WHEN I OPEN my eyes, I see the sunlight shining through my window. I frown, confused for a moment as I blink the bleariness away. I groan, tilting my head to one shoulder and then to the other as I slowly start to rouse up. I press a hand to my forehead. It feels as though someone is slamming my head with a sledgehammer.
I hear beeping noise next to me as I prop myself up on one elbow, the bedsheets falling off of my chest and to my lap. I rub my temple in a circular motion, in hopes it will help soothe this pounding migraine. Unfortunately, it doesn't work. I scan my surroundings. I'm not at the party, that's for sure. I feel the bedsheets around me. Soft and silky, smooth, a little crinkly and ruffled. I see my desk on my right side of the bed, underneath the windowsill with my laptop closed and my unfinished stories scattered everywhere along with homework from school. I see my dresser and my closet in front of the bed and my nightstand next to me. My phone on the nightstand, plugged into its charger and beeping, buzzing against the wooden table underneath. I grab it, and quickly press the "CANCEL" button. I check the time. 7:15 in the morning.
I click the phone off and flop back down on the bed, groaning, my auburn hair sprawling around me in a sea of dark red. I sit up straight instantly. Wait a minute... My hair was up in its usual ponytail last night. My eyes snap open. Last night... Last night... What...What happened last night? Last night...
I flip the bedsheets off of me and swing my legs around the edge of the bed. I jolt up, not caring about tidying it and sprint down the stairs, my bare feet thumping against the wooden stairs, my heart pounding. I jog down the steps while my hand grips the rail, breathing fast. I skid to a stop when I reach the bottom step, my eyes still wide, my jaw dropped. I'm not at Tilghman's place that's for sure. I don't hear booming music. I don't see flashing lights. I don't see guys making out with girls. I don't see Tilghman himself. I don't see him.
What I do see though, is George at the dining room table with his circular reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He flips through his newspaper, occasionally taking a sip or two of his coffee. His computer open and set off to the side with a brief case on the seat next to his. Martha stands in the kitchen, one hand on her hip while the other holding the frying pan, making breakfast. It feels empty. It feels quiet. It feels cold, like we're missing someone. And we are. Lafayette...
"Alexander!" George says, a small smile on his face as he looks up from his paper. "You're awake!" He frowns. "You alright, son?"
"Where am I?" I ask breathlessly, slowing down on the steps. George and Martha casts worried glances at each other before turning to me.
"You're home, honey," Martha says. "You feeling alright, Alexander? You look like you saw a ghost..."
"What—"
"You fell asleep last night at his house," George explains. "He told me you and him were doing a project for Biology together after dinner last night and you end up falling asleep. So, he brought you home."
I blink at him. I know Laurens was telling a lie and I thank him for that, but I decide to go along with it and nod.
"Oh..." I breathe, entering the kitchen to make myself a large cup of coffee. A pause. "Have you heard from Gil yet?"
YOU ARE READING
Helpless (Book 1)
FanfictionSeventeen-year-old Alexander Hamilton should feel lucky. He should feel lucky that he survived the hurricane and the illness he and his mother had when he was twelve. He should feel lucky that he has a family now, an adoptive one at that. He doesn't...
