Camp for the Emotionally (Un)Stable || Lams

Chapter Three: Who's To Blame?

Hamilton|First Person

 "It's my fault," I say to no one in particular, though there's a woman sitting across from me at a desk who decides I'm talking to her.

"What's your fault, honey?" 

I don't know how I got here, but the room reminds me of my counselor's office at my elementary school. I used to spend a lot of time in there, counting the tack holes in her cork board that she often decorated with other kid's art. I never did the art thing, though she always offered me one of her coloring books. The room doesn't have a cork board, but it has the same cream walls and comfortable chair. The lighting comes from a lamp rather than the florescent overhead lights that are in the other administration buildings, making for a warm atmosphere.

"Alexander?" I look at the woman who sits behind the desk. There's a brass name plate that has Martha Washington written on it in clean, black letters.  

"It's my fault," I repeat. "I t-took the ch-chips. Not J-John." I force the words out of my throat like thick slime.

"Alexander, do you remember what happened?" I nod numbly.

"They were y-yelling because I-I took the ch-chips."

"Is yelling a trigger for you? Does it make you upset?" 

"Sometimes." 

She hums and marks something down. "Does anything else make you upset?" I shrug. She just nods and scribbles something more on her notepad. "Do you know what happened to John Laurens after he left the lake?" I shake my head. "He's right outside. Do you want to see him?" I shrug again. "Does John make you upset?" 

Go, John. Can't you see you're making it worse?

I shake my head. He doesn't make it worse. Why does everyone think he makes everything worse? It was my fault, John was only trying to protect me. "I w-want to see h-him," I croak. Martha Washington nods and stands from her chair, walking over to the door behind me. I don't watch what she does, but after a moment I hear someone else shuffle into the room and the door closes softly.

"Alex?" John says in his quiet voice. I find it hard to imagine that he could make the same harsh sounds that he did earlier today. "I'm sorry."

Martha sits back in her chair and John appears beside me now. "It was my f-fault," I say to him now. "You sh-shouldn't be s-sorry." I look over at him directly, seeing him frown and shake his head. 

"It wasn't your fault. Eliza and I were yelling and we upset you." I nod, remembering their fight. Their fight was my fault though. Why does everyone think it's not.

"What time is it?" I ask instead of trying to argue anymore. My timeline of leaving the lake and getting to this chair is fuzzy, and it's making my head hurt trying to remember it all.

"About six. You blacked out on the beach and your friends called Mr. Washington and I over, then we took you here." I nod, trying to remember waking up. A vague image of a white ceiling comes to mind, but that's about it. 

"I'm tired," I state. 

"Fair enough, you've had a long day. Mr. Laurens, would you escort Mr. Hamilton back to your cabin for the night?" John nods and holds out his hand to me. I take it without thinking too much. He leads me out of the room I was sitting in, down a hall, and out a door that leads to the edge of the field where the opening ceremony was held. The mess hall across the way glows a little and I can see kids sitting inside, eating dinner. My stomach growls at the thought of food.

"Hungry?" John asks as we make our way to the row of cabins ours resides in. I nod, looking at our feet as we walk. He squeezes my hand, steering me away from the roots that stick up from the dirt. "I have some granola bars in my bag if you want." I nod, peeling my eyes from the ground to look at him. He stares straight ahead, his lips set in a determined line. I study his face for a moment, appreciating the way his eyelashes curl perfectly up towards his eyebrows and the way his nose slopes downward in a straight line, then dips into his face. His lips are perfect too, neither one too big or small for his face. They're a little chapped, but look like they'd be soft after a coat of Chapstick. 

He turns to me suddenly, though I don't look away. We stop walking and I realize we're standing before the steps up to the cabin. He doesn't say anything as we stand there, just looking at each other. Maybe he's evaluating my face too. I wonder if he thinks I'm pretty. His eyebrow quirks after a moment, his hand dropping mine before he turns on his heel to walk up to the door and prop it open. I follow him, going to sit on the edge of my bed with an odd sense of disappointment settling into my stomach. I slide my feet from my sandals and watch him rustle through a pile of his things sitting at the foot of his bed. He comes up with a box of granola bars that he brings over to me and sits down on the other side of my bed. 

"Here you go," he hands over a foil-wrapped bar and opens his own. The box is sat between us as we start on our snack. 

"Thanks," I say after a while, filling the silence for a moment. He nods, finishing off his granola bar and shoving the trash into the box. 

"I'm gonna go on a walk, think you'll be ok here by yourself?" I nod, sticking the wrapper of my granola bar into the box with his. He takes the box and sticks it back on his side of the room. Then, he pulls a jacket on and leaves the cabin. I can hear his footsteps walking away through the cracked window for a moment, but they eventually die off, leaving me alone with my thoughts. 

I sigh and put on a pair of pajama pants and burrow under the blankets on my bed, closing my eyes and trying to focus on sleep. My thoughts inevitably lead to John though. Particularly his face. The image of him staring ahead of us, our hands clasped and his jaw clenched slightly is burned to my eyelids. I close my eyes and try my best to take my mind off of him and fall asleep. When I do finally slip out of consciousness I dream of him lying next to me, laughing and brushing the hair that falls into my face away. I wake up about an hour later when he comes back into the cabin, I make a mental note to put my hair back more often, hearing him tell me he likes it better that way when I fall asleep again.