This is just a little something I thought about late one night. It made me depressed but I felt I should write it. And writing it made me feel better, and a friend told me I should put this up.
I own nothing.
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She was magnificent. Beautiful, really. Built for perfection, she was. Her design was flawless, top-notch of her time. From birth, she was known to be "the one." And she was. She really was. Perfectly painted and exquisite in her form, she emerged from intangible thought to reachable reality. Dare they say that she was... Perfection.
She was the mighty, brilliant Titanic. A goddess of ships during her time, she was the largest luxury liner there was, and most certainly the finest to match. Her design was flawless, or so it was considered. Overconfidence surrounded the vessel, some saying that she was, in fact, unsinkable. But could it be so? Could perfection really be achieved? They would soon find out.
Her maiden voyage, the most important time for her. She would have to work her best to live up to the rumors that had been spread. Oh, how she wanted to make them proud. Off they went, into the middle of the Atlantic. If only they knew what was awaiting them. If only she knew what was coming.
"Speed her up," they commanded. She didn't want to go faster, but she was a slave to her creators, and her creators would be her downfall for certain.
It was dark, and not much was visible, though the night itself was clear. Suddenly, she found herself in the path of a large mountain of ice, rather, it was in her path. She knew she'd have no chance against it, and she tried her best to turn. She was too big though, and she had started turning too late, not that it was her fault.
She cried out as she felt the ice stabbing holes into her starboard side, and suddenly found herself filling with water. No matter, she was designed to handle this sort of problem. But wait, what's this? More than the maximum number of her watertight compartments had been filled. She was doomed.
Everyone on board panicked. Not even half of them managed to get out and away from her alive. She could hear all the screams. The terrified cries for help, so desperate, and the worst part was, that she knew that they knew that help would not come for them. They would suffer a painful, chilling fate. Mothers watched their children expire before them, with no way of helping them. This was shortly before they too expired.
She felt herself breaking apart, and knew that this was the end for her. That once intangible thought had become a horrifying nightmare. It was then, when the last part of her body was submerged in the icy depths that it happened. The impossible became the possible. The unbelievable was believed. Perfection had failed, and the unsinkable had sunk.
Many years later, her body was discovered. She didn't think it could get any worse than where she was: at the bottom of the Atlantic ocean, being eaten alive by the ocean itself and its creatures. There was nothing to look forward to. No happiness to be shared. No hope. All that surrounded her were pieces of her once magnificent body, and death.
But what happened when they found her? They took what they could. Greed and corruption stole from what remained of her. They cut her up, taking pieces of her hull to the surface. But for what purpose? To show how perfection worked? That it didn't exist?
Soon, there would be nothing left of her but her naked frame. A hollowed out memory of the goddess of ships. The mighty Titanic would be reduced to debris in the near future. All she could do was wait for that day. The day that she, the memory of a disaster, faded into the cold, dark nothingness of the ocean. And like most events of the past, she would be forgotten.
"So this," she thought to herself as her body began to collapse, "is what perfection feels like..."
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