Hamilton Angst stuff

Work

Alexander stood in the bathroom, his back to the door, his hands in his pockets, his feet firmly planted. He was an intimidating figure of a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a square jaw and piercing eyes.

He had been in the bathroom for some time now, and it had not gone unnoticed. Washington, the supervisor of the writing department, had been watching him. He knew Alexander had been up to something, but he couldn't figure out what.

Washington marched into the bathroom and approached Alexander.

"What are you doing in here?"

Alexander said nothing, but the look on his face betrayed his guilt.

"I'll ask again," Washington said. "What are you doing in here?"

Alexander shook his head. "Nothing, sir," he said. His voice was low and resigned.

Washington was not convinced. "Then why are you wearing long sleeves on such a hot day?"

Alexander looked down at his arms, which were concealed beneath the billowy fabric of his shirt. He quickly pulled them out of his sleeves, revealing his bare arms.

"It's just habit," he muttered.

Washington narrowed his eyes. "Let me see your hands."

Reluctantly, Alexander pulled his hands out of his pockets and held them out. There were no cuts or bruises, just the rough callouses of a man who works hard with his hands.

"You're hiding something," Washington said. "I want to know what it is."

Alexander said nothing, and Washington stepped closer.

"Let me see your arms," he commanded.

Alexander hesitated for a moment, then slowly began to roll up his sleeves. As he did, Washington saw a thin strip of red, angry-looking scars running up the inside of his arms.

Washington sucked in his breath. "What happened?"

"It's nothing," Alexander said. "It's just something that happened a long time ago."

Washington shook his head. "No, this is something more recent. I want to know what it is."

Alexander refused to answer. He just stood there, looking down at the ground, his arms still covered in long sleeves.

Washington frowned. "Fine. I'll find out myself." He reached out and began to roll up Alexander's sleeves.

Alexander tried to stop him, but Washington was too strong. He forced the sleeves up, revealing a series of intricate scars running up his arms. They were more older than the other ones, and had obviously been done very recently.

Washington stepped back, shocked. "What are these?"

Alexander looked away. "They're nothing," he said. "They're just... memories."

Washington frowned. "Memories of what?"

Alexander shook his head. "I can't tell you. Please, just let me go."

Washington stared at him for a long moment. Then, reluctantly, he nodded. "Go. But I will find out what these scars mean. Mark my words."

Alexander nodded. Then he pulled down his sleeves and hurried out of the bathroom, leaving Washington alone with his thoughts.

As Alexander left the bathroom, he felt a wave of relief wash over him. He knew that he had to be more careful in the future, to make sure that nobody found out about his secret. He had worked hard to hide the scars on his arms, and the last thing he wanted was for his colleagues to know what he had been through.

He made his way back to his desk, trying his best to act as if nothing had happened. He knew that he had to keep a low profile, to avoid drawing attention to himself. He sat down and began to work on his latest project, trying to focus on the words on the page in front of him.

But his mind kept drifting back to the scars on his arms. They were a reminder of the past, of the things that he had done and the things that had been done to him. They were a mark of his pain and his struggle, and he wore them proudly.

Alexander knew that he couldn't keep his secrets forever.