Work Text:
In the dark of his cramped bedroom, James mentally bemoans that AP U.S History really is a bitch. He's a month away from the final exam, and his teacher has finally started burying them in Quizlets and practice worksheets. It's 1 am and he's only on unit three out of nine. He feels really stupid thinking he could hit them all in one night.
James picks up the slab that was the free-response practice packet and squintily reads the question. Something-something Revolutionary War, something-something Declaration of Independence. It was asking him to talk about the founding fathers who’d signed the document. Oh, and look, how kind- they even included a picture of the Declaration and some poorly scanned painting of the dipshits writing it. James’ brain moves slowly, thoughts grinding against each other in an attempt to remember the significance of each man involved.
Um, Thomas Jefferson helped write it, and- and Franklin was there…
Looking at his worksheet and desperately thinking, his eyes are only drawn the largest signature on the sheet. John Hancock, swankily scrawled right under the Declaration’s main body of text.
And John Hancock, he uh…he was the first to sign, and, uh…fuck, what else did he do…
His pencil twiddles in his hand, etching lines into the faces of his forefathers.
John Hancock was…ugh!
James draws his pencil harshly over the sheet, slashing a line through his stupid free-response question.
“This fucking sucks” he hisses “why the fuck do I have to remember who John-fucking-Hancock is!”
He draws more lines across the paper. “Who the fuck even cares about John Hancock?”
He scratches harshly over the man’s signature, breaking the tip of his pencil in the process. “Why the fuck did he sign this stupid document so fucking big!?”
“Why indeed, young man.”
James halts his tirade. His spine straightens and he waits a second, trying to process the voice he just heard in his room. Panic quickly pounds in his chest, causing him to spin around in his shitty desk chair and scour the corners of his room. The desk lamp is the only light source here. His back is blocking most of it, leaving scant few rays to peak around his shoulders and illuminate the space. The bedroom door, closet, and bed overflowing with dirty laundry hold no secrets, but the dresser…
A gaunt man stands behind his dresser, face barely visible from its position brushing against the ceiling.
“Hello, young man.”
He- it- James can barely discern the details from the shadows, but the figure appears to be wearing a dark, tattered overcoat, buttons glistening. The coat fades messily into pants of a similar material that- yeesh, were those breaches? The pants cut off at the calf, and become a disgusting pair of stockings. An indiscernible brown substance is splattered across both the ugly socks and the figure’s buckled shoes, almost like mud but…not quite.
The thing in the corner is smiling at him. It bends its long torso, leaning halfway across the room to stick its horrifying visage closer to him. He can barely see its eyes behind the tattered powdered wig.
“You chanted my name aloud three times, child, as if to summon me from hell. You have succeeded.”
James' throat seizes up, but he manages to sputter “what- I d-didn’t…”
A bony hand comes up to grasp his jaw. “Ah, ah, ah. I heard you cursing me” the figure jeers.
He sits paralyzed for a moment, before a dawning realization blanches his face.
“J-John Hancock??”
“Yes boy. Behold my visage.”
“But- but you died in, like, 1790-”
“Your history notes actually say 1793, but that is not important because it is not correct.”
The hand releases him, and James jerks back hard against his desk. He has the growing urge to scream, but his subconscious mind is more afraid of what the figure will do if he calls for help.
“Did you ever wonder why a man would sign his name so pompously large on such an important historical document?”
“I- I don’t-”
“Because while half the people on that paper have gone on to be largely forgotten, my fame has persisted. When I was a mere man, I keenly understood that the only way to survive mortality was to become more than just a man. To become an idea, everlasting beyond any actual significance of my life. I signed my soul away into that paper that day, knowing that it would carry me centuries onward. A man may die, but not his legacy.”
“Like Hamilton?”
The figure twists towards him “What?”
“Like-like Hamilton, isn’t that the plot of Hamilton?”
James immediately realizes he said the wrong thing as the creature charges toward him. It slams its hand on the desk behind him, and its disgusting hair brushes against his face.
“This is nothing like Hamilton, you peasant! No! Alexander lies cold and rotten in the ground, while I stalk the shadows of the world!” Its face tips toward him, teeth gnashing in anger. “I am beyond man! I am beyond a mere theatrical diddy! Whenever fools like you bemoan my absurdly large signature, it summons me forth. I feast upon your very soul, and let the myth of my presence spread further! My unholy existence will be supplied forever by the banal astonishment of you oafish clods!”
A blackened tongue flashes out of the ghoulish creature’s mouth.
“I exist betwixt the annals of history, my signature carrying me forever. I shall never sleep. I shall never die”
A sick sort of smile tears at the creature's mouth, bearing foully down at him. A whining cry finally escapes James’ throat.
I fucking hate APUSH.