Zero Two Three One | John Laurens X Reader [Hamilton]

XC: One Color

The one on my left is mine. The one on the left is Alexander's. 

I hover my hand over the knob to Alexander's room, but I pull away at the last moment and turn to my bedroom instead. I enter the room and breathe in the familiar air. I have spent countless hours in here, wasting away the time I once thought to be infinite.

The bedsheets are dusty, but neatly tucked over the mattress; I haven't slept on the bed at all, have I? Some decorations and accents have been left here before we moved, but nothing of great significance.

I stroll towards the nightstand and open the drawer. I don't know what I expected to find inside. A clue to what has happened in the last few days? Maybe. But a frown finds a way on my face when I discover it to be empty.

I had not one possession I left behind, huh?

Perhaps I'd be mildly disappointed if I weren't so vacant.

My feet lead me out of my bedroom and back into the hallway where the door to the bathroom captures my attention.

I notice drops of dried blood on the floor, and my eyes drift to the knob where blood also stains.

I enter the bathroom and am met with what looks like a minor crime scene. Blood is strewn across the porcelain, tiled floors, along with around the surface of the sink, where it is diluted by splashed water.

The cause for such injury is quite evident: the bathroom mirror, which hangs unceremoniously above the sink, has been destroyed.

Shattered to nearly nothing, only a few wobbly shards are still attached to the base of the mirror. The rest of the shards, like tiny knives, are scattered within the sink and on the floor, laying in the puddles of blood that they have drawn.

The blood is nearly completely dried, and perhaps would have dried by now if it weren't for the water adding volume. But... how long has this blood been here?

My eyes trail back to my hands, fragile and stiff, and I can assume what happened.

I destroyed the mirror with my bare hands. Because I can't bear to look at myself.

I tiptoe past the shards, water, and blood on the way to the shower. I leave the glass door open as I turn the shower head on. I'm assaulted by cold water, but I can't find it in me to care. I stand under pattering drops, closing my eyes and letting the iciness engulf me.

Once I'm half-drenched, I lower myself into the shower floor, observing the water circle the drain. More and more water comes. The drain doesn't understand this concept. The water will only end when I allow it to end. Until then, the drain's labor doesn't end.

And just like the showerhead, my eyes release their own waterworks.

Tears come down. Slowly at first, then hysterically.

I scream out, unsure of what I'm screaming about, but aware that no shriek can heal the hole my heart seems to bear.

My deranged bellowing goes on and on until my vocal cords are shredded and exhausted. Then, the screams turn to groans. Desperate groans — the type I imagine I would make if I were dying, but unable to cry for help... as if my throat was slit.

But even then, my throat can't handle the effort it takes to make such sounds, and it fails me, forcing me into silence.

So there I sit. Pacified and shuddering. My body is wracked with uncontrollable shivering, my muscles working terribly hard to reverse the pain I am inflicting upon myself.

Until... until my muscles give up and I can no longer shiver. My body surrenders and accepts the cold as the only truth — the only thing that will be eternal — a reality that I must accept.