Starry Night
Was it the sky above her? Or was it her bedroom ceiling?
Her father, a passionate patron of the arts, had commissioned Vincent Van Gogh's Starry Night Over the Rhone for her bedroom ceiling when she was seven. She remembered lying in her warm bed, though her mind could no longer conceive warmth or comfort, and staring at the masterpiece above her. It captivated her, holding her imagination as she marvelled at the gas lamps casting yellow rays on the dark water. And then, it was the only thing in her room that was beautiful; her porcelain dolls were perfect and lifeless and cold, her clothes were fine and elegant and not suited for playing, her hair was too red, her eyes were too big, her chin was too round, her fingers were too fat. But the Rhone was deep and dark and limitless, and the light was warm and inviting and so golden.
When her father died, her mother painted the ceiling white.
Was it the sky above her? The real sky had never seemed beautiful to her, hidden as it always was behind Philadelphia's modern skyscrapers and factory smoke. What was the use of a sky with no stars?
The sky that bobbed above her had many stars – billions of stars, all glistening like diamonds. Diamonds...very rare diamonds...
Had Van Gogh made them yellow? The ones that winked above her were somehow white; white against the deepest blue, deep blue like a diamond...a very rare diamond... Cold. Heavy.
Her legs were heavy.
She did not feel them, but she felt the weight of her bed pressing up against them, wet and uncomfortable. And she felt the dress clinging, clutching, suffocating, heavy and no longer wet, but ice and stone, her legs were trapped and her feet were gone, and blinking was a chore. Breathing was a chore. Was she breathing?
The fog that streamed from between her lips told her she was.
Strange. She was still. Still but for the blinking, the laborious blinking.
Blue. Everywhere. Dark. Deep. Sapphire? Diamond. Blue.
A feeling that seemed like longing welled in her chest. Lighter blue. Make it lighter blue. Eyes. Artist's eyes. She had never felt so warm as she had when they were upon her skin, every bit of her skin, wherever they touched was fire. Sweat. Fire. Hot. Coal. Had she ever smelled coal? What was smell? Ice...did it smell? She smelled...did cold smell? Did it make her nose burn?
Running. Laughter. Sweat. Hands grasping. Steam. Skin. Blood racing. Hot, red blood, like fire, like fire when her heart pumped. Did her heart still pump? Was she dreaming? Dreaming? No. Not lucky enough.
She had no control of her body. She could not feel her body. A body...did she still have a body?
The sky was too dark to be her bedroom ceiling. Where was yellow? Where was sun? When had she ever seen the sun?
Wind...water...harmless water...flying. Fingertips. Lips.
"Come Josephine...in my flying...machine...and it's up she goes...up she goes..."
What was that? Who was talking? Was someone singing? Singing...the words, what were the words...
"Come Josephine," wind that was not cold, and flying up to the sky...to the stars, "in my flying..."
Warm.
Yellow.
Sun?
Her hair cracked and broke as she tried to find it.
A moving star? A gas lamp. A yellow ray on the black water.
Someone was singing.
Someone was singing.
Her fingers would not move, frozen as they were in a film of ice. Film. Cold. Hands...
Put your hands on me... "Jack," his name came to her lips so easily, she didn't realise she had said it aloud.
His name flooded her with something. She didn't know what it was, but her hands were moving. Her heart was thundering in her chest somehow, though she was sure it had stopped beating millennia ago. She grasped at his wrist and the desire to see his face, to look at his beautiful face and see his eyelashes fluttering over his light blue eyes...light blue. Not dark blue. Not dark...
The desire to see his face...it moved her. She turned, and she shook, but she did not know if she was shaking from cold again, or from the effort to stir him from his peaceful rest. He reminded her of an angel...the angel on top of the Christmas tree at the bottom of the stairs.
"Up you go, Rosie!" her dad laughed, swinging her onto her shoulders. "Put the angel on the tree, angel."
The angel had its eyes closed, and seemed to be in silent prayer. Snow clung to its fine hair. It was painted with such detail, that Rose called it Gabriel. Jack looked like an angel. Was he praying? Was he praying for a light? The light had come. The light was there. A gas lamp on the Rhone...
"Jack."
The singing continued. Her ears forced her head to turn again. Movement was easier. The adrenaline came. Adrenaline... blood thundering in her ears. Terror. Running. Screaming. Clutching. Rubbing. Kissing. Laughing. Running... Her legs were heavy. Her head was light. It followed the gas lamp as it glided across the Rhone... glided. Glided. It moved. It moved!
The frost on her eyelashes was what made it hard to blink. If the tears were not frozen beneath her eyelids, the sight of the beautiful yellow light floating over the heads of her fellow passengers would have made her cry. A boat. A light on a boat, and a man singing, calling, words that were so distorted to her eardrums that they could be anything, but she hoped they were asking for survivors. Survivor...
Jack. A survivor.
Her breathing was ragged. She could hear it. Her ears...Jack was still praying, asleep. Still. She had to wake him.
"Jack," she moved her arm with more purpose, more control. She could move. "There's a boat." He did not realise their salvation had come. He was still praying for the light that was moving away from them, the light that would save them. It was here! How could he not see it? If only he would open his eyes, she would see the light blue, and the warm would come, and the sun would be on her skin, and they would go together. To the light. To the boat. If only he would open his eyes.
"Jack?" If only he would open his eyes. He was so asleep, so deep asleep... What was he dreaming of? The boat? It was here! They were saved. If only he would wake up, he could see it, and he could smile. If only he would open his eyes... "Jack?"
She shook him, a foreign emotion bubbling up to replace the warmth. Anger. Why wouldn't he wake up? He was being too stubborn; he was too attached to his sleep, to his dream, to his prayer. "Jack!"
Just open your damn eyes!
Anger. Frantically, she shook him. He had to wake up now, or...
"Jack..."
Her eyes seemed like they were melting. The pain that burned behind them was worse than the cold. What was happening? Why wouldn't he wake up? Why wouldn't he open his eyes? There was a boat for them! How could he not know?
"There's a boat, Jack."
There. Just open your eyes.
Please.
Her cheeks were hot. And cold. It hurt. She felt the pain. Water...water...she hated water...
It froze and it burned. Her throat dried up. She wanted to scream, but she hadn't the voice... The cold. The cold... Oh god...
Oh god.
"Jack..."
Oh god. No.
No. No. No..
The scream tried to escape again. Her ears burned too. A sob. A whimper. A sound of distress. She couldn't feel anymore. Just the hot, the water, the cold, the cold...oh god, the cold. The cold...
It was so cold... the gas lamp was gone. The golden ray it cast on the dark, deep, bottomless water was gone. The cold... She was alone on the Rhone. No lover at her arm. Just cold. Just empty, desolate cold. Nothing. Nothing and cold. And everything. Oh god... The dark.
No one sang.
She felt everything leave her. Her head was back on the cold, hard bed. The bed? The door. The door... Jack let her lay there, and he stayed in the water. In the water...
Jack opened his eyes.
"Rose?" He loosened his grip on her hand, but threaded their fingers lightly.
Her heart erupted. She knew what feeling was again. The painting came to life. The lovers moved, the gas lamps flickered. The song filled her, filled her every pore and poured out from her every fingertip. His voice. His voice...
"Jack?"
"Rose...what..."
"There's a boat, Jack." Her limbs came to life. A fire lit beneath the door. She was up, she was sitting, and then she was in the water. Jack wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to the surface. He was strong, and his heart thrummed in her ears. The song...
"I see it."
The boat was moving away, more quickly than she had realised. "Come back!"
Her voice was weak, weak and airy. It had sounded so loud before.
Jack joined in to help her, but he was just as weak. They had to find some way...
"Over there," he said suddenly. "Rose, I need you to swim."
Together, they swam to the whistle. The man who had once owned it was gone. He was a shell. An empty thing that meant nothing to them. They took it, and Jack blew it hard. His strong lips, lips that had caressed her neck, her thigh, her lips, her eyelids... the whistle's music floated across the water like a bird...Chirp chirp chirp. And the light came on them, like the first light of spring, and the springtime melted all the ice that still clung to her heart.
When they were pulled into the lifeboat, faceless men wrapped them in two blankets and left them to huddle together. Jack kissed her cheek and wrapped his arms back around her, unwilling to let her leave his side. The cold did not touch them. It could not. They sank to the floor of the boat, the sturdy floor that would not crack... His breath was on her neck, in her hair, in her nose. She could smell the charcoal in his fingertips. How was that still there? His fingers traced patterns on her belly. Their legs entwined on their own.
Oh, god, the heat. The warmth. She felt safe. Safe again. And truly happy. Nothing could touch them. The water did not pitch them forward, but the faceless men with the oars. And the singing: "Is there anyone alive out there? Can anyone hear me?"
I can hear you...
Jack and I are alive. We can hear you.
The night was easy. Everything was easy because he was beside her, holding her, loving her, warming her. She turned on her side and put her face in Jack's firm chest. He moved one hand to her hair, then pushed his fingers to trace her neck. So rough...texture. Texture. She wished she could think straight, and she wished that she had a voice, because if she did... I love you, I love you, I love you. Never let me go.
The sun. The sun melted them into a puddle in the lifeboat. He did not let her go. Their hearts stretched out and touched each other, at the same time he touched her neck and her hair with his rough, rough fingers. Artist's hands. Her eyes stayed open because if she closed them, it would all go away.
Life. Boat. They were alive. Together. Her lips smiled without her knowledge.
"Look, Rose...a ship."
Her eyelashes were dry. The ship said Carpathia.
The ride to New York went fast. It was bright and sunny on April 18th, when they finally reached the harbour. Before they disembarked, they sought out Captain Rostron, and he married them under the blue sky, blue like Jack's eyes. Obviously they still had things to attend to, their marriage license, and having another ceremony in nice clothes. Her mother clapped and smiled from the front of the onlookers. Jack grinned as he lowered his lips to hers. She finally closed her eyes and wrapped her arms so tightly around him that she stopped feeling her fingertips again.
Their kiss lasted until an officer approached them and politely cleared his throat.
"Can I take your name please, luv?"
She smiled and wrapped her arms around Jack's torso. "Dawson. Rose Dawson."
They escaped the media frenzy as quickly as they could, and found a small, cheap room where they could clean themselves up. Jack sneaked up on her in the bath and they wrapped around each other like silk around chiffon. The heavy breathing again. The heat. The steam. The heartbeat. Clutching. Rubbing. Kissing. Laughing.
The water spilled out of the tub and onto the floor.
Giggling, she allowed Jack to pick her up and carry her to the bed. Planting kisses along her jaw, he set her down against the soft pillows and smiled. Then he pulled away. She frowned and sat up, following his retreat and reaching for his arm. "Stay on." He whispered, and he kissed her forehead at her hairline. "Stay on, Rose."
She lay back down and turned to face him, scooting as far to the edge of the mattress as she could without falling off. He knelt on the ground, taking her hands into his and kissing them gently as he rested his forehead against hers. The room was stifling, so warm that she could hardly breathe, or maybe that was because of Jack?
"We'll be all right now..." he murmured, wiping away all of her nightmares before they could touch her. The screams in her ears were replaced with the gentle feeling of the breeze on her face. He had opened a window to allow them some sunshine. "We'll be all right now."
She closed her eyes and savoured the feeling of his lips. They brushed down her nose, chilling her spine with every kiss.
She gripped his hands tightly, so that he wouldn't get up and leave her. He chuckled.
"It's getting quiet..."
No one sang.
She felt everything leave her. Her head was back on the cold, hard bed. The bed? The door. The door... Jack let her lay there, and he stayed in the water. In the water...
Jack did not open his eyes.
The sobs tore at her throat like the knives tore at her heart.
Like a thousand knives stabbing you all over your body.
She could not breathe. She could not think.
It was so cold... the gas lamp was gone. The golden ray it cast on the dark, deep, bottomless water was gone. The cold... She was alone on the Rhone. No lover at her arm. Just cold. Just empty, desolate cold. Nothing. Nothing and cold. And everything. Oh god... The dark.
Jack told her something...Jack made her promise...do him the honour...survive...go on...have lots of babies...old lady warm in her bed...
Not here.
Not this night.
Jack whispered in her ear. She lifted her head.
"Come back!" but her voice...it tore her still, like the sobs. The desperate, pathetic sobs of a heartbroken woman that begged to be released. Don't you say your goodbyes. "Come back!"
The singing was still there...distant...too far away.
"Come back!" Still desperate and pathetic. But productive. "Come back! Come back..." her voice broke, and she cried with the pain. "Come back! Come back!"
Her cries went unheard. The fire was gone... there was nothing there. "Come back..." The gas lamp floated further and further away. The lovers by the Rhone disappeared into darkness. She could not...she had to move. She had to walk to them...swim to them? Go to them. Go to them and tell them she was here, and she needed them to come back and get her and Jack... "Come back..."
Jack.
His cold hand chained her to the door, like the broken cuff that cut his wrist. She pulled and pushed and yanked and with all the strength that she did not have in her body, she pried their frozen hands apart. She could not lace their fingers together because the boat...the gas lamp...the flashlight...the singing...the voice. It was going away, and she had to get out. She had to go on...she could not break her promise.
Without her to anchor him to the door, his strong, young body sank beneath the glassy ocean. His Angel hair, with the ice and snow caught up in its soft, soft threads, softened with the water. She gripped his wrist, and she longed to have it twist and turn and flex so that his fingers could caress hers. Oh god... her heart pounded painfully against her ribcage and she tried to let him go and pull him to her.
The Atlantic dragged him down, away from her, away from her eyes. "I'll never let go." Her voice scratched her ears and her neck and her heart and she brought his beautiful, beautiful hand to her numb, swollen lips and kissed it so that he would know that she was keeping him. "I promise."
She let go.
And he was gone.
Blackness. Dark. Nothing.
Her heart ceased to drive her body. Instead, her limbs and her brain pitched her into the same water that had taken him away from her.
She swam alone to the whistle.
And the light came on her, but it was cold. Cold like the sun in winter, hidden behind grey and snow. And the winter froze all the ice that still clung to her heart.
When she was pulled into the lifeboat, faceless men wrapped her in a blanket and left her to herself. She sank to the floor of the boat, the sturdy floor that would not crack... The biting cold was on her neck, in her hair, in her nose.
Oh, god, the cold. The ice. And the singing: "Is there anyone alive out there? Can anyone hear me?"
I can hear you...
But am I alive?
The night was hard. "I love you..." she whispered. But no one was there to hear her.
She did not realise when the sun rose.
Her eyelashes were wet. The ship said Carpathia.
The ride to New York went slow. It was dark and rainy on April 18th, when they finally reached the harbour. She stood on her own in the middle of the fray, and stared at the national symbol of liberty and freedom. She felt as suppressed and caged as ever.
"Can I take your name please, luv?"
She looked at him, her face empty and wet. "Dawson. Rose Dawson."
The sky was dark above her. The rain obscured the stars.
Author's note: This is raw. I'm posting it right after completion, without proof reading it or going back to reread it. Take it as it is, and I hope it stirs some kind of emotion within you. It stirred plenty in me. Please leave any criticisms, compliments, or comments in a review, no matter what your feelings about it.
Disclaimer: Nothing's mine!