Word Count: 1,023
and peggy
Peggy is thirteen the first time she sees things that aren't there.
She's not insane, even if she's very much aware she sounds like it. Or, well she would sound like it, if she ever talked to someone about it.
Peggy is perfectly alright, she knows that the things she sees aren't really there.
At least, not where she is at that moment, because she is certain that what she sees is real. She can't explain how she knows if she tried, it's just a truth that resonates deep inside her.
Somewhere, at some point, all the things she sees happen. Or have happened. Or will happen. There's no logical reason to differentiate, except for the vague sense of placement the fashion occasionally provides.
She doesn't know what is happening to her, why she sees these things, and a part of her is convinced that she will never discover the answer to either of those questions.
A ship is burning on its way over the sea.
Peggy can't tell where it came from or where it is going, but she knows that the man standing there calmly amidst the flames is going to be very important one day.
Over the years, Peggy has been getting increasingly better and better at hiding she sees things.
She knows the signs well by now, knows when to excuse herself and retreat to her room, so that no one sees her collapse or look into the void of nothingness.
She also started to write down whatever visions she has that seem important. It is an attempt to see if what she sees it connected, if she actually sees what is coming, but she can't put them in any order that makes sense.
A small child, dressed in expensive clothes that were in fashion when she was around that age as well, is playing on a swing.
The child—somehow Peggy knows that this kid is not a boy, even if that is what the appearance suggests—jumps up and away from the swing.
The child doesn't fall, not exactly. The thing that is happening here, it can be described better by, well, floating, even if none of it makes any sense.
The older Peggy gets, the more convinced she becomes that these things she sees are very important and should lead her to some conclusion, but she cannot figure it out on her own.
Asking her sisters is out of the question. She is too afraid of being rejected, of being told that she is simply imagining things.
Peggy knows her sisters well, she knows that they are far more likely to help her, far more likely to figure this all out than they are to actually do something like this, but no one ever claimed that fear was rational.
A bright—almost too bright—light is falling, closer and closer to the earth.
It is flickering, as if hurt, as if it was in horrible pain.
And then, suddenly, there is a mother in labour, all bloody, just finishing to press out her child.
"It is a boy!" the midwife announces.
The vision ends before Peggy can hear a name.
The Revolution breaks out and Peggy knows that, while this is not the event she has been foreseeing, these two things are very much connected in ways she does not yet understand.
She doesn't grasp what is happening in her visions, she is overwhelmed by blood and sobs and the cries of children.
It is the one vision that repeats, and yet Peggy can never concentrate on the faces or voices enough to figure out if she recognizes them.
A young boy is being taught to aim by a man whose face screams of loss.
The man calls the boy by his name, but Peggy cannot hear it. She only hears what the man says next, "Promise me that you will continue to fight for God's plan. Swear, that you will defend humanity from any and all evil that threatens it."
The boy swallows, then he stands proudly. "I will, grandfather."
In the winter of 1780, there is a ball that she and her sisters all attend.
And both Angelica and Eliza fall for the same man. Alexander Hamilton is his name, and his intelligent eyes are almost all of his assets.
Peggy knows Hamilton from somewhere and she is almost certain it is from one of her many visions.
She doesn't know from which one, and even if she did, it would not have mattered.
Eliza is happy at his side.
A babe is being cleaned up after birth by a man that does not fit the scene.
He doesn't seem to be the father as surely that must be the man consoling the exhausted mother, but yet he looks at the child with parental glee.
The figure speaks to the babe in a language Peggy has never heard before. It is very melodic and the syllables sound almost as if they were sung.
Kind of...angelic. Yes, that is a great description, Peggy can feel it.
Eliza and Alexander get married and the two of them begin to have child after child. The births all go over surprisingly well.
Until, eventually, one very much doesn't.
Peggy's sister dies and she is followed by her youngest son, by the child she gave her life for, mere days later.
Alexander keeps working and working for a week after that, while Peggy takes care of her wonderful nieces and nephews.
They are connected by their blood, but also by their loss.
A man is walking down the road. For a second, he seems like he is somewhere else entirely.
"No," he says. "No, I will not do that. You can forget that idea, as I have told you dozens of times already."
Peggy doesn't see who the man is speaking to, but oddly enough, she seems to be the only one with this problem.
She really wishes she knew what is going on.
Actually, once Peggy discovers what is happening, she wishes she never found out.
Sweet, sweet oblivion of ignorance. One only learns to appreciate it once it is gone.
And now, guess!