Corset in Congress (A Hamilton Genderbend)

Chapter Forty: Stay Alive (Reprise)

Alexandra's POV

Stay alive...

"Where is my son!" I scream, and everyone on the street immediately falls silent, moving to let me through. Rushing towards the doctor's house, I see the door swing open and a figure beckon me in, hazy from the tears.

"Madam Hamilton, come in," says the doctor, placing a steadying hand on my back to guide me through the doorway. "They brought him in a half an hour ago. He lost a lot of blood on the way over."

Grabbing at his arm, I ask desperately, "Is he alive?" That's all that matters now.

"Yes," he confirms, and I let out a breath, feeling tears prickle at the back of my eyes. "But," he continues, and my heart falls, "you have to understand.  The bullet entered just above his hip and lodged in his right arm."

Stifling a scream, a vision fills my mind, one that I never wanted to see, one that will haunt my dreams for years to come.

My little Phillip, still a boy, fidgeting before the duel, nervously flicking the safety off and on, shuffling back and forth on his feet. He goes through the paces, breathing deeply, mumbling under his breath. He's speaking to me, asking for my protection. I can't give it.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...

That's when it happens. Phillip is standing sideways, hands hanging uselessly at his sides, and a shot rings out, slamming into his abdomen, tearing through flesh and organs, sending blood splashing every which way, until it finally comes to rest in his arm. He stands upright for a silent moment, before collapsing in on himself, the shock causing him to black out.

It's the worst thing I've ever seen, and I was in the war.

Shaking off the gruesome sight as best I can, I grab the doctor by his lapels and beg, "Can I see him please?"

He sighs, then proceeds to give the patented speech so he won't be held accountable if worst comes to worst. I can't even say the word. God, I'm pathetic! "I'm doing everything I can, but the wound was already infected when he arrived."

Then he leads me to the bed where my son, my beautiful son lays, blotting the blankets with red ink. Choking back a sob, I gasp out, "Phillip?" I can't believe that this man is my little boy, about to meet his maker. I won't believe it.

He greets me with a red-ringed smile, froth bubbling at the corners of his lips, pulling at my heartstrings. "Ma," he manages to say weakly, though he can't even raise his head.

"I did exactly as you said, Ma," Phillip gasps, and I feel my throat constrict. I did this. It's my fault. "I held my head up high."

Like there was any doubt. My boy could never disappoint me. I only disappoint myself.

Taking his head in my arms, I cradle him one last time, letting my tears flow freely, whispering, "I know, I know. Shh. I know, I know. Shh. I know. You did everything just right," I assure him, feeling the worst guilt in the world. I was supposed to protect him, teach him, and instead I kill him. What kind of mother does that make me?

"Even before we got to ten--"

I cut him off. I can't hear this. "Shh," I beg, attempting to drown out his last words, which sounds awful, and it is, but I just can't bear to see my son like this. 

But, bless his soul, he keeps going, his hoarse voice barely above a croak, even as I mumble my mantra over and over, hoping for a miracle from the heavens. "I was aiming for the sky, I was aiming for the sky."