Hamilton x Reader One Shots

one - belle

I've been keeping track of the summer days I've stayed outside asking for money.

I'm on 15.

I typically receive around 3 bucks on any given day. And I'm not trying to say New Yorkers are cold-blooded, which is a typical stereotype. But the ones in my area aren't exactly proving themselves to be anything otherwise.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

I have a cardboard sign in my hands that reads,

"abused at foster 'home'. trying to make it somewhere and do things. anything helps. God bless."

Which, isn't a lie.

And, yes, I told you about this sign before, but you didn't know if I was lying or not? *smirk smirk*

But, really.

I am abused at home.

Let me explain...

My parents left me. I'm in the foster system. My foster family abuses me. I leave the house every day; they're on a month-long vacation. I have 20 more days until they return home.

20 days to try to find hope.

But for now, I have my $52 and my old, sad, in-tatters satchel. I know: very sad. But it works.

... see? Short and sweet.

I sit in my room at night, thinking about why I even try. At the rate I'm going at, I'll never be able to "make it somewhere" or "do things" like my sign suggests. But I won't stop. Because I know that if I did, I'd look back on this summer and wish I hadn't.

The Next Day

I woke up and went into the kitchen, but only after 15 minutes of squirming all over my bed in frustration. I look at the microwave, trying to figure out the time. I squint my eyes, as they are blurry and still need to adjust to the light.

8:09 AM.

I sigh, and walk back into my room. I throw on a Les Mis shirt, which is extremely torn and dirty, but it does the trick. I put on my leggings that are so small on me they go halfway up my calf, but my foster parents would never buy me anything and I know this, so I don't even bother asking if I can get a new pair. I don't bother thinking about asking.

I put on my Skechers, which are so old my big toe pops out of the right one, and head out the door, remembering to bring the spare key my foster dad keeps under some soil in an artificial potted plant. He doesn't know that I'm completely aware as to where this key is, and its a relief. Side note: why they have this artificial plant is beyond me; this apartment is on the shit side of town, where nobody even maintains any form of housekeeping whatsoever. Sometimes I think it represents their souls: fake, a waste of space, and ugly. It reminds me that I need to find a way out of this hell-hole.

Yeah. I'm that deep.

I walk down the stairs in the lonely, echo-y stairwell of the apartment building. When I reach the bottom and walk outside, I feel that gush of cool, New York breeze hit my face, and I lean back a little to take it all in. No matter how polluted and gross the air may be, it feels amazing. I crinkle my nose as I feel it turn red, adjusting to the change in climate. I make my way over to my usual spot, and pull out my sign, which I stuffed down my leggings before I left. I sit down and take off one of my gloves to use it as a cup for any donations.

I stayed outside all day. I watched as passerby gave me no notice; nobody ever glanced at me. They just kept walking by. As they did, I thought about each of them and what their lives are like.

That guy is probably on his way home from court, where he just signed his divorce papers.

That girl is probably going to visit her mother at her apartment.

That guy probably works at a diner in Little Italy, and is probably on his way to work now, making minimum wage.

That guy is probably a snob, and enjoys gawking at the homeless during his downtime.

That girl probably just got a new toy, but her brother snatched it from her hands and dropped it in a sewer.

As these thoughts run through my mind, I feel tears, some pausing at my cheekbone that pops out of my skinny face, some running down my face and onto my neck, falling when they can't hold on any longer.

And then I sleep.

As I sleep, I dream...

I wake up to the sound of my parents fighting. This has become very normal, I just don't know why. Mommy and Daddy never used to fight! It makes me sad! When I go downstairs, they look at me. Daddy shakes his head and walks out the door with a suitcase. Mommy is crying.

"M-mommy? What's wrong?" She doesn't respond, only looks up at me very quickly before burying her face in her hands.

"Mommy! I'm scared for you! Tell me where Daddy is going!"

"...He's not coming back, sweetheart," Mommy sais very seriously. She looks up and cups my cheeks. "He decided he wants to love somebody else."

I'm crying. Mommy and Daddy should always love each other!

A few minutes later, Daddy gets back without his suitcase. He had some papers in his hand. Mommy was in her room now, so when he walks in, she doesn't know.

"Daddy! Help, Mommy is sad! What's wrong?"

He says nothing, only bends down so he's my height.

"Honey, when Mommy feels better, I need you to give her these," he gives me a few pieces of paper with writing on them. "Don't read them, okay? They're a... surprise? Yeah. They're a surprise for Mommy and Mommy only." He seemed like he didn't know what he was saying, but I didn't ask.

"Okay Daddy! When will you be back? I know you have work."

"I'm not sure. But I love you, honey." He gives me a kiss on the forehead and walks out the door.

I walk into Mommy and Daddy's room. "Mommy! Daddy wanted me to give you these." I hand her the papers and she looks sadder. I ask her why she's sad but she doesn't saying anything. She just picks me up and hugs me until we both fall asleep.

A few weeks later

I walk into the court room with Mommy. I sign a paper, and it says that I'll stay with Daddy.

I always go to visit Mommy. I don't get why they don't love each other anymore. It makes me sad.

Daddy is a waiter in Italy! I don't know how he flies to Italy and back so fast.

He doesn't do it every day, just on weekends. So I go visit Mommy at her apartment. I always have fun there!

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Daddy hasn't come home today. I wonder where he is? I'm too scared. I'll call the police, like Mommy told me to do when I saw her last time.

Little did I know, that I would never see Mommy or Daddy again. Sick father. And I would be that girl, her foster brother stealing her toy, getting punched square in the face. Every day.

I'll probably never find happiness.