Hamilton One Shots

Wishing

Alexander was not one for wishes.

He was a perfectly logical man, he believed that something was either true or false, black or white, right or wrong. There was never a grey area for the young man, everything had to be one way or the other. That was especially true for his outlook on magic and luck.

Alexander thought magic and luck were one of the same, and he didn't believe in either of them. Hard work, elbow grease, and determination were the only things guaranteed in this world of cruelty and pain, and as luck had nothing to do with any of those, he simply wrote it off as false. A figment of one's imagination.

He also believed that wishing fell under luck. He thought that wishing for something to come true was simply foolishly hoping that a stroke of magic would spontaneously appear, but for dear Alexander Hamilton, the only thing that would 'spontaneously appear', was his untouchable anger and true-to-God talent for writing.

So, every night when he fell asleep under the stars on the island of Saint Croix, he silently cursed himself for wishing that something, anything, would happen.

He cursed himself for wishing that he could write himself out of the abyss he lived in. He cursed himself for wishing he could leave the Caribbean island. He cursed himself for wishing he hadn't had the horrible family situation he possessed. He cursed himself for wishing his father hadn't left when he was ten. He cursed himself for wishing he hadn't been quite a rebel, never listening to his older brother, James. He cursed himself for wishing a war would break out so he could prove himself.

He especially cursed himself for wishing his mother back from the dead.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Alexander repeated to himself, night after night. None of your idiotic wishes will ever come true, you imbecile. Stop wishing.

But he couldn't.

Alexander Hamilton could not stop wishing, night after night, day after horrible, painful, day. He wished for everything under the sun and more. He wished that one day he would be given the chance to rise the ranks of something, anything at all, to prove what he was worth. He wished to show that even a bastard orphan could do anything, could be a someone. He wished that eventually he would be able to show his talent to the world, to be known far and wide.

Alexander Hamilton will be a household name, he wished.

He wished that he would find a beautiful woman, one whom he loved, and one that would look past his childhood and family life, and love him for him. He wished to be married to that woman, and to have the most precious children anyone would ever see. He wished to be there, to never leave, never die. He wished the best for himself and his future family, one that he hoped and prayed he would be able to have, far, far away from this island, far, far away from the treachery and scandal that possessed his early life.

When the hurricane came, Alexander only wished for one thing.

Let the storm kill me, he thought. Let it consume my being, let it kill me.

But wishes didn't seem to come true for poor Alexander. He lived through the horrible hurricane that destroyed Saint Croix, he lived to tell the tale.

And that he did.

Alexander Hamilton picked up his lone, feather, quill, and began writing instead of wishing. Alexander Hamilton gave up wishing for the future, and began writing of the past. He described the great storm that mutilated his home in fantastical terms, he wrote like no one had ever. He wrote like he was the last man on Earth. He wrote like there would be no tomorrow.

He sent his writings of the storm to a newspaper, where many took great interest in him and his skill. Alexander was given the opportunity to go to America, he was given the opportunity to leave.

And as Alexander stood on the deck of the ship heading for the American colonies, one thought was radiating through the entirety of his being:

Maybe some wishes do come true.