One.
Cal Hockley.
'A real man makes his own luck.'
He hadn't always been a bastard.
Once, he had been nothing but a sweet little boy, one whom would never hurt a fly and was afraid of his own shadow.
Once, he had a heart.
Not the cold chunk of ice that lay there in his later years, but a warm and fully functioning collection of caring veins and gentle arteries. But the older he grew, the more he changed.
And eventually, he became the thing he never wanted to.
He became like his father.
Marie
On December 31st, 1882, Marie Hockley gave birth to a healthy baby boy named Caledon Nathan Hockley. Even at a few minutes old, his parents were sure he would grow up to be a handsome man. Upon his head was a mess of dark hair, exactly like his father's own.
Richard Hockley was proud of his son. Unlike most babies, he barely opened his mouth.
"That shows bravery," he never tired of telling his wife.
Marie would simply smile and shake her head. "Whether he is brave or not, I will love him all the same."
And that was true, for no matter what her baby did, Marie found it amazing. She adored being a mother and took the role very seriously.
"I do not want him carted off to a nanny every morning. I am his mother, I shall take care of him," she told Richard sternly, hours after little Caledon was born.
Richard couldn't argue, for her knew his wife well and knew she would not change her mind on the subject.
For a few days after Caledon's birth, everything was perfect. But one fateful night the unthinkable happened.
Marie woke up screaming in pain, her face paling from bright red to sickly grey. Richard knew his wife was in distress, for she never complained.
He called for the doctor immediately, but it was too late.
Marie Hockley died less than a week after her son's birth.
That was Cal's first downfall.
He had killed his mother at only three days old.
It was something he never forgot- partly because his father never let him, but also because even though he was only a baby, it was his fault. And it was wrong to kill someone, whether accidentally or on purpose.
When Richard Hockley died, Cal was somewhat thankful. One less person to make him feel guilty about his mother's demise.
Rose
Cal never was very good at showing his feelings, though he truly tried his hardest with Rose DeWitt Bukater. She was everything he ever wanted- maybe it was because she was so much like how his father had described his mother. Cal thought that if he could care about Rose and show how much she meant to him, Marie would understand how sorry he was.
But he didn't know how to love. That's where the problem started. He cared for Rose so much… yet how could he show it? The only way he knew was to shower her with expensive gifts. He never knew where he stood with her, she was always so cold. But he could hardly blame her. Living with a man like himself would be hard, for he knew he was a handful.
But he loved Rose with all of his heart. When he left her for that… that gutter rat he was heartbroken. But deep down, he knew it was his own fault. It always was.
In 1929, Cal's past finally caught up with him.
He lost everything in the Wall Street Crash- his money, his business, even his home. He had nothing but the clothes on his back. Cal had nobody in the world, that hit him like a ton of bricks.
He had never realised before; he was always immersed in his work, he was too busy to think about family or friends.
A memory flitted across his mind briefly.
"I apologise for my daughter Cal. I hope you will stay in touch, for you are a perfect gentlemen and goodness knows the world needs more of them!"
That was what Ruth DeWitt Bukater had written in a letter to him. But that was ten years ago, she probably wouldn't even remember him.
What he really wanted- what he really needed- was Rose. But she was with Jack, presumably surrounded by a scattering of small children in a tiny house. It was his idea of hell, yet knowing Rose she was probably happy. At least he hoped so.
Cal sat down at his desk and pulled out three slips of paper. He wrote the first letter rather quickly, for he knew what he wanted to say.
Dear Jack Dawson,
I am sure you do not remember me, but my name is Cal Hockley. I was engaged to Rose DeWitt Bukater (or is it Dawson now, for when I searched so desperately for her, that was the only survivor or Titanic named Rose that I could find,) in 1912.
If you do remember me, you most probably hate me. I am writing to you to apologise for what I did all those years ago. I was foolish to think that a girl as wonderful as Rose deserved me- I am nothing but a shell of a man.
I suppose what I am trying to say, is congratulations. You won Mr Dawson.
I hope you can forgive me,
Sincerely, Caledon Hockley.
The next letter was slightly more difficult. He knew Jack Dawson was a kind hearted, forgiving young man, but Rose was made of harder stuff. His letter would need to be much more heartfelt…
My dearest Rose,
I am sending this to Jack Dawson's address, in the hopes you are together- and more importantly, alive. I hope firstly that you are happy. I couldn't bear it if you were not. I know that must sound strange, because I made our time together miserable, but I honestly did love you.
I can imagine you reading this, amusement in your eyes and a smirk on your face. I'm smiling right now, just picturing you. I hope you are still that clever, beautiful girl I met ten years ago, the same one who was brave enough to put me right.
I am not married, in case you were wondering. Though I am sure you are- probably to Jack. I can picture you both growing old together, surrounded by your children and grandchildren. You always were good with children.
I love you Rose, do not ever forget that.
Love, Cal.
The third letter was the easiest. It was written quickly, a scrawl across a page. It simply stated.
To those whom it may concern,
I cannot go on. I need… escapism. I cannot pretend that everything is fine. I am Caledon Hockley, and I do not go down without a fight. But I have fought my hardest and I am so tired of it all.
I apologise. You may all help yourselves to anything I own.
Sincerely, Caledon Nathan Hockley.
Just like that, he was done. Standing up rather calmly, he walked to his bookshelf and pulled out the leather bible he owned. Inside was a compartment- it was where he kept his gun. With a serene smile on his face, her checked the gun for bullets. It held three, though he would only need one. Then, in one smooth motion he slid the gun into his mouth.
His death was quick, and relatively painless. He died picturing Rose and Jack, but it was the happiest image he had had in a long time.
A/N: Next up will be Jack Dawson. He's my favourite! Remember, Titanic doesn't belong to me, although I wish it did. Jack never would of died if it did… Cal and the rest of the characters along with the original movie belong to James Cameron. Titanic belongs to… well, history really. Review! xx
