Becoming a Founding "Father"- Historical Hamilton

Chapter One: Son Of A Whore

*Everything that's in brackets is someone speaking a foreign language (Lithuanian)

Rachel Faucette Buck was the mother of Alexander Hamilton. She passed away on February 19, 1768 from a fever both she and Alexander had suffered from when he was 12 years old.

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For a moment I saw a blue sky. It was the first thing I saw, and it was serene in a way that touched my soul. In that moment, nothing mattered. In that moment, it was just me and that endless plane of sapphire.

I've seen the sky before- many times, actually. I've spent my summers in dark green forests and fields- the sky is a dear old friend of mine. But it was different. There was something off about it, something that made it foreign to the skies that I know. It's really the most peculiar feeling that I can't explain.

Everything was calm, but something is wrong. Really wrong. 

Maybe that's when it happened. That brief moment passed, and I was brought back into this world. I breathed, and a sharp gust of wind made me snap out of the unusual trance I was in. I stumbled, almost falling down from some kind of invisible source.

"I- where..?" I mutter to myself, looking around. I seem to be at the edge of some kind of old-fashioned town, but I haven't seen this place before. And, despite them looking old-fashioned, they seemed... New. Used. Not yet abandoned. Lived in. Homey, unlike the usual coldness that seeps out of century-old buildings. They don't look like houses that  survived centuries of existence.

The street is quiet, and so am I. It takes me a moment to realize that it is already late into the evening. That doesn't make sense, it was midday just a few moments ago. My head gets increasingly fuzzy, making it hard to think. Was it midday? I must've been wrong, it's obviously evening. I could see a few stars appearing as I looked up, twinkling playfully. They knew something that I didn't.

Something bad happened in this place. Even though every house I look at seems calm and peaceful, there's this feeling in my gut that I can't shake. Like a foul smell, a tragedy lays over this town, and yet everything seems fine.

"Suh!" I turn around to see a small boy, running over with a wide smile. He's dressed up strangely, and yet I can't put a finger on what's so strange. Is he talking to me? "Are you Doctor Layden?"

"I- no, I'm not." The English falls out of my tongue less than gracefully. The boy's smile deflates, turning slightly bitter. My headache continues to bother me. 

"Oh, desolé then, suh," The boy says, and I furrow my brows. I'm not a man, but he continues. "You see, I've been waiting for une doctor from Anguilla to my home- he's very late." The boy sighs and starts walking back. "My apologies, I will be on my way."

For some reason, the surname Layden sticks in my head. My mouth moves before my mind does. "What happened here?"

The boy stops. I can feel his gaze burning me. "Quel? It is evening, even if quiet. I trust that you would know not to be here while it is busy. It is not a nice sight."

My head gets fuzzier and fuzzier, my brain barely registering the words. My fingers tingle strangely. How am I here? Why am I here? Where even is here?

The tingling in my hands become worse. I look at them, trying to stay afloat with my thoughts that seem to be going so fast. After failing to notice that my hands are transparent, I drop them to my sides.

"Suh?"

Oh right, he's still here. "Sorry, you can go now." He retreats, footsteps fading into the background.