The Age of Hamilton

Chapter 3

When had I fallen asleep? 

Alexander rises from the warping mattress but pauses to behold Elizabeth. His Eliza. Her eyes closed. She's at peace. He watches mildly as her chest slowly and evenly rises and falls. He yearns to kiss her goodbye--he doesn't intend on leaving so early. When he moves off the bed, her voice cracks through the silence. 

"Alex?" Her voice. Her voice is soft and rich. Muddled by exhaustion's clever tricks. In his forty-six years of existence, his knees buckle as he kneels, shirtless, beside her. It is worse than it was the day prior. 

Softly, he murmurs, "I will return before you even realize I am gone." The words allude to the belief that she wouldn't realize he had left. 

"Alexander please." Her voice crackles against the simple rheum of sleep. Without hesitation he strides away from her for a couple moments. He hisses at the snapping muscles in his legs. He saunters back toward her. Kneeling once again beside her. He runs a hand through his hair. 

"Elizabeth, I have--" 

He leans down. His lips brush against hers. She pulls back, eyeing him. He notices her eyes glistening with unshed tears. 

"Elizabeth," He says softly, "I promise you I will return. I swear on--" He pauses, swallowing hard. 

Philip. Oh, Philip, my son, why did you have to duel in my honor, you weren't meant to die. 

A mixture of rage and sadness courses through his veins as he refocuses his attention on Elizabeth. "It will be the last death." 

"Alexander, please, come back to sleep." 

He sighs. "I will return before you even realize I'm gone." 

"Well, I'm going back to sleep." 

With that, he watches as Elizabeth lays back down, her eyelids heavy. Alexander bows his head; flickers of the day prior pervades all his thoughts. The strange thing is that he hadn't intended on waking up this early. He pulls on a black dress shirt. Listening to Elizabeth's light breathing. He swallows hard, a part of him desiring to listen to her gentle request to come back to bed. It is still dark out. On his way out of the bedroom, he scoops up his discarded vest, fishing out the key in his breeches to his office. Walking into his study. Unlocking the door, he enters. He strikes a match, watching it ignite as he lights up a couple candles. Watching as the two candles waver. Written works by Madison lay on desk. He curses under his breath. Dissertations half complete or complete adorn the desk. Constitutionalist papers adorn the corners and space of the desk. Some pieces of parchment are crumbled roughly and carelessly tossed toward the rubbish bin. 

Constitutionalist--that's what I've been. Always. 

The thought is a constant nagging reminder. Amongst the dissertations were his own manuscripts. Amongst the manuscripts and dissertations were newspaper clippings and half-completed law papers. Pulling a fresh sheet of parchment, he quickly scrawls a note. It is not a threat--not regretting what he had seen during the war. Apologetic of the affair. Upon his return to the bedroom, he places the reminder on the pillow lest Elizabeth does not forget the early morning wake-up. He finds himself unexcited when a soft moan escapes her lips. When his lips brush against her forehead. Minutes tick by before he properly leaves the house. 

Our eldest son is curled up on his bed, a book he'd been reading by candlelight lies beside his outstretched arm. Alexander did this ritual quite often; it had been made worse by the suicidal actions of the day prior. Finally, when he does leave the house, he is expectant of Elizabeth stopping him. Expectant to see her on the terrace. The warm New York air quickly sinks into his bones. He's used to this weather. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he approaches the neighbor's yard. He is taken aback at his own failure to find his voice. I release an apprehensive and tense breath as his fist curls. He knocks on the door. The hand-carved oaken door is smooth under his warm hands. A young man, no older than thirty years opens the door. He notices the cigarette betwixt the man's lips.