Corset in Congress (A Hamilton Genderbend)

Chapter Thirty-Six: Hurricane

Alexandra's POV

I watch Burr walk away into the night until he's out of sight, then slide down the wall onto the floor. Watching the stars go by through the open door, my delirious thoughts wander to John. Where is he now? What is he doing? Is he watching me right now, disappointed in my inadequacies? I know I am.

Tears roll down my cheeks, and I realize that I'm drunken on sorrow. It all fell apart so fast, which reminds me of another disaster, a "Scottish tragedy." 

In the eye of a hurricane, there is quiet. For just a moment, a yellow sky.

When I was seventeen, a hurricane destroyed my town, I didn't drown. I couldn't seem to die.

The water tears around me, snatching, grabbing, sending ice coursing through my veins. My hands scrabble for handholds on rotted wooden planks, getting torn and bloody. Waves pound on my head, forcing me under, cleansing every part of my being, erasing every part of who I am. Nothing can stop it, nothing can escape it, the swirling vortex that darkens with hundreds of trails of blood.

My eyes snap open, and I find myself safe, chilly but dry in my office, breathing raggedly. Forcing myself to my feet, I swing the door closed, then stagger drunkenly to my desk, where I collapse into a weeping mess, gasping for breath as the flashbacks crash into me, one my one, dousing me in the cold, icy water of reality.

I wrote my way out. Wrote everything down far as I could see. I wrote my way out. I looked up and the town had its eyes on me. They passed a plate around. Total strangers, moved to kindness by my story. Raised enough for me to book passage on a ship that was New York bound.

Lifting my head up, I find within me a cold steel core, one I had forgotten about. Used only in times of great need, this resource is one I can always depend on, one that will always keep me safe. I can do this, I say to myself. Look at everything I've done already. And just you wait.

I wrote my way out of hell. I wrote my way to revolution, I was louder than the crack in the bell. I wrote Elijah love letters until he fell. I wrote about the Constitution and defended it well! And in the face of ignorance and resistance, I wrote financial systems into existence! And when my prayers to God were met with indifference, I picked up a pen, I wrote my own deliverance!

In the eye of a hurricane, there is quiet. For just a moment, a yellow sky.

I will find the eye of the hurricane. It won't be easy, but I will escape this storm. 

I was twelve when my mother died, she was holding me. We were sick and she was holding me. I couldn't seem to die.

As I sit at my desk, staring at my writing supply, Burr's voice pops into my head, singing, "Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it." I shake it off, expelling him from my thoughts. I don't need his jealousy or his aggression right now. An idea forms. I have a storm to stop.

I'll write my way out.

"Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it." Burr's still here. That man never could take a hint.

Write everything down far as I can see.

Another chorus of voices springs unbidden to my memory. Washington, Elijah, Angelica, and Maria sing his signature line. "History has its eyes on you..."

"Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it..."

I'll write my way out. Overwhelm them with honesty.

The beat in my head gets faster, wilder, and my thoughts mirror it, becoming more panicked and harried. Hastily I snatch some papers and grab my inkwell. This is the only way I can protect my legacy! 

"Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it..." sings the chorus, now composed of everyone my brain can conjure up, begging me to stop, to wait, to think, but I'm so far past all that. I need to escape the storm, I need to build my legacy!

A quill, a quill, a quill... where the fuck are all my quills? I need to write, and I need a quill to write! I'm panicking even worse now, tearing apart my workspace to search furiously for a quill, a pen, a stick with sap on the end, anything!

In exasperation, I push over my entire desk, sending various papers, inkwells, and other miscellaneous items tumbling to the floor, shattering in all directions. My shaking hands finally land on a quill, and I hastily load it with spilled ink from the floor.

I pause, the quill hovering inches from the paper, letting the words flow into my mind. As I am thus planning my sentences, I feel a soft hand on my shoulder, and I jump, splattering ink all over the page.

I'm looking into the alluring eyes of Maria Reynolds, who gives me a soft smile. Shocked, I say nothing, which only makes her smile more. She leans in, her soft breath caressing my cheek, my neck, and making me melt under her gaze. Planting her soft lips on mine, she breaks away after a moment, tucking my hair behind my ear and wiping most of the ink off my face before it can stain. She leans in again, and licks a spot off my nose before dissolving in a cloud of papers that float gently down to the floor around me.

In stunned silence, I don't move for a full minute afterwards. Then I snap out of it, acquire a replacement sheet of parchment, and write the first few words, the title.

The Reynolds Pamphlet.