Waves crashed on both sides of the ship, causing it to sway left and right in a steady rhythm. Some might say it is calming, but all of Alexander's memories of his struggle in the hurricane were prodding at the edges of his mind, taunting him.
Alexander would not let it. He strode his pen forward onto the paper, willing his hand to piece together the bits and pieces of words in his head. If he wasn't writing, he was worrying. He did not have time to worry.
Of course, being an immigrant, they had to inspect him. It took hours and hours of waiting in chairs, security and nurses practically stalking him. He ended up healthy, despite how scrawny he was. He was incredibly poor, and food on the table wasn't exactly available everyday.
He was offered granola bars, so now that he wasn't powering on an empty stomach, he could focus on his work. Better start working sooner than never, right?
His mind was a warzone of words and memories, quite literally. Thoughts were always bombarding him to do better than his best. At this point, it was like he wasn't human anymore.
The Caribbean had started the war in his mind. Alexander was nearing twenty, and he already had a tragic backstory that sounded way too cliché, but all of it was true. His father left, his mother died. The hurricane hit. He got separated from his brother.
Alexander stared around at the port once he got off the ship. He had to rotate 360 degrees to take everything in. The ceilings were enormously tall, and the furniture looked even more comfortable than the bed he had slept in all these years.
New York City seemed to be a gazillion years into the future than it had been in the island of Nevis. Alexander had still been using a well for water, and using candles rather than electricity. He felt like he did not belong. He looked down at his dingy clothes and grimaced. The ship wasn't the most clean place, so to speak.
He glanced around at all of these unfamiliar faces. How had he gone so long without knowing about modern America? Sure, he had seen pictures of grocery stores and the Statue of Liberty in textbooks, but this could never capture the adrenaline and anxiety he was feeling.
Suddenly, he was blown over onto the floor, and he rolled a few times. He groaned and instinctively balled his hands into fists to fight back, but all he found in front of his face was a hand much darker than his.
Alexander's gaze travelled upwards to see a man, frowning apologetically at him. He appeared to be a Frenchman, and his dark hair was neatly tied back, unlike Alexander's. Alexander felt ashamed. His own hair was matted back due to grease, and it probably looked like he had sex hair. "Pardon. Je ne voulais pas te faire mal," the Frenchman said. Unsettled, Alexander stood up without taking the man's hand, and he smoothed out his clothes. He began to strut off without another thought, until the Frenchman caught his hand. "Je m'appelle Marquis de Lafayette." He seemed to have caught that he was speaking in French, rather than English, so he added, "Or I just go by Lafayette. I am kind of lost.. and I need help."
Alexander understood French, and he felt a twinge of sympathy for this man. He was in the same situation he was in. An immigrant, having no idea where he was, and relying on the only English he knew.
"I'm Alexander," he muttered, gripping Lafayette's hand and shaking it. "I have no idea where the hell I am either, so I guess we're in this together."
