"No! You'll swamp us!"
How many people had I just condemned?
Not that I did it on purpose. I'm blinded by my fright--not to mention, the mixture of grease and seawater streaming into my eyes.
But what if one of them had been her?
The cries of the third-class passengers who were trapped and drowning pierce my heart. Only God knows whether she was still in there with that Dawson boy right now.
I swear, if he makes it out alive and she doesn't, I will kill him.
I turn my back to the now-vertical ship and squeeze my eyes shut. A few more moments of chaos and suddenly it's quiet. After a while, the screams of the unfortunate die down. I cannot help but imagine my Rose as one of those agonized voices. My body is tired, my mind is numb. But my heart is screaming, "Go for her! You know she's out there!" But no one in our boat, myself included, turn around to go back. What's the use, anyway? Whoever isn't dead will swamp the boat and probably kill us all.
The night goes on, and the further away we get from the site, the deeper the break in my heart gets. I was busy contemplating throwing myself overboard to relieve my suffering when the Carpathia appeared. The deck was bustling with officers and passengers searching for lost loved ones. I joined them, looking through the first-class survivors first, and then the third-class. Before last night, I would have cringed walking amongst those people; but today, we were all one in my eyes. I searched for that familiar figure, that blazing hair, my coat. No one. I double-check everyone, and even go as far as to ask the officers if they had seen her. "We'll not be taking any kind of attendance until we reach New York, sir" one of them said. I walk slowly back to my cabin, keeping my noble façade and not letting the grief show on my face. As soon as I'm safe, I sit on the bed and cry. I don't remember the last time I cried that hard.
My fault, it was my fault, I should have been a better fiancée, she would have loved me, she wouldn't have run, she wouldn't have left, she wouldn't have died…I'm shaking, shaking, and her memory engulfs me like those freezing Atlantic waters, and I'm spiraling, spiraling down…
Darkness. My eyes shoot open and I gasp. To my surprise, hot tears are still running down my cheeks. Looking around I see my belongings and the darkness still seeping through the curtains. I sigh; it was just a dream. Then my reality floods back to me. It most certainly not a dream, as it happened 17 long years ago. I had indeed lost my precious Rose that terrible year. I move from the bed, careful not to wake my wife, and slip on my robe and slippers. I head down to the bar and get myself a brandy. I almost reach for a cigar but stop as strains of a waltz play through my memory. It seems so…familiar. How odd…
My eyes fall on a crumpled piece of paper on the countertop. My bank statement for this month. Reading through the numbers once more, I wonder to myself:
Where did it all go?
Who spent it?
Was it stolen?
Will it replenish?
I must call Harold tomorrow morning, see who else this is affecting. Maybe I should burn it; wouldn't want the family to worry, after all. But if I can't get the money back soon, there's no way I could hide our situation for long. I don't know what to do!
My gaze falls on the locked drawer containing my M1911 pistol. The very gun, in fact, that I took from Lovejoy and used that fateful night 17 years ago. How very touching, I thought, that it should be used one last time in such a symbolic way. Perhaps I shall wear the same suit too, and let the grease in my hair run out…
No!
Don't think that way, Cal!
You've survived worse.