my stupidity, but even as the class is given a moment of silence in his honour, my mind is making sense of it. He must have been ready to do it, even as he stood in front of me. He'd wanted to say something to me, but couldn't make himself. I realise that I'll never get to hear him say it. I'll never know what he thought, or why he wanted to tell me. I force down a lump from my throat and keep myself from crying because tears just make me think of dropping onto the floor in my bedroom all those months ago and I just don't want to do that. I bite the inside of my cheek and force down any raw emotion, letting my cold front take over and my eyes reach a dead formality. Better.
I think of the way that he patted my shoulder, the way that he always asked me if I was okay if I put up the slightest show of weakness. He was always ready to stand up next to me and put an arm in front of my chest to keep somebody from coming over and robbing me of my strength. I wonder about those eyes, wonder if I'll ever see any like them again. My hand is close to breaking my pencil now. So blue and so clear and so close to the sky that it could've taken my breath away. He had bad posture; always sat in the desk kind of lying back in the chair and looking like he didn't care much for the courses. But he betrayed it with those eyes. It was obvious how much he loved every part of our work and that he loved learning.
I wonder if I might have been able to find out who he really was, even if he hadn't died. The thought makes my gut pinch and the one question that pops back into my mind is why. Why he did it. Why he left me alone to deal with... whatever it was I might have been dealing with. I consider me, I consider the way that he always, always reached out to me. He made sure I was comfortable. He made sure I'd have a place to be, to fit in. And when he pulled away from me, I let him, too absorbed with the fact that I didn't enjoy a few touches to actually let myself care about him.
So it was my fault then.
I don't know if I came to the conclusion as the teacher led the class in a discussion about suicide. I wish he'd get back to the lesson, but life is what it is. I can only suppose that he feels obligated to do so. I then realise that I don't care, that I don't care about any of it. I never do my homework in this class. I never do my homework in any of my classes. I just drift along and let people believe that I'm selfish and cruel and lazy. And maybe I am. Maybe John saw that, and he wasn't selfish enough, so he let me believe that I hadn't hurt him irreparably before he killed himself.
What bothers me the most is that I really have no way of finding out. There's never been somebody in my life to tell me that anything isn't my fault, and, all things considered, I don't think it's needed, since I already know that it is. My fingernails only release my other arm when I realise how much the spots that they're digging into my skin hurt. I'm not sure what I'm doing or where I'm going, but when that class is wrapped up, I'm vaguely aware that I grab my belongings and stop by my locker to throw them inside before walking out of the school building entirely. I think somebody sees me leave and yells after me, but I don't care. I don't really care about anything. I still don't care when I reach the apartment and slip inside without knowing how. I think of my dad, tucking me into bed only for me to fall out of it again, and I decide that I don't care about him either.
I'm on the floor again before I can tell myself anything different, and my eyes close because there really isn't anything else that I can do.
Caring.
I don't think that I'm ever going to leave the apartment again. Sure, I'm running out of food, and there's only so long until they kick me out because I don't know how I'm going to pay the rent if I don't make an effort to open the envelopes that the government usually sends to sustain a teen that lives alone. I don't know if I care. Each day blurs into the night and I only see that it's day or night because the curtains can't hide the sharpest beams of sunlight and I'm not motivated enough to try to change that. The floor of my room is a mess, even though I haven't been doing anything other than forcing myself up to eat, drink, or use the bathroom every once and a while. I figured at one point that I'd find the motivation to do more, eventually, but now it doesn't seem to me like that's ever going to happen, and I frankly don't have enough motivation to care.
The floor is hard but lying on it gives me time to think. I trace patterns in the ceiling with my eyes and wonder how small I am in comparison to the rest of the world. I stay right here and nobody notices, nobody cares. I don't think that disappearing permanently would do anything. It sounds pretty nice, really. If John was able to get rid of himself so quickly, I think, brushing a thumb over my eye, then I think that I shouldn't be able to on my own time. I wonder if Peter, my dead cousin, thought the same thing when he killed himself. I wonder if my brother has ever wanted to die, my brother whom I haven't seen since dad left.
Dad. Fuck.
I picture my dad's face, illuminated by the reflections of the dying streetlights on the grey walls of the alleyway. His face as he loomed over me and held my wrists. That moment of total and complete helplessness, dominated by the feeling that nobody cares what he was doing, and if he could come back and do it again. He probably could, I realise, but what scares me more is that I don't care. I almost want him to come back, to take me off the floor and break me so bad that anybody who sees me will think that it would be worth it to just take a gun and blow me away, because I know that if I could make myself, that's what I would be doing. I wonder how dad would feel, if he knows. The jugged lines on his gaunt features might twist into distaste, the blue eyes that look so much like mine might even produce some tears.
His skin was so pale, there in the night. And his eyes were so consuming. His mouth whispered reassurances, I think, or maybe that's my imagination. I don't know anymore. I wonder if the way his hands slipped over my midsection, so dominant and so sure, was my imagination too. Maybe he was never even there. But the image of him looking at me, quivering there after pulling away, makes me think that it is real. He was real, and the way that he touched me was so real that I don't even know how to enunciate it. He was as real as the tears that make my eyes hurt and then disappear before they can drop down my cheeks.
The more I think of him, though, the more blurry the image gets, and the only thing that I can think of is that disgusting feeling in my gut that shows me that I am nothing more than an empty shell of somebody who might have had some sort of sense of humour. I don't know what or who I was before he was there in front of me and pinning me against the wall in the alleyway. I don't know what I was doing, and now, I guess I don't even know what I am doing. I consider John, so disgusted and horrified when he told me that I wasn't acting normal. But what was his definition of normal? I don't know, and I don't know how to feel when I see the faces of all the people that I let down.
Angelica. John. Lafayette.
Every name makes me hurt more, and I'm sitting up without knowing what I'm doing. There's a spot between my shoulder and my neck that hurts like hell and I wonder if I can get rid of it somehow. I'm walking over to my nightstand and looking around on the wooden desk, staring at the writing utensils that I had spent so much time at the beginning of the year choosing out. Back then, I think, I was planning to go to college and I was so excited to do that. I wanted to change the world, and I wanted to make some unspeakable name proud. Maybe I'd be making my dad proud, and getting him back. Well, I'd already done that.
Madison. Jefferson. Mr. Washington.
I wonder how much it would hurt if I stab myself. I don't test it, but I lift a steel ruler from the desk and decide that it's too blunt and stabbing myself with it would not only be exceedingly difficult, but very, very painful. I smile slightly, thinking of how much it had hurt when dad pushed me against the wall. It hurts almost as much to acknowledge that I don't care. I put down the ruler and leave my room, slipping into the kitchen and opening the drawer where I keep all of the utensils.
Mrs. Adams. Hercules. Mom.
I see my mom's brown eyes in my mind, I see them smiling. My mother smiled from her eyes, and everybody used to tell me that I had her smile. Maybe I used to have it. Maybe the kid Alexander was the sweet and sincere person that I used to consider myself to be. Before I got hooked on dishonestly like a special form of drug, and before I became too disgusting that I couldn't even let people see how horrible I am. I laugh, suddenly, and the sound is so horrible that I laugh harder, and more, until it hurts my stomach too and I feel like bending over and sobbing but the laughs don't stop. I'm gasping, choking, coughing hard enough that I might let my own horror overtake my lungs and choke to death.
Dad. E.
Her name, her letter, her startlingly sharp eyes pierce through my thoughts and I stop laughing, clutching the sides of the drawer and bending over because I don't want to do this. I don't want to hurt, and I know that I need to, but a practically vacant part of my heart is telling me that I really need to stop and think about this. Angelica told me that she'd already been hurt, that she needed somebody good. I only know that I'm not good, that I'm not good enough for her, and I think that anybody with eyes can see that. I bend my head, fighting the sobs that want to rake my body because I don't want to care about her but she's the only one that I care about and I just can't take how much it hurts me to see her face in my head.
I don't want to care. I don't care. I do care. I care. I care about Elizabeth Schuyler. I can't not care about her.
I think that's what coaxes the knife out of my hand and lets me drop onto the kitchen floor, hugging myself as I cry. I think that if my life was a movie, somebody that cares about me would barge into the room right now and hug me, telling me that everything that I've done is somehow not my fault and that I'm perfect in their eyes, and I don't have to worry anymore because they have me and they're here and I'm safe.
But my life is not a movie. My life is some twisted form of tragedy that people like to call reality and I can't even escape it because every time I try, E's face pops into my mind and I'm crying again. So instead of being safe and okay, I stay on the floor and cry, alone and unaware of how long I've been crying, and of how long I'll be crying.
Friends.
I probably stop crying at around midnight or so, but I don't get off the floor. I eventually move to lie on my side, ignoring the fact that I'm cold and my breath hitches with every inhalation. The floor is hard and the fact that I'm pitiful enough to actually just stay on the tile is enough to make me even more miserable. My eyes close at some point, my arms tucked into my body and my legs bent and curled by my chest. The lull of sleep is a horrible thing that I apparently don't get enough of, even though I think that I've been getting too much of it on the floor of my room.
When I wake up, though, I don't. I lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling, considering myself to be asleep still. I feel better, but I'm not sure, and by the time I'm off the floor, I'm about to get ready for school before my eyes catch on the clock on the microwave and I remember why I'm not going to school. A sigh leaves my lips and I shuffle into the living room, seeing the mess of papers that must have appeared there when I discarded my old binder and took one that didn't have any of those old assignments that I hadn't done. I hum, then, without much of a pause, drop to my knees and start to clean up the mess.
By three thirty in the afternoon, my small apartment is organised only because cleaning and putting things in the right places takes my mind off of thinking about how much the melancholy breaks through my skin. When I'm done, though, and all of my clothing is in the laundry and all of my bills are paid, I end up sitting down at my desk with the stack of late assignments and sifting through them. I don't really know what I'm doing or how I'm doing it, but as the time passes, I end up pushing through over half of my assignments in two hours. It's when I get up to get a drink of water that I figure that I have homework that I have neither received nor completed after being absent for so many days. I cough, continuing to drink from the cup before I realise that I can't call E like I just wanted to do because I don't have her phone number. I want to call John, but he's dead, and calling anybody else doesn't seem like an option.
After a moment, and after telling myself that I don't have to go to school anymore if I just finish all of those assignments and back away, I manage to bully myself into walking over to the desk and lifting the landline. I don't have enough money for a cell, but the landline is easy to manage, and it isn't long before I'm lifting the mouthpiece and dialing a number that I've long since called or considered calling.
Lafayette picks up on the second ring and speaks immediately. "I never thought that I'd actually check caller ID to see you calling me, Alexander." He sounds so sarcastic, and so emotionless that I almost choke and hang up. It occurs to me that I don't know what to say, and as I wait for the answer to come to me, I suddenly become aware that it isn't going to. I don't speak like molasses. I can't just speak and make Lafayette forgive me because I'm a horrible person.
"I, uh, thought that maybe I'd come up with some well versed speech to give to you. I thought that if I just said the right thing at the right time, you would suddenly understand everything and we'd magically become friends again and everything would be fine." I say, and startle myself with the honesty that I force from my throat. "But it occurred to me that it's really nothing that I can fix by speaking or crying or pleading for forgiveness because I know just how horrible I've been, and I know that you were just trying to make me not be horrible towards John, and maybe if I'd just listened to you and reached out to him he would be here and he would be fine but I didn't and now he's dead." It's a conscious decision not to ramble and stop sobbing again, but somewhere between explaining myself and saying that John is dead, I start quivering against the counter and have to start talking again before Lafayette can interrupt because I don't know how I'll gather up my nerve again if I don't. "It's my fault in that area, and I feel so horrible calling you for this because you are bound to know that but I just don't know who else to call and I'm fucking lost, dude."
Crying. I'm crying, now, and he's speaking, so I have to listen, even though I'm afraid of what he'll be saying.
"It sounds indelicate of me to say so, Alexander, but I do believe that the only person at fault for that John is dead is John himself." He's calm, so calm, and I wonder how he can ever sound so calming. "I hate to pardon such anguish that I am witnessing through conversing with you, but I think that he would agree that you did not contribute to his pain. I have wanted so much to blame somebody for what has occurred, and I have wanted to blame you and myself and the adults and his parents, but I cannot place blame because as you have already so masterfully enunciated, he is dead, and nothing can change that. We are welcome to yearn as we see fit, but it isn't as though it will bring him back to us."
He's sad, I think. He's as sad as me. Or even more. I can't really tell. "It would tear him apart to learn that we could not move on from his death. It isn't as though we must forget him, but I do believe that we should try to keep moving. Now, I ask you to take a few deep breaths and explain to me what form of assistance you require. I cannot guarantee that it will be fast, but I will hasten to assure you that it will be done."
"You're... going to help me?" I'm surprised, very surprised. He sounds gentle, almost as though he's properly equipped to deal with my drama. I would probably envy him if not for how grateful I am.
"Of course. We've had a falling out, but it does not change the fact that we are friends, Alexander." I hear the smile in his voice. "I will stick my neck out for you, as you would do the same thing for me." Would I do the same thing for him? I wonder about it now, wondering if I would really do that. Part of me says that I would, but a darker part of my heart tells me that I'm too selfish to do that, and that I shouldn't even try to deny it. I open my mouth to protest it, but I think of how kind he's been through this phone call, and I think of the prospect of starting another fight with him. My heart tells me that it couldn't do that, so I clear my throat and set to ask him to get to see that new counselor and ask him for the assignments that I've missed.
I think I forgot how nice Lafayette is. But he's already promising that he will and telling me to get some rest because he hopes to see me at school again soon. The dial tone plays before my ear all too soon and I'm dropping the phone onto the other piece. I'm not smiling, and I don't think that I'll be smiling again soon. But I'm not frowning either.
Sally.
I find an old locket in my drawer and it takes me a second to realise that it was my mom's. I stare at the old piece of jewellery, glancing at the near-finished homework assignment on my desk that I just have to finish before I can go to school tomorrow and be done with it all. But I look back to the locket after a moment and stand without really realising what I'm doing. I'm already striding to the door and stepping into my shoes, hand grasping a coat and tossing it over my shoulders before I actually walk out of the apartment in its entirety. The street is wet with the rain that I don't think I knew was there, but I walk right past all the dripping and all of the cold.
There's always a place in a big city where homeless people hang out. My family traveled a bit before mom was dead, and she always showed us the place. Sometimes it would be under a bridge, or behind an old factory building. I don't know why they choose those places to form a community, but I usually try to slip the guilt into my pocket as I walk past those places because I don't have any money and I can't help them the way I want to. This time, though, my feet take me to the one near my apartment. I wish sometimes that I lived in a universally safe neighborhood, but I can't really say that it would be making my current purpose any easier anyway so I don't care at the moment.
The place isn't big, but these places are only the size that the spots allow. There are probably fifteen families here, maybe less. Most are really small and look terribly well off, but my eyes are caught by a single mother. She stands, brushing the hair of a little girl that must be her daughter. Both women are dark skinned with large, doe-like eyes. I can see that they have the wears of time, but something in the mother's eyes catches my attention and I walk over there. When she looks at me, it's with a distrustful glare, and it occurs that I don't know what to say to her. I hum, then shrug off my coat and hand it to her, because she's small and looks like she could use some warmth. The clouds are prominent and the wind is strong right now. She looks at the coat, probably thinks a bit about what she's about to accept, then takes it from me with a smile.
"Thank you. You're too young to be here, child. It's best you get home." Her tone is so soft and she sounds like she could be screaming at any moment right now. Her eyes remind me of my eyes, I think, and that must be why I walked over. Still, now I don't know what I'm doing, and I start to turn around, stepping away as the mother moves over to tuck the coat into a shabby sleeping bag. It's when a tiny hand grasps mine that I turn back and stare right into the dark patterned eyes of her daughter.
"Don't go yet, please." She whispers, and the sound of her voice makes me bend over and take one of her hands in mine, because she just sounds so sad and I can't pull away from her like this. She must be seven years old, but her face is lined with the creases of age and her eyes are even older. Her expression is pleading. "Mommy has been hurt badly, and she doesn't smile much anymore. But you made her smile, so don't leave yet."
The simplicity of the request and the sincerity in her voice are what coax a tentative smile out of me, bringing me to incline my head in a bit of a nod and follow as she tugs me back over to sit down next to her and her mother.
"If you won't heed my words," says the mother in question, hands on her hips and a very motherly look on her features, "The least you could do is introduce yourself. What's your name? Do you live around here?" She sounds a little exasperated, but she's smiling, and her daughter has a bit of a goofy gleam in her eyes. Seeing the sharp contrast in the way that they look, sitting here in front of me and watching my movements to how they looked before gives me a squeeze of happiness. I remember Charles, hugging me in the hallway, and I compare the way that his happiness made me felt to the way that theirs does. I decide that it's almost the same.
"Alexander," I say, cutting myself off before I say my surname because I feel as though it isn't necessary for this interaction and the smile that the little girl has. "And I just live in an apartment a few blocks away from here. Do you guys have names, or should I give you some?" I add the second part more for the girl's benefit, offering to her a large grin that edges on playful. She giggles, bouncing a little in her seat.
"I'm Betty." Her mother slips in, ruffling her daughter's wavy hair. She has an affectionate gleam in her eye that I see reflected in the smaller version. They're both clearly related, with the same shape in their faces and the same set of their eyes, but something about Betty's complexion strikes me as different. "And this is Sally, my beautiful daughter." She adds, pressing a kiss to the top of Sally's head.
Sally humphs, looking up at her mother and offering a toothy grin. "I prefer the term unavoidably gorgeous." She corrects in a mild tone, and both giggle as if they're sharing some sort of inside joke. I look at Sally, now, considering her vocabulary and considering the air about her. I know that she definitely isn't in school, but the doesn't stop me from bringing up the topic. And when her mother repeats the information that I had already surmised, I feel the need to start telling Sally about school. She seems excited, almost hopeful about it. The biggest part of the conversation is when she says that she wishes that she could go to school and learn how to read like her mother can't do. That hits me in a sore spot and I don't really know why until I remember my own childhood on Nevis. I remember that I didn't have official schooling until we left the island. That was how it had been, and I figure that Sally won't get to go to school until she's off the street.
I don't offer to take them home, because that would be weird, but I want to do something for them. My hand slides into my pocket and feels the locket. I don't know why I brought it with me, or why I came here to begin with, but it doesn't occur to me that I'm a lot happier talking to them than I've been in weeks until Betty says that it's getting really late and I need to go.
Truth be told, the sky got dark probably a few hours ago. I just ignored it because I was so happy to be watching Sally's simple childlike happiness and Betty's quiet wisdom. "Oh, right." I say, and get up. Betty and Sally get up too, the latter hurrying forward and hugging my legs because she isn't tall enough to reach any higher. "Hey, don't worry, I'll come by again tomorrow." I make the promise before I'm aware of it, but I figure that it's worth it because Sally smiles.
Then she falters, which I've never seen a child do. "How do I know that you're really coming back?" She asks, suddenly uncertain. Her eyes are clouded with sadness and a little bit of hope. I don't know what answer to give to her, since I don't really trust myself, but I end up reaching into my pocket and pulling out my mother's locket. It's smooth and a slight brass colour, tinted with the sheen of time. It still smells like her, which I ignore as I clasp it around Sally's neck and smile at her surprised expression. She's probably never gotten a piece of jewellery in her life. I think that's the last piece of my mother that I have. But then, when I see the elation that filters into her eyes, I decide that it's worth it a million times over.
"I'll be back tomorrow. Take that as a promise, okay?" I ask, and when she nods, I nudge her shoulder and watch her run over to her mother. Betty meets my eyes, now, mouthing a silent "thank you," and I take that as my cue to get up and go. I don't even consider how dark it is because my mind is still filled with thoughts of Sally and her mother.
Busy.
I do keep coming back to see Sally and Betty, and before long, I start taking some of my old school books and an empty notebook and teaching Sally how to read and write. The process is fun because she's such a fast learner. Her smile whenever she catches onto something or her eyes whenever she spots me making some form of mistake always pulls this huge grin onto my face. I've pushed any thoughts of my dad from my mind and let her and her mother fill my head. Though, suddenly, even though teaching her isn't exactly a short deal, I end up going back to school once I finish all of my old assignments. I even talk to my teachers, explaining that it suddenly got very hard for me to do my homework and I didn't know how they'd react.
When every single one of them accepts it and tells me that they're glad to have me back in class, I'm immeasurably surprised, but it makes me really happy to hear how kind each and every one of them is. Now that my thoughts are dominated, it's much easier to smile and talk to people. As I think about it, I realise that I've actually almost forgotten about what happened with my dad. It doesn't matter, though, does it? I'm busy, and my smile comes on naturally now.
Beyond that, E is consistently sitting down next to me at lunch. She's taken to wearing a regular jacket without the hood up and keeps her hair in a ponytail. She smiles often, talks even more. Part of me wonders what brought the change, but I'm too distracted to ask about it.
Between school, Sally, and trying to keep busy around the house, I don't sleep or eat much at all. I don't know what it is, but a darker part of me that prefers to lurk in the shadows tells me that I need to keep moving. Every moment of my life is being spent in constant movement, and when I'm moving, my smile comes easy and my breath is endless. But the second I take a break and try to relax, my thoughts drift back to standing over the drawer in the kitchen and I have to stop myself from repeating the experience.
Okay. So maybe I'm not very happy. But I feel better. I feel something. And something is more than nothing.
As I walk out of the school building with my backpack slung over my shoulder and start down the block, however, E jogs up next to me and puts a hand on my arm. I look at her, taking in her exuberance over a surprised front and smile, raising my eyebrows. "Hey, where are you headed?" I ask, considering the possibility that I could walk her home or to the place that she might be going alternatively. She shrugs, throwing out her arms before settling into pace next to me.
"I don't know. I was wondering where you're headed, actually." When I give her a questioning look, she elaborates, her words quick and taking on an almost panicked edge to them that implies that she didn't plan out what she was going to say. "You've just been rushing off every day, consecutively, after school. Regardless of the precipitating circumstances, here you go, and you don't have time to talk to anybody or anything." She hums, continues, but softer. "I just wanted to know what's got you so busy."
I look at E, wonder how she went from the reclusive girl who draws in the corner of the cafeteria to a girl who smiles and interacts like it takes her no effort at all. I guess that it doesn't matter, and truthfully, I'm really glad that she's suddenly able to be so strong when all I can do to stand up is go and teach a little girl to read. "You can come with me today, if you want. I don't think there's a better way for me to show you why I'm occupied." I definitely don't think that I can summarise it in words. If I try to tell her just what Sally and Betty mean to me, I won't be able to. I wouldn't be able to show how their smiles affect me, or how when Sally learns how to write a word, she writes it on my hand just so that she can show everybody that she can. Even thinking about it makes me smile, and my thoughts must drown out the words that E speaks before she drops into a contemplative silence beside me. We walk the rest of the way insufferably quiet, but the silence gives me time to think about teaching Sally today.
Our arrival and introductions are quick and pleasant; E smiles brightly and Betty seems to like her, because the two exchange more than a few kind words before I start talking to Sally, who is brimming with excitement. I don't know if I've ever known somebody who's as smart or willing to learn as Sally is, and I love her eagerness. It's been making a cold winter turn into a bit less of a harsh environment, giving me a reason to trudge forward.
The lesson goes by too quickly. I think the sun sets way too soon for my liking, and already I'm tucking a strand of hair behind Sally's hair and telling her that she should continue studying but not get too fussy with it. Then I'm standing, and E is saying goodbye, and we're walking away from the two in the dark. E is quiet, and I think she's too tired to speak to me until she starts to talk.
"Alexander, they're really nice, but I can't help but get the feeling that you're...," she pauses, almost as if looking for the right word before she continues. "Trying to fill a gap in your life with helping them." She bites her lip, looking nervous as if I'll be angry, but I'm just confused, so I stop walking and look at her.
"What do you mean?" I ask, and tilt my head to the side. I don't like what she's saying. It sounds to me that she's worried about me, and trying to pull me away from something that she considers to be a bad thing, but Sally and Betty are by no means a bad thing. Those smiles aren't a bad thing. The way that Sally takes in the education makes her so much more than an inconvenience.
"I don't mean that you should stop helping them! It's really very sweet of you to stop by there and help Sally to learn to read- I think the effort that you're making on her is going to speak volumes. I just... I think you should try to worry about yourself a bit more, y'know? Try to find the confidence in yourself that helping them gives you through means other than helping them." Now she looks really nervous, and even though I feel a little bad about it, I don't want her to be so concerned about my business, and I can't really think about listening to her advice because I don't want to care about myself.
"I... thank you, but I can take care of myself." I say, and suddenly my voice is colder than I want it to be, and I realise that the me that made Lafayette hate me is about to hurt E and I need to pull away, but instead, I keep talking. "I don't think it's your business to tell me how to deal with my own problems. Being able to help that family gives me a little bit of validation and I just honestly want to be helping them right now. I'd appreciate it if you just stayed out of it." Fuck, no, I hate how the words spill out and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to make myself shut up.
"If you won't accept a little advice, Alexander, that's fine." E tells me, and I can tell that she's already been hurt by my words and there is no way to take them back. Her eyes are closed off, and any traces of a smile in her face are gone. "I'm just trying to fulfill my responsibility as your friend." Then she's turning, and before I can stop her, she's gone, and I have nothing left to do but trudge back home and slide into the seat in front of my desk to do my homework.
Angelica.
I'm walking home from the homeless camp now, my hand tucked under the strap of my backpack. It's been a few months, and maybe my perception of time is foggy, but time has all blurred together and it's hard for me to be able to tell what's real and what's not. E still hasn't spoken to me, and each day that draws by pushes me closer and closer into doing something reckless. I inhale and keep a grip on my surroundings, eyes drawn to the cracks on the sidewalk until I become acutely aware that I'm not moving anymore because somebody's grabbed onto me.
It's a fast action that has me managing to turn around, drop my backpack, and end up pinned against my father's chest. A feeling rises in my chest, pushing forward the surmounting panic and disgust and horror that he's actually holding me here and staring at me with that sick grin on his face. I don't know how to feel now, but I figure that he's just needing closure because I don't pull out of the hug until he releases me and I'm able to step back successfully. My shaking is only moderate and hidden well by the cover of darkness.
"Dad, hi, um.." I say, then trail off as he brushes a hand over my cheek. I set my jaw and keep talking, even as he's slowly tracing his hand over my neck and is probably planning on going further. "I actually have to-" I want to tell him about how much homework I have, but he's shushing me and stepping forward. I know what it is. Dogs do it too. He's trying to back me into the wall, and if I show any signs of submission, he'll be encouraged and go for it. I don't think he can actually smell the pheromone that fear puts out, but then again, the look in his eyes as he tries to push me backwards is enough to tell me just how similar to a canine my dad actually is. I have to stop him somehow, I think, then I consider why he's suddenly here. His shoulders are so tense, and the realisation is enough to stop me and let me drop my shoulders. He must be stressed out. That's the only explanation for it. Now I'm berating myself for being selfish, unable to do anything because-
"Hey, Alexander, there you are!" It's Angelica's voice, and I'm surprised to see her materialise out of the darkness and loop her arm through mine, pressing an exaggerated kiss into my cheek before dropping back and pretending that she's just seen my dad. "Who's this guy?" Her tone is perfectly orchestrated and I can hear that she's trying to break me out of this. It dawns on me that she's helping, that she's actually here and saving me, and I forsake the discomfort at the physical contact for one moment and gesture at my dad as nonchalantly as possible.
"This is just my dad, uh, Angie." She smiles at me, a sideways smile, as if praising the fact that I caught on. "He's just saying hi, though." I add, and when my dad looks at me, his eyes are a little angry.
"Alex," I cringe over the nickname and Angelica definitely notices but she lets it fly under the radar. "Who's this?" I'm about to freeze, not sure what to say about Angelica, because I don't want to go over a boundary or oversell it. But she must be even better at lying than I am because her next words sound so natural that even I feel exasperated at my dad for not being up to date on the program.
"Hello, um, Angelica Schuyler? His girlfriend?" She rolls her eyes, very obviously mouthing the word "DUMB" at me before looking at my dad and loudly chewing some gum that I didn't notice that she'd had. She's playing off the dumb school-girl look very well, and through the darkness, nobody can see the intelligence in her eyes. Though, through her voice, I almost think that she could play it off through broad daylight too. I feel a flutter of thankfulness that she's here, suddenly, and find myself cherishing the fact that she's next to me and keeping me calm. Maybe the reliance is ridiculous because she's E's older sister, not mine, but her grip on my arm stabilises me in a way that I don't think I've ever witnessed before. "Come on, babe, daddy's expecting us home like right now." She adds, emphasising the word "daddy" almost as if to point out to my father that if he detains either of us, he'll be in big trouble.
"Right, well, nice catching up with you, Alex." Dad actually reaches out and ruffles my hair, and his hand on my scalp is enough to shock me forward and get me to grab my backpack before looking at Angelica, silently asking why she just helped me.
"Even if Eliza is angry at you," Angelica says, beckoning me forward. "I'm still playing the role of your favourite older sister." She winks, and I laugh slightly, mostly wanting to know why she's suddenly leading me down the road in the direction of her mansion. As if to answer my question, though, she starts to talk. "We don't want to lie to your dear old dad, Alexander." She snorts, almost as if it's obvious, before continuing. "And besides, my house is bigger and gives more room to recuperate. I think you need some of that."
When I get in passenger seat, I smile, buckling up and relaxing against the seat cushion. "Thank you, Angelica." I manage, despite the fact that I really don't want to talk.
"Any time. Now try to sort out your problems, because Eliza is going to ask about all of them when we get there."
Breakdown.
Angelica isn't a liar, not that I doubted her for a moment. The second I'm inside and my bag is in the closet, E is in front of me, and she's upset. I don't know what about, but it's only a matter of seconds before I realise that she's going to ask about what happened to me. I wonder how she knows what just happened. Part of me thinks that Angelica texted her or something when I couldn't see it happening. That must've been the case, I think, and hum to myself. I supposed I can't really afford to be angry at her because she was just doing it to help me, and after that save there, I couldn't be angry with her if I tried. So I speak before E does, in a rush to try to divert her anger. "Hey, E, I'm really sorry about telling you to back off, I don't know what I was-," it doesn't work because she's too smart for that.
"Alexander, what the fuck happened to you the day we met?" She asks, and my horror must show through my face because she softens, explains. "You were different that day, but when you came to school the next day, something had changed, and then you started changing each time I saw you. Angelica said that your father showed up in the dark today and tried to hurt you. Does he hit you?" I can tell that she's panicked because she wastes no time on tact and lets all of the words spill out with little regard for the consequences. But it doesn't make me want to throw up any less.
"No, I- my father doesn't- I never-," shit, somebody teach me how to talk. I try to compose myself and start again, breathing slower this time. "That day he just popped back into my life and I was really shocked to see him again, that's all. I guess today he was upset or something but it's alright." That last part is true. It's true that he was stressed, and it's true that I don't care what he does to me. It isn't as if I don't deserve the pain that comes with it.
"That's a lie." E accuses, and I'm frozen. "He had to have done something to you. What did he do? Did he beat you up? I just want to know so I can help you, Alexander." She pauses, and apparently sees that I can't answer. She must take that to mean that her words are true because now she reaches out and puts a hand on my arm. "It's alright, you know. Having an abusive parent doesn't make you any less of a person. We'll just send him to prison."
"Alexander, if he hits you, other people need to know." Angelica is adding, and suddenly I feel overwhelmed and dizzy. I want them to stop ganging up and trying to get me to admit to something that isn't true. He's never hit me. He's touched me, made me feel gross, maybe even manipulated me a little bit, but he never, never hit me. "We won't judge you, I promise."
"You can trust us. Just answer my question." E is quieter, more reserved. She looks pained, almost, as if she really wants to help me. I feel bad, now, almost like I let her down somehow. "Did your father-"
"No, he didn't hit me!" And now I'm jerking away from both of them, unable to keep the tears from building in my eyes and the trembling from my shoulders. I feel exhausted and disgusting and I want to vomit but I need them to stop caring about me right now because I'm liable to burst. "He's never once hit me, and it still hurts! I doubt you'd understand what he did to me!" I'm so loud, and my voice is so broken into pieces.
"Try me!" E is yelling too, following after me and trying to stop me from throwing myself into oblivion. "Alexander, I've felt a lot of pain before! How can you just tell me that and not tell me what happened?"
And then the words leave my lips before I can take them back, regret making my face turn white. "He raped me, alright?" They're quiet, now. E is dropping her hands and standing there, surprised. Angelica's expression is twisted in horror, and all I know is that I wish I could take those words back. "He fucking raped me! I say you understand because you don't- you can't possibly understand how it feels to be pinned against a wall by your own father and only be assured by the knowledge that you're your fault!" I'm crying, on the verge of letting loose everything that I've held inside for months, now. And then, as if strengthened by the thought, I do just that. "I've been waking up for months to know and think and see that I'm gross, and that nobody cares that I'm suddenly broken, because nobody fucking cares enough to even ask me why I'm being rude or why I'm suddenly dishonest! And the worst part of it is that they did care, and they do care, but I pushed them away because I didn't want to get them involved. I lost all the friends that I had except for you, E! I- I just wanted to let myself fall away, to let myself fade away into the darkness, but I couldn't even do that because I knew that somebody else would be the one to fall after me and I'm just so done and I'm so tired and I'm so scared and I just want maybe to see that John didn't kill himself because he thought I hated him or that I was a good enough son to my mom or that maybe I don't destroy everything I touch and I didn't deserve to- to-"
The way that it feels to completely break can't really be described in words. All I can say is that a tidal wave of grief presses down onto my chest and makes me crumple, falling right there in the living room. Only E is right in front of me and helping me onto the couch and she's suddenly crying too and now I wonder if it's my fault that she's upset. I'd be wiping away her tears if I could actually see her face through the mess of it all. I don't want to speak, or to exist, or to let any of this shit happen, but now she's whispering to me and pressing back my hair with a certain delicacy.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." She can't bring herself to say anything else, and I guess that I don't want to make her and I don't want to ruin the moment, because all I whisper is that it isn't her fault before allowing her to hug me and just... repeat her apologies. There's almost a peacefulness to it, and the moment is too delicate to sum up by speaking.
Recovery.
Putting dad in prison is only the first part of it, but it really feels satisfying to know that I will never have to see him again.
The thought that E promised to be by me all this time is gratifying, especially because our senior year is almost over now. Philip Schuyler ended up buying a house for Betty and Sally, deciding that he could screw the affordably housing crisis and send Sally to school. She starts second grade, next year, because the superintendent of the school district told me that I had advanced her to a third grade level but she's still at the second grade age, and he felt that she would fit in there better anyway.
I start speaking out around community centers and schools, talking about the homeless situation and the fact that guys can get raped too. I just don't want the same thing to happen to somebody else, I suppose, and there's no better story that can bring an audience to tears.
Lafayette puts himself out there, proving that the bounds of friendship can do anything. When I tell the court about my dad, it turns out that somebody else is inspired by my decision and tells the court about his own.
Charles Lee deserves a medal.
But the most amazing thing is that suddenly, people at school don't give me a distrustful look as I walk by, but they give me an admiring, respect filled look. I always expected them to turn their noses up and judge my situation, but at least half of the kids at school told me personally how brave they think I am and how much they think I deserve in life.
I never thought of myself as brave before.
Maybe life is hard, and maybe there are those days when I still just need to lie on the kitchen floor. But I got excellent scores on the SATs and I'm going to college to become a teacher. I can't call this a happy ending because I still get flashbacks and when people touch me, I still get wigged out, but it's better than anything that I ever expected from my life, and it certainly gives me the feeling that I'll pull through the hard times.
Beyond that, there's a little girl out there who wears my mother's locket and proudly tells people her name. She channels my mother's spirit really fucking well, and I'm proud to say that I know Sally Hemings. She's going to go places, and even if I don't, she's going to leave an imprint on the world that'll leave people wondering forever.
As for me...
E and I go to prom together. It's a small gesture and we aren't really dating yet, but when she sneaks us outside into the trees and puts her head on my shoulder as the sun goes down, it means so much more than a date.
There comes a point when life is too much to bear. But when the storm calms down, I think I can safely say that my scab is ready to be picked off.
End.
Author's note: There's a lot to say, here, so let's get to it.
1. Hamilton's parents were named Rachel Fawcette and James Hamilton. Hamilton was not a rapist, to the extent of my knowledge, but what is done is done. Child abuse exists, y'all, and boys get raped too.
2. All names mentioned in this story are historical figures.
3. One could question why I put Jefferson as being as old as Alexander and Seabury as a lot older. Simply for creative purposes. Seabury was historically 28 or 26 years older than him, so you can't really depict Samuel Seabury as a smol child. I thought the role of counselor was fitting.
4. Mrs. Adams is Abigail Adams.
5. All characters with a few exceptions are pretty out of character, which isn't exactly my norm. But I roleplay quite a lot, and I developed E's personality there. Alexander was somebody that I brought up over the course of this story, and the rest of the cast is simple.
6. John Laurens was a reckless asshole, and thus, I put him here as a reckless asshole. I acknowledge that my portrayal isn't perfect, but don't yell at me because I didn't put him as a shy turtle lover.
7. This was a drabble. Very much so. None was planned and all came out as better than I expected.
8. Historical appearances were used for this, as I truly love the way that Alexander looked historically.
9. Charles Lee was actually abused by his parents.
10. I put Lee and Alexander as being on friendly relations as I thought it appropriate- and if you do some studying, you'll find that Alexander didn't hate Lee as much as you'd think.
11. Alexander isn't the only one who was sexually assaulted in here! Lee, Betty, and Laurens are all presumed to have some past in being hurt. Sally has it in her future from none other than Angelica's friend, Thomas Jefferson. I considered putting E as the protagonist and reversing the situation, or even making it so that she could sympathise a little better, but in the end, I decided to refrain, as I don't want to hurt my bean.
12. I put a total of one song reference in here. Terribly sorry for the lack of fandom induced cringe.
That's about all. But I hope you garnished some form of entertainment from this far too long piece of work, and I hereby bid you adieu!