A short Murdoch fic that came to me last time I saw the movie. Kind of morbid for me. His last thoughts on the forward boat deck of Titanic. Rated T for the fact that some younger readers may find this distressing.
Disclaimer: I own nothing in this fic except for First Officer Murdoch's thoughts.
First Officer Murdoch's eyes traveled over the scene before him. The bleeding Irishman. The money strewn across the deck. The ocean water churning over the bow of the great ship. His fault. All of it.
"Bastardo!" an Italian man yelled at him as he knelt over the body of the Irishman.
Murdoch just stared. He had reacted too quickly. If he had only stopped for an instant, noticed that fact that the man had been pushed, he would still be there with the rest of them, fighting for life. Now he had no chance at all. Damn that hair-trigger reaction time that his mother had always accused him of having, that had actually helped elevate him to being the first officer on the greatest ship ever built. But in this case, his reaction had come too quickly.
But those reflexes had deserted them when he needed them most. If he had only reacted faster at the sight of the iceberg, maybe even by a split-second, none of this would be happening at all. If he had been staring ahead instead of at the lovers on deck, he may have spotted the iceberg before the watchmen had, too late. The logical part of his brain told him that this was unlikely, but he was the officer of the watch. It was his responsibility. His reaction had come too slowly.
The Irishman's blood trickled onto the scattered pound notes. They were a stain on his honor, no matter how he had resolved it in the end. His own words echoed in his head. Your money can't save you any more than it can save me. Too little, too late. As the dapper first class man had shoved the wad of bills into Murdoch's pocket, he had only stared. He had not reacted at all.
He knew his chances of surviving this Hell were slim, and that he would most likely face a long death by drowning or exposure. Even if he did make it to see another day, he could never look in the mirror again. He could never look at himself or his wife and think I am a good man. I have no regrets. Living with that sort of guilt would not be life at all. No, he would not lead a life that Ismay was sure to endure, of guilt and remorse. This was a reaction that he was sure of. Not too soon, not too late. The timing, finally, was perfect.
With a final salute, he raised the pistol to his head and pulled the trigger.