Second Chances - The Prologue
*Waves* Hi there. I wanted to promote my book Second Chances (I will put the links to my Wattpad and Ao3 accounts at the bottom of the post - or remind me to post them if I forget to) by posting the prologue here and letting everyone have a taste of my work. So, like, weeeeee.
(Note: I know my work isn’t perfect so feel free to leave suggestions on how I can make my writing better. I need to get better with criticism)
(Note #2: This is a Hamilton AU fic from the perspective of OCs, so there you go)
The End and The Beginning:
It’s a dreary day, yet so beautiful. These days are always nice. The lovely day is shattered as a single gunshot, followed by another, rings through the air. I freeze and listen, before creeping through the streets slowly. I look around, ever careful. Then my eyes find him, lying there on the cobblestones. I gasp.
“Philip,” I breath, before rushing to his side and falling to my knees. His hands are pressing against a bleeding wound. Although I know how little it will help, I pull a handkerchief out and press it over the wound in a feeble attempt to absorb the blood. His breathing is ragged, and I’m scared.
“Someone get a Doctor!” I scream, looking around the streets. Whoever had shot him is nowhere to be seen. A coward! I look back down at Philip’s face. It’s contorted in pain and agony, and his eyes hold so much fear as they stare up at me.
“Everything will be alright. Come here,” I say gently. I lift his head and place it in my lap, and he hisses in pain.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I whisper, brushing his hair off his forehead. He has tears on his face, and looks so afraid. I run my fingers through his hair slowly, hoping to soothe him and calm him down. He makes a strangled noise, and I shush him softly.
“Hush. I’ll take care of you until you’re brought to a doctor. Please, save what strength you have. You must survive, for your family,” I say, pausing to brush my thumb gently across his freckled cheek. Blood smears across where I touched. He coughs, and I shush him again softly, still stroking my thumb across his cheek, ignoring the blood. The expression shaping his face is breaking my heart. I want nothing more than to comfort him. He reaches a hand up toward me, and I pull one of mine from his hair to hold it. His hand is still covered in his blood, but I don’t care. Mine is too.
“Who are you?” he manages to ask in a strained voice. He doesn’t know who I am...Of course he doesn’t. I smile softly down at him, giving his hand a comforting squeeze.
“It does not matter. I am just someone who could not leave you here all alone. For, fear only grows in the privacy of one's own thoughts,” I say. He makes a strangled noise that sounds something like a laugh. He’s smiling at me very slightly.
“You are a poet?” he asks. I give his hand another squeeze and continue to run my fingers through his hair.
“Something of the sort, Mr. Hamilton,” I say kindly. He continues to smile at me.
“Philip. Call me Philip,” he says. I smile back at him.
“Philip,” I correct myself quietly. He coughs again, and I frown with concern.
“Let us take him!” Men cry, and I raise my head to see them coming. They’ll take Philip to get the help he needs. I nod, and they hoist him from my lap.
“One minute,” I say, stopping them before they go. Philip is still holding my hand, and I hold it tightly before leaning down and kissing his forehead.
“All will be well, Philip. I promise,” I say softly. He squeezes my hand weakly, before he’s hauled away. And I stand there in the street for a moment. Blood sits sticky on my hand. My handkerchief is gone. It’s okay. As long as he is okay.
“M-mother, you cannot be serious,” I stutter, eyes wide with horror. My mother shakes her head.
“Too serious, my darling. He passed many hours after he left you. You are likely the last person outside of his blood that he saw,” she says, holding my hands in hers. Her eyes shine with sympathy, but all I can think of is the darkness from her words. Philip is dead. He didn’t recognize me, but I’ve known him for my whole life. He’s...The first man I’ve ever loved. And I knew the fear on his face as he laid in my lap, dying. And now he’s...I shake my head and draw back, refusing to believe it.
“They have lied. It is not true!” I say, voice overtaken by emotion. My mother reaches out for me once more, but I flee from her, into my father’s study. I lock her out, and move slowly to my father’s desk. I know he keeps a pistol inside the drawer. It’s a man’s job to carry on the legacy in the first place. This will not matter. I take up a quill, dip it in ink, and write. My words spill desperately across the parchment. For I am running out of time. My last poem, my last words. And the words I’m Sorry curling at the bottom. I do not sign my name. I place the quill down gently and lean down, opening the drawer containing my father’s pistol. There is a bang on the study door, and my mother is calling my name. I do not answer. I draw the pistol out. It is loaded, as it always is, and I know how to use it. Father was adamant that I learned how. I move over to the window, and I stare out it. The gun somehow doesn’t feel heavy in my hand. In fact, it feels nice. As if it were made to sit there. My mother is still calling for me. I lift the gun, and the metal feels cool against my head. I whisper an “I love you” into the air, and close my eyes. The air smells of books, paper, and ink. All of the things I love.
“I’m sorry, Philip, mon amour,” I whisper. My finger moves to the trigger. I take in a last deep breath, and push it down. Bang.
