Not Quite a Hamilton
written by Cole Llewelyn
In the streets of Albany in 1800, young, scrappy and hungry, an 18 year old girl's life is made worth living by one family, but when the family begins to fall apart, her fragile life could fall to pieces. I will be adding chapters as I write them. (All character descriptions taken from the musical Hamilton, not 100% historically accurate)
Last Updated
05/31/21
Chapters
9
Reads
903
Another Night on the Streets
Chapter 3
I scoured the streets for a soft place to spend the night, and I eventually found an alleyway that would shield me from the wind. I then made my way to the side of my parents’ old bookstore, and pulled a loose brick from the wall. From the hole in the wall, I pulled one of my five books that I had stashed, and brought it back to the alley. I found a drier, cleaner patch of concrete, and took off my huge skirt, leaving my thick trousers on to keep me warm. My parents had taught me how to read, but I still had trouble with some words, as my parents were both gone by the time I was 7. I picked up the book and began to read, picking back up where I had finished.
‘It was a strange…’ I couldn’t read the next word. ‘Penomenon? Puhenomen?’ I skipped it, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to figure it out by myself. After only a few minutes, it became too dark to read, so I lay down, covered myself with the skirt that seemed to have hundreds of layers of petticoats, then put my hands under my head and tried to fall asleep. It was colder than the last few nights had been, and I shivered on the cold stone. I felt my body shake, despite my trousers and jacket, and I pulled the thick grey hat that Alexander had given me out of my pocket, then pulled it onto my head. I curled up, hugging my knees to my chest. After about half an hour, I realized that I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep anytime soon, so I ripped a blank page from the back of my book, and pulled a pen out from the pocket in my skirt.
I walked over to a corner, where I sat, my paper lit up by the warm, flickering light of the streetlamp. I rested my paper on the back of my book, and picked up my pen, hesitating before I placed it on the paper and began to write.
“Flames have always lit up my life. I met the red monster at Five, he dragged my mother away from me, he broke me for the first time then. The fire of someone’s words burnt me the next time I saw him. My father, taken to fight against his will, left me when I was Seven, and I ran to the streets, where streetlamps brought fire to my life once again.”
I wrote, not thinking, just letting my brain grasp the pen and form sentences that I wasn’t even aware of. After a few minutes, I grew cold again, and tired. I slowly meandered back to my ‘Bed,’ and lay, once again, under the huge skirt. This time, I fell asleep, still shaking from the cold, but asleep nonetheless.
‘It was a strange…’ I couldn’t read the next word. ‘Penomenon? Puhenomen?’ I skipped it, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to figure it out by myself. After only a few minutes, it became too dark to read, so I lay down, covered myself with the skirt that seemed to have hundreds of layers of petticoats, then put my hands under my head and tried to fall asleep. It was colder than the last few nights had been, and I shivered on the cold stone. I felt my body shake, despite my trousers and jacket, and I pulled the thick grey hat that Alexander had given me out of my pocket, then pulled it onto my head. I curled up, hugging my knees to my chest. After about half an hour, I realized that I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep anytime soon, so I ripped a blank page from the back of my book, and pulled a pen out from the pocket in my skirt.
I walked over to a corner, where I sat, my paper lit up by the warm, flickering light of the streetlamp. I rested my paper on the back of my book, and picked up my pen, hesitating before I placed it on the paper and began to write.
“Flames have always lit up my life. I met the red monster at Five, he dragged my mother away from me, he broke me for the first time then. The fire of someone’s words burnt me the next time I saw him. My father, taken to fight against his will, left me when I was Seven, and I ran to the streets, where streetlamps brought fire to my life once again.”
I wrote, not thinking, just letting my brain grasp the pen and form sentences that I wasn’t even aware of. After a few minutes, I grew cold again, and tired. I slowly meandered back to my ‘Bed,’ and lay, once again, under the huge skirt. This time, I fell asleep, still shaking from the cold, but asleep nonetheless.
