The Best and Worst of Us

"Observations on Certain Documents"

Chapter 2

"Observations on Certain Documents"

Alexander Hamilton

Philidelphia

August 1797

Loss. In all my wide vocabulary, that is the one word I would use to describe the few weeks. My marriage is in shambles all at my own hands. My home is an empty shell. Home. That's an alien word now. Once I knew that word. The mere mention would bring thoughts of warm light emanating from a dying hearth, the image of Eliza's soft smile, and the shrieks of laughter from my darling children. It's gone. Our... no, this house is terribly quiet. I am the sole owner of fault. I took the word home and broke each gentle connotation. I allowed my own lust for love, lust for honor to destroy everything I've built.

Anger used to build up hot and slow in my chest when people would call me a 'bastard' or 'whore's son'. I worked so hard, so hard to become anything but that. I've decorated myself with many titles to distract from the nasty nicknames in the newspaper. Scholar, patriot, colonel, veteran, husband, lawyer, father, treasurer. But I've returned directly to where I fought restlessly to get away from. And publishing this will seal my fate.

The ink seems darker than usual. Maybe it's the one measly candle I have lit, or maybe it's the guilt embedded in each bleeding, scratched word.

Bets- Elizabeth said she understood the reason for the pamphlet. She always understands. She sees the interworking aspects of my mind like no one else is able to. But she doesn't want to understand... or she does? I'm just not sure. I used to understand her every move as if I had planned it myself but now each decision is a mystery. Her actions are erratic. Love and betrayal battle for her attention and I am the ground upon which she fights. Her loving arms will be around me for an impossibly sweet moment then gone for weeks. Swift, passionate kisses before disappearing into herself and not speaking to me for days. There's a switch. But neither person is the woman who was my wife.

One is desperately pretending to be, clinging to the hope that quick kisses and becoming an actor in our own lives will bring back our marriage.

The other is cold. I've always loved winter. Memories of bright red cheeks and the intense excitement of each letter arriving at camp, hoping for Eliza's dainty handwriting. This coldness is not reminiscent of that. It is solid ice, no fire could melt it.

The worst knowledge I have of these two women, though, is that I created them. I'm the only one to blame for what she's had to become.

And that's when she walks in. Blinking hard to make sure she's really here and not some trick of my late nights, I stand up. "Betsey... hi," I breathe out, not sure how else to start. With her sudden appearance, I use her old nickname, a habit of the tongue.

"Elizabeth," she corrects immediately, sharply. This is the winter cold of her. Her eyes are black in the dim candle-light, staring at me with the hate of a thousand wars. They used to be a gateway to her thoughts but she's unreadable now, miles away. All I see is anger. I miss her as she stands only steps away from me.

"Right. Elizabeth," I amend, breaking eye contact and placing my quill down. My hand hovers over the pamphlet, debating whether moving it from her view will only bring more attention to it. "Do you need something?"

She comes closer to my desk, her eyes and fingers skimming lightly over the papers that will destroy us both. "What are you working on?" It's a question I've heard her ask countless times. This time is different. She wields it like a sword.

I move my gaze to her. "Bets-" I stop myself as her eyes snap up to look at me. "Please, don't do this."

Her expression holds no pity and she repeats the question, voice firm and unmoving, "What are you working on, Alexander?"