One morning, I woke up and found that the birds were singing and that the sun was blazing brightly; burning through my flimsy curtains. I had thrown my equally as thin blanket off of my thighs – apparently, I had tossed and turned throughout the night. This was not a shock to me, especially considering the date that it was; a date that had come to haunt me: July 11th.

My name is Aaron Burr, and it was on this date that I shot Alexander Hamilton; fatally wounded him and ended his life.

He was a man who served America as if it truly was his own country, he was more loyal than those born on American soil. Honestly? He was an inspiration to many; he influenced young minds and showed the world that you could do anything if you worked hard enough – and that you could just as easily destroy your own inspiration: your own legacy. He was a man who could have achieved so much more if it wasn't for me.

I got up, despite being aware of the hatred and glares I would get from the strangers of the street, and got dressed. I dressed myself in my slightly baggy attire (I have lost a little bit of weight since I committed the crime and lost my position as a valued politician). Then…I stopped and looked into my cracked mirror – could this have been the bad luck that allowed my shot to strike him between the ribs? Was this the bad luck that caused my impatience?

In one, simple word: no. I shot him between the ribs in an attempt to 'better' America and several lives – including my own. I shot him in an impulsive act of vengeance; I challenged him in an attempt to better my own political pursuit; I shot him to spare my daughter from being left as an orphan…

My daughter, Theodosia.

I was selfish. Simply, bluntly written: I was selfish.

As I looked into the mirror, the cracks seemed to make sense. It distorted my own image, or did that make it clearer? Was that really me? The fool who threw away their own legacy; the fool who disappointed their deceased family members; the fool who was too young and blind to see.

I continued to look, my eyes darting over the guilt-ridden features across the entirety of my face, that are more prominent than my deepened wrinkles engraved into my skin. I continued to look until…

I must have become delusional, as I found myself standing on the side-lines; next to the doctor (who had their back turned away from the scene); watching two young men fiddle with guns. I could hear the clinking sounds, as they fiddled skilfully with the triggers.

My eyes wandered downwards, and I found myself looking upon my now muddied shoes. The aglet part of my laces was stuck into the thick earth, it was as if they were the roots holding me in place – like I was a tree seeking stability. My eyes trailed upwards to look upon the surrounding trees, that almost seemed to be leaning over me; watching me and threatening me. I could even go as far as them listening to me, my thoughts and...

Tears pricked my eyes as I identified the two men standing before me: one with slumped shoulders and the other with a stiffened body. There wasn't a doubt in my mind.

It was Alex and I.

The man with the slumped shoulders was sliding his scratched glasses onto his saddened face; that saddened face that seemed to need a shave. Behind those scratches it was clear that agony and fear was overwhelming the entirety of him, agony and fear that the other man was unknowing of. The fear of repeating mistakes; the fear of hurting his dear Eliza – again – and the fear of losing.

The other man? He was watching the other man, but without the depth I was looking at him from. He was looking at him through his own lenses; lenses that were even less clear than the scratched lenses. His lenses were biased, and his courage came from the fear of his daughter losing everything all too early; from the fear of her living the same life that he did (in a society that was not ready for her influence).

I found my breath caught and my heart racing, as a new sound ran through my ears and echoed throughout my mind: the counting up to 10.

I watched as they began pacing away from one another, one filled with determination and the other filled with complete and utter fear. Step after step… Each second seemed to last minutes.

In those seconds, I seemed to understand what the trees were doing… They were listening to me, the me in the moment. They were catching my negative thoughts as if they were dream catchers, but even with the vast woodland attempting this, there just wasn't enough. I kept walking with only one intent in mind.

Only three words could escape my lips in a breathy whisper: 'Wait for it…'

He couldn't hear my weak cries; he couldn't see that he was tainting his own future; he couldn't see that he was losing everything he stood for. The one time he couldn't see past the one narrow corridor of opportunity was the one time he should have had doubt.

10.

I cried out, at the very top of my lungs: 'Wait for it!'

Where I found myself on my knees, in front of the cracked mirror once again. My breath was heavy and frantic; my eyes were stinging with tears that were still streaming down my face, dampening my cheeks with something more than cold sweat and my whole body was weak: I was weak. I was shaking violently, as my teeth chattered together in between loud gasps for air.

As I looked up to the mirror with blurred eyes, I saw a flicker of my younger self; my former self and who I am now. I swallowed thickly a couple of times, before I eventually forced myself back onto my feet.

Why did I have to be so impulsive? How many times do I have to apologise to be able to forgive myself?

I am so sorry; very sorry; immensely sorry.

As I looked down to my muddied shoes, I couldn't help but reflect: could that have been real? Is this really just a nightmare? Am I the one bleeding out, on the ground, with elaborate horrors consuming my mind?

Why didn't I wait for it?