To Be or Not to Be | hamilton

one : john

{tw: abuse}

It is almost impossible to live in conditions like John's and still be happy.

John could testify to that.

He wondered what happened to the days when he and his father were happy as he bit his lip from crying out, hearing the unmistakable sound of a belt snapping in the air as it reached its target, John. John braced himself for the pain.

The belt came down on him again and again, and the pain flared inside John, a pain that weighed him down even on his lightest days. A pain that sat in his heart like a stone in water. A pain that was now a part of him. He squeezed his eyes shut as the pain intensified.

He had gotten home ten minutes late from his study session.

All John did was make sure he didn't fail his math test, and now he was paying the price.

John wasn't there to administer his father's insulin injection. John wasn't there to see his father had gotten his hands on alcohol again.

Ten minutes. Ten lashings. Simple as that.

His father had muscle, to say the least. John wondered if blood would be drawn this time as his father finished the lashings. John looked at the ground as his father put his belt back on.

"I'm sorry, sir."

John's father didn't even look at John. He took that at his sign to leave (he had learned staying any longer after his punishment resulted in more pain), and darted to his room upstairs quickly, tears from anguish blurring his vision.

What a disappointment, his mind screamed at him as he shut his door (quietly, naturally. Henry- his father- hated loud noises when he was drunk, like he was now) and buried his face in his threadbare pillow.

John fell asleep like that, shirtless with lashes and bruises prominent, tears griming his face, his turtle watching him in hunger. It didn't have dinner, like John, but the turtle didn't want to skip meals and get skinny.

Being a turtle must be so easy.

}{

John's grades were slipping, he realised with a sinking horror as he looked at his transcript. He had a C.

Now, don't get John wrong, he was not an all-A student. His GPA was only a 3.0.

But he did not make C's. Ever.

His father would kill him. The fact it was AP Calculus didn't matter. The fact it was the only C he's ever made didn't matter.

His breathing quickened as he started at the 78 on his paper, the fine black lines of ink beginning to blur on the page.

He had failed one test.

}{

"And there's no way for me to earn extra credit?"

"Mister Laurens," his teacher began, "the semester is over. I cannot do anything for you."

"But, si-"

"I'm sorry, Mister Laurens."

John's heart began to break. "I... Dr. Washington, please-"

"What, Mister Laurens?" Impatience was beginning to creep into Washington's voice. "This has to do with your father, doesn't it."

Red alert! John's mind screamed. Mission abort! "I... no. Of course not. This is me being disappointed in myself. W... w-why would you ask about my father?"

Washington stood up and crossed the room to Laurens, taking his pupil by the shoulders. "You have been here for three and a half, Mister Laurens. Not one man or woman here has seen Henry Lauren's face. People get suspicious. And, of course, there's your clothes."

"M-my... my clothes?"

"Yes. You often wear long sleeves, even in summer, which leads to either cutting or abuse. You have too confident of a stride to be self-conscious. If it were self-harm, the sleeves would adorn you for much longer than a few weeks. True, it is possible for it to be self-harm, but the duration of time you were long sleeves leads me to bet on abuse. However, I know you self-harm. Do not try to hide that from me. I was also a Psychology minor."

John was speechless. "Sir-"

"Normally I would have to turn you in-"

"Henry is not abusive!"

A smile tugged at Washington's lips, but it was not a playful smile. It was almost a grimace. "Abused adolescents are always in denial, Mister Laurens."

"It's a good thing I'm not being abused, then."

"Yet, you wear a turtleneck. Roll it down and let me
see your neck."

John's body went cold. "No." He grabbed his bookbag, storming out of the room and slamming the door.