Zero Two Three One | John Laurens X Reader [Hamilton]

XC: One Color

❝We were together. I forget the rest.❞
—Walt Whitman

I can't feel anything. I am numb.

My eyes drift open sluggishly. Slow breaths leave my lips; I regulate my breathing as though oxygen were limited. My cheek is upon a soft surface. I gingerly graze it with the tips of my icy fingers, sighing at the familiar sensation of the living room carpet; I have become very familiar with the texture over the past few days, it seems.

I sit up, grimacing at the effort it takes to move my stiff limbs. When I finally manage to lean against the couch, I take a large breath of air and old it for as long as I can before releasing it.

Muffled ringing in my ears accompanies the pulses of my heart — so desperately heavy and distressed.

I rub my hands up and down my legs to warm the shivering muscles and bring them back to life, but it is as I am doing this that I notice the cloth bandages meticulously wrapped around my palms, wrists, and fingers.

I blink as I run one hand over the other, feeling the tenderness of my skin even through the bandages. Blood seeps through the bandage some places, so whatever injury I sustained, it wasn't pretty.

I look up and towards the window across the living room where grey light crawls in between the curtains. Once the feeling comes back into my legs, I use the couch as support to get to my feet. The carpet is soft for my bare steps as I take small steps to the window.

Upon reaching the curtains, I peek between the gap. I'm greeted with the sight of a city street, alive under the mundane sky, the obscure sun hidden by somber clouds. I back away, fearing that a passerby (so small below) will see me. It took such a minor sight to remind me of where I am.

I've been here for the past week or so. Here being my apartment. The first place Alexander and I lived in, just on the outer ring of the bustling noise of New York City. Not my house. Not the house of a friend. My apartment. I haven't been here in so long.

I don't really remember how I got here. Everything up until this moment feels like a sickening blur.

Besides my location, I have no recollection of anything. How did I get on the floor? What happened to my hands? Why am I here alone?

Somehow — intuition, perhaps — I know I shouldn't be here. This isn't part of the preconceived plan that I can't seem to remember. And it is dangerous to be here. Very dangerous.

Yet, that sense of danger doesn't seem to register very well. Instead, there is a clock ticking in my head, telling me that I have to do something now. The clock doesn't tell me what to do, but it tells me to do it nonetheless.

So I turn away from the window and allow my mind to blackout as my body takes control. There is no thought behind my steps. No motivation in my breaths. Just doing. Just doing.

My steps are clumsy, but I manage to make my way into the kitchen. The refrigerator and cabinets are empty, and while there should be the familiar gnawing of hunger at my stomach (a sensation that befriended me in childhood), I don't feel hungry.

I'm just thirsty. Very thirsty. My lips are chapped and not a sound can leave my dry throat. I find a stray cup in the sink, and after cleaning it out, I turn on the faucet and fill it with water. I drink three cups of water and immediately wished I stopped at two.

A sudden sting in my side doesn't seem completely related to my water consumption, but my mind correlates the two anyway.

Once the stinging subsides, I place the cup on the counter and leave the kitchen. My mindless wandering leads me down the hall and between two bedroom doors.