Disclaimer: Based on some characters and situations created by James Cameron. Almost all of the other characters and dialogues belong to me, sometimes I quote or copy other films/shows/whatever to reference them--not to steal them. And I've also put in cameo appearances from characters from other movies and real people as well. (See if you can catch them all[cameos and references]) And some of the events in this story that the characters will find themselves in are actual historical events, but *most* of the characters are fictional, it's like the way they did it that boat movie a few years ago... Also, chapter two takes place mostly after the movie and fills in some spots at the end. Although that's the turning point of Rose's life if you're reading this you've probably seen the movie. If you're not living in a hole you've probably seen the movie. I don't feel it necessary to retell the entire film although she'll go on about it for a while. But now to the story. Oh joy of joys.

STRIKE UP THE BAND! BRING OUT THE DANCERS! LET'S START THE CELEBRATION! THE STORY'S STARTING!!!!!!!!!! WHOPEE!!!!



I recall it was a colder night than usual even for New England. As I was not originally from the area I sometimes forgot. Although by then I had become a rather prominent member of the community. I was as good as native in my home of Ogunquit, Maine.

In spite of the offensive temperature that night seemed like a winter wonderland with the freshly fallen snow and the Christmas decorations in the street. It was December of 1943.

I was in good spirits that night despite my overwhelming sleepiness. Each step from the car back to Old Town House became harder. It had been the longest time since I felt so tired, but I welcomed the feeling for it promised an absolute emotion of ecstasy when I slipped between the covers that night because that was positively all I wanted to do right then.

As my hand reached for the door I was jolted wide-awake by a strong, and bitter cold wind. Just what I needed. My vision went blurry for several seconds. When I regained it I entered the building to find my two children and my neighbor's son cleaning up after our theater production of "Peter Pan." I ran the local children's theater there from 1930 to 1968.

My daughter, Sarah, met me at the door. She is the eldest and has always carried herself as such, but without the arrogance I sometimes caught myself presenting in my youth.

Her lovely golden hair had come loose from its bun and she began to show circles under her eyes, but she still managed, quite easily, to crack a smile.

"Hello Mom. Watch out for Charlie tonight. He must be ready to drop. He's getting overly punchy."

"I think I can handle him."

My only son, my youngest child was currently involving himself in a possibly life threatening situation. At least it did appear dangerous to me. Any mother will vouch for me on this one. Charlie was currently hanging upside down above the stage being secured by a rope used to help our little actors "fly." Although I must admit this stunt was amusing at the same time. But then it occurred to me that by this time in his life he had been rushed to the hospital a record seven times by things he did on his own account. We knew all the doctors and nurses on a first name basis.

"Charlie Calvert get down from there!" I called to him, "You'll break something."

"I assure you I am a trained professional." He always said something like that.

"Come on time to go home."

"Mother, this is not a time to be casual. There's a war on."

"Very funny." I said. The mention of the war made me slightly uncomfortable because my nephew Nick had just been drafted and I hadn't told them yet. Under normal circumstances I would have not kept secrets from them. They were certainly old enough to handle it, but it was at Nick's request that my husband and I not tell his cousins about it until after the holidays. He was not that much older than them. Nick was 22, Sarah was nearly 20, Charlie was 18, and our sleeping neighbor boy in the corner was 19.

I fear I have neglected our unconscious friend for a moment. My husband and I had been good friends with his parents. And Jack, which was his name, had been close with Nick also. The war had been hard on his family also. Jack Yamamoto, half Japanese and half white. I think that's as far an explanation as anyone would need.

But young Jack was probably the sweetest boy I'd ever known. Shy at times; rather audacious at others, very bright, with a smile to kill for, and though generally honest and forthcoming, he could be brilliantly devious if he wanted to. But at that moment he was someplace far off, but not for long.

By this time Charlie had unhooked himself from the rope and climbed down from the stage. Charlie was a clever boy with a good heart, but impulsive and utterly tactless.

"Jack, old boy, wake up!" He gave him a merry slap on the back.

"Sweet Jesus! Don't do that damn it!" Those were the first words I'd heard out of him all evening. "Oh hi Rose."

"Charles," I called to him being somewhat patronizing.

"I couldn't resist."

"Not cute. Let's pack it in and go. I'm tired." I signaled for them to go out to the car. Jack and Charlie skipped out pushing each other as they ran outside. Sarah stayed for a moment and approached me as carefully as if I were a stranger on the street.

"I found this before.in the prop trunk." She handed me an old piece of paper with a fancy fountain pen clipped to it. First I examined the pen. It was dark, scarlet red with gold lettering. The cap was initialed 'RDB' and the body read 'Love, Papa Christmas 1904.' A flood of memories came back. Voices, faces, smells, everything. I hadn't even opened up the note, but I knew what it was. I couldn't open it in front of her.

"Do you know what it is?"

"Let me take a look at it.I'll be round in a few minutes."

"Alright then." Sarah was an unusually perceptive girl, but it wouldn't have taken much for anyone to realize something was amiss. She was hesitant.

"It's alright Peaches, I'm just going to take a look at it." With that she took her leave, but still dissatisfied.

The paper was yellowed, but still intact and readable. It was like a ghost just standing there in front of me and staring me right in the face. It had been twenty years since I'd seen it last and nearly forty years since I'd laid my pen to it.

"Beat me

Chain me

Restrain me

Silence me

Force me

But you will never break my spirit

You will never change my mind."

It was as if I had gone back again. There was so much anger. I was only ten years old. So grown up, yet so ignorant. Maybe it was not so much early maturity that affected me so. I was more.trained. Trained to perfection. My parents were so proud.

Of course I always found some means of temporary escape; writing angry little notes for myself such the aforementioned one, slipping in the occasional sly comment at mealtimes (preferably when my parents had guests over), and getting myself lost in my family's gardens.

I also started smoking when I fifteen in a desperate attempt to prove to my parents that they couldn't control everything in my life. Maybe it was a teenage thing, but I had been fighting them since I was child. My father objected to this at first, naturally. Although no one knew the health risks involved in smoking back then. He himself smoked a cigar every night after dinner and I was quick to point that out to him.

My mother thought this habit an "abomination of ladylike grace." I rolled my eyes at it at the time, but now I see her words a bit differently. I see them as a very good quote and am glad at the opportunity to use it. Although cigarette smoking was not considered a proper thing for a young lady to do I think my mother's real objection was the smell.

I should, however, go back to the time when I wrote that poem. It was after one of my many "dinner incidents" as they were called. They continued after this particular one, but this, this was the big one. It was like the Great Dinner Disaster of 1905.

I should start by saying my father had a tremendous library. One day when there was nothing to do and no one to call on I found myself in the library and spent a few hours in there by myself. I pulled Gray's Anatomy off the shelf and perused it. I took the liberty of educating myself in the ways of life via the book. It was quite informative. They didn't find out about it until one night at dinner.

My parents had a dinner party that night with some old friends most of which whose names are inconsequential to me now. The conversation was the same mindless drivel I had tolerated for years and I had expected for the rest of my life. Was this really cultured society? This what people talked about?

After dinner my mother and the women stayed in the dining room and chatted while my father went into study with the men. I went upstairs to get ready for bed.

My cousin Victoria had been visiting us. I had been very ill over Christmas and my mother and father sent for her company. She was my age. I liked her very much then, but when we got older I regarded her as "one of them."

After Victoria had gone to bed I crept downstairs to say good night to my father. They were all smoking and going on about politics. They made themselves sound so God damn important while creating what looked like fog around them. As if that cloud of smoke protected them and kept any unwanted persons out.

"Goodnight Papa!"

"Rosie my girl! How can you breathe in here silly goose?" He turned to his friends. "Excuse me a minute gentlemen." The four other men in the flashed me a couple fake smiles and continued with their conversation.

"I came to say goodnight."

"Well, then goodnight then dearest." I heard one man, a Mr. Barnes, mention something about the suffragettes.

"These crazy women don't know their place anymore. New-fangled notions about voting and such. Nonsense. Why change now? Things have worked out fine with the way they are."

A younger man spoke up. "Well, I for one don't really see the point in this voting idea, but change does push society forward. It's new century. They've been working at it for a while now, years and years. Maybe it will change. Maybe it won't. It won't upset everything. Besides such changes are slow."

"Still, they want all sorts of rights.and more education, jobs and so on. It's not like I don't wish women to be around, but there are certain places for some things and some people and other places for other places and other things. Women aren't meant for the same things as men are. They're not capable of the same things." Mr. Barnes continued.

This grabbed my attention and I took the opportunity to apply my new knowledge as I was always taught to do, but I knew full well what kind of territory I was venturing into. I knew I was going to get myself in a hell of a lot of trouble.

"I don't see how, Mr. Barnes, that is scientifically logical," I began, "women are meant for some things and men others in the social world. I don't understand how reproductive organs can dictate one's intelligence or capability, as you said. There is no evidence that proves that that has any effect the brain or how well it works. From a scientific point of view, I cannot find anything making one sex superior to the other." Everyone was utterly speechless. I continued. "But if you do want to talk about physical superiority you can say that women live with painful menstrual cramps once every single month for most of their lives and most bare children which am told is probably the most painful experience a person could ever feel." Like a drug, I knew it was killing me, but I couldn't stop. I took the final plunge. Now it was suicide. My father made sort of choking noise. These all seemed like simple facts to me at the time so I wasn't embarrassed by them. Although I did know I was not supposed to be talking about it. I also knew that I, a girl of ten was patronizing full grown men three, four, even five times my age. "Yet they still seem to be able to continue with their lives as you do you. But then again I've never experienced these things either so maybe I'm in the same boat with all of you for now. Don't pretend to know where women should be and what women should and should not be. These 'crazy women' are full grown adults and mentally competent they can handle themselves I think. We never remind you of your place. If you are not a woman you are not qualified to judge for one. The time of Queen Victoria is over I suggest you accept that." More silence. One of them coughed. "Goodnight Papa." I left them with that. I felt dizzy and elated. I felt the unreasonable ecstasy of the convicted man about to meet his fate, reeling at his last moments. I went upstairs believing that I was right to the end and that Mr. Barnes and the others were utter fools.

It was that night and the day that followed I had lost all respect for my father. I tiptoed upstairs to the empty guest room, which was right above the smoking room where the men were. I knew they would be shocked and offended, but I half-expected at least one of them to be changed and transformed by my speech; most children would. But all I heard was my father. He wasn't even speaking in full sentences. He made apology after apology pretending not to understand where any of this came from. He was an absolute groveling idiot. Utterly embarrassed and embarrassing.

"She's been very ill. Very ill.it has had a drastic effect on her temper. Her behavior has been.has been erratic." He seemed to regain himself. He became his old confident self again.by belittling me. "She can be opinionated at times. She's intelligent, but extremely stubborn and rebellious. She can be very hard at times. I'm sorry. It won't happen again. I'll see to that." The other men in the room did not make a fuss of it. They were among some of his closest friends.

I couldn't hear anymore of it. I snuck back into my room and cried. Was that really my father I had heard in there? I didn't care what they'd do to me tomorrow. I just cried.

I got the ax early that morning. The memories of it are merely a blur now, but I'll do the best I can.

I was not awaked by Louisa the maid as I usually was. It was my mother and father who were standing over me. That vision of them looking down on me was the only time I can remember I was truly afraid of them.

I got a lecture as would be expected. I don't remember the exact words anymore. It was mostly about like being respectful to adults, children should be seen and not heard. Then I inquired that if children were not able to express their opinion what kind of adults would they become. I was quickly silenced. Apparently I didn't know my place. Ironic don't you think?

Then I had to explain to them where it was I obtained my new knowledge. I told them. Then I was informed that my library privileges were being revoked save from what they picked out for me. That was the bullet. Reading. They couldn't let me read what I wanted to anymore.

Maybe it wasn't even what the words they said to me that hurt so much. It was the harshness and the anger with which they spoke. I looked at them unflinching never losing eye contact. If I was going down I'd take as it came to me.

I was to understand that I was never to talk like that again and that it was an "indiscretion" on my part. There were certain things you just didn't do. And I did it. I did it.

After they were done my father had gotten himself so angry he raised his hand to slap me. But he dropped it at his side. It was not uncommon or inappropriate for parents to strike their children whenever they felt it necessary. My mother had slapped me once or twice. Not that it was much of an excuse, but Mother was a generally unhappy and frustrated person. Papa had never made me feel that way. I had never seen him so angry with anybody. He would have hit me. He was so much bigger and stronger than me. If there was anything he had ever taught me it was picking on people your own size. It was also a personal rule of his never to hit women. He put his down hand though. He stopped himself. I had made him so angry he forgot himself.

When Victoria asked me what happened I just told her I had an indiscretion and told her no more. I didn't believe it though. I still believed I was right in my opinions and even if I wasn't I still had the right to express them, but I never told anybody that. I knew it and that was enough for me. That's when I wrote that poem for myself; just in case I ever forgot.

The months rolled on by and things cooled down. On a lighter note I made new friends later that year.

It was a perfect summer day. Not as hot as usual; the weather was absolutely perfect. I had been outside having a muffin in my favorite tree right by the river's edge. (My home in Philadelphia was on East River Drive overlooking the Schuylkill River.) After a peaceful Sunday luncheon I wandered off by myself for a while. I told my father I'd be going for a walk in the gardens and he was quite pleased with that.

Henry DeWitt Bukater or better known as Hank Bukater, was a model American of the early twentieth century: a distinguished Philadelphia banker, a world traveler, a businessman who enjoyed literature, a firm believer in good exercise.and a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant.

But he was a good man at heart. He quite large in both height and width, and had a hearty laugh. He was very comradely; everybody admired him. I too, admired him. Except for those few weeks the winter before. I still loved him, but I never quite looked at him the same way again. We were almost always excellent friends when I was younger, but deep down I think he desperately wished I had been a boy. I could see it in eyes. My mother was actually the more uptight of the two.

Many times I found her looking out the window of the withdrawing room. She would just keep looking on into some other world as if she were hoping something would come through that window and take her away. I gathered she had loved my father passionately once, but it had all gone by then. People were forever disappointing her. She had a grim outlook on life. For longest time I thought I was the only one who ever really knew her.

Sometimes when I found her there I'd sit in lap and throw my arms around her neck. She'd say she was glad to have me there, but I think it made her sadder. She knew that would be me someday. As I grew older I knew it too. Poor Ruth. What had become of this woman? I knew she was full of life once. I wished I could have given it back to her.

But up there in the willow tree I wasn't thinking about any of those things. After I finished my muffin I thought I might keep my word to my father and go for walk. I decided to skip down to the carriage house to see if anything was happening down there.

It wasn't exactly bursting with life as I had hoped. But I found my way through a row of bushes and came upon another girl. I had never seen her before. My father had just hired some new people to work in the carriage house. Those servants and their families usually lived above it.

She was younger than I was. Her hair was short and light brown and she was a little bit chubby. She just sat there quietly playing with a doll.

"Hello." I said. She had a big grin on her small face and was missing a tooth.

"Hello," she said right back to me, "I'm Kit and I'm seven," she said with a certain amount of pride, "and that's Lily." She pointed to another girl who I didn't see before. Lily was around my age, her hair must have been very long, but her thick African braids were tied up on top of her head. "She's big, but she don't talk much."

Lily spoke up. "I do talk and it's 'doesn't.' I'm Lily Stevens."

"Hello, I'm Rose, how do you do?" They were a little staggered by my formalness. When I realized it I cut them off. I was embarrassed myself. "I live up at that house and I came down here to explore. May I play with you?"

"Oh, please would you? Lily and me are the only other little girls here!"

"It's 'Lily and I,' Kit," stated Lily. "yes, Rose we'd love it if you stayed and played with us. There's a tunnel in the big line a bushes under there. Want to go see it?"

"Yes of course!" We scurried off and into the tunnel. It was like a little room.

"It's our secret," whispered Kit, "nobody else knows about it."

"How old are you, Rose?"

"I'm ten."

Kit thought this amusing. "You sure don't look ten."

"You look more like twelve. You're a bit tall."

"Or twenty! You're actually littler than Lily!"

"Yes, I'm eleven." Smiled Lily.

"I already told her I was seven."

Lily turned to me. "Rose is very grown up name."

Funny. I had always thought of it as just my name. It was what I was called by almost everyone. But then again I had always thought of myself as very grown up.

"I guess it is then." I thought aloud.

"Don't," Kit paused, ".doesn't anybody call you Rosie or something?"

"Well my father does sometimes, but I'm usually just Rose.but actually you can call me anything you want really."

"Well you can be Rose if like. My real name's Katherine, Katherine O'Reilly, but I like Kit."

"And then I'll be Lily." Then there was a pause for moment. Now that we had names and ages established we needed another topic. It was Lily who thought of a new one. "Your daddy owns all this doesn't he? Your Mr. DeWitt Bukater's daughter." I nodded. "We're new here. Our mothers are washerwomen and my dad runs the stables."

"My pop is the gardener and me and Lily do the wash too." Lily failed to correct Kit's grammar that time. I let it slide too.

"Do you always sit like that?" Lily interjected.

".What?" I didn't understand.

"Like you've got a stick up your rear end." She clarified it for me.

"I was just thinking you don't really sit like a kid." That was the farthest we got on the subject.

By this time we were quite bored with talk and decided that playing tag was a much more valuable use of our time. And you know, it really was.

It must have been an hour later when I heard my mother calling, but was too soon. It always is. I told Kit and Lily I'd come down and play with them as often as I could. And that's just what I did.

When I went back to dress for dinner I decided not to tell my parents about my new friends. I didn't think my parents would have been absolutely scandalized by my making friends with servant girls. They knew me too well. Then again, just in case, they best not be informed.

"What's this?" My mother was referring to the state of my person. "You like a ragamuffin." I then noticed my large taffeta bow flopping over my forehead. My dress was dirty and my stocking was torn in more places than one. I did my best to pretend not to notice. Mom just sighed. "Go dress for dinner." I dashed through the house and up the large curving grand staircase. I vaguely recall my mother shouting to me not to run.

Years went by and I was able to keep up my friendship with Lily and Kit. Unfortunately, I barely got to see them. We never went in the tunnel anymore. My parents never knew of the closeness of our friendship, but they knew I visited them. I told them sometimes I would just be by the carriage house for a day or I'd go down there to tutor them with their schooling. They thought I was becoming a charitable young woman. Sometimes, even if they (Lily and Kit) objected I helped them with their chores. But I saw less and less of them over the years.

It went on without my knowing it, naturally, but my father's company had made one bad investment after another for several years and they were quickly losing money. I actually did find out about his serious debt shortly before his death.

I was never meant to control my own life. I was to live by other people's choices. People who I thought to have less will than I. After my debutante party when I was sixteen I eventually became known as one of the finest young ladies in Philadelphia.

It was late October 1911 when I met Caledon Hockley for the first time in years. My father had been a close associate of Nathan Hockley of Pittsburgh for most of their lives. Actually, Hockley Steel Co. turned out to be one of the last of DeWitt Bukater's profitable investments.

Anyway Cal never made any particular impression on me the first I met him and he didn't seem to strike any interest the second time around. He was the same as the rest of them as far as I was concerned. But to my parents, he was their knight in shining armor. After that meeting he showed up regularly. I knew what was up.

I should tell you now that not only was the company going under; my father was dying. He knew it too, beyond a shadow of a doubt. Despite all his exercising and good living he was dying at the age of 52. Heart disease would claim him in the end. He hated weakness. And now, he was becoming it. He was indeed dying. Why did he care about dying when his wife and daughter were already dead? He told almost no one, not even his daughter. I did find out though, but for the mean time Mother and Father spent every waking hour of their lives trying to push me deeper and deeper into Cal Hockley's heart.

At first I made a few honest attempts to love Cal. Maybe I found him unlovable, but then again so was my mother, and outwardly I probably was too. While I was engaged in conversation with him I would secretly psychoanalyze him. What made him tick? What was at the core of this man? Under the charm, the looks, everything, I found the bare naked truth of his soul. It filled his eyes and his voice and his breath. You could feel it all around him. Money. At the beating, life-giving center of this man was money. Power, arrogance, over-confidence, and money.

Maybe someone could come along and melt this cold man's heart, but it wasn't me. A daunting task that would have should I had resolved to take it on.

I was surprised any man would take to me. I was stubborn, rebellious, arrogant; not admirable traits in a woman. I was, as they said "not agreeable." But I was a healthy and beautiful young woman, and more importantly from a powerful family.

Cal took to me instantly. He found my fiery redhead disposition "pleasing." He thought if I did cause any problems I could be broken in so to speak. I was already as well trained as a circus animal. Beaten and submissive, ready to do my act at the master's command.

He knew of my family's trouble. He had enough money anyway. He would be to gain even more respectability by marrying into another respected family. I still wondered why a man nearly thirty years old was doing with a teenage girl. I was so young the world, but I wasn't vulnerable and insecure or so I thought. I was well aware of everything around me. No, my girlhood had been taken away. I was never meant to have one.

We were engaged by December. It was final. My fate had been sealed. Of course he had asked my father first. He knew he didn't need to get official permission, but he was good. He knew what he was doing.

The day he proposed to me was like being thrown in jail. I was in the withdrawing room reading. It was Freud actually. He was not very well known then, but he absolutely riveted me. And it became useful in conversation. But back to the withdrawing room.

I was reading. I felt calm at that moment. I had been trying to be alone all that afternoon, but with little and short lived success. Then finally there was time for myself. Then there was a knock at the door. No. Why me? I sighed heavily.

"Come in." It was Cal.

"I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."

"No. Of course not."

"Then I was wondering if I could ask you something quite particular." Here it was. I knew it. Time for my act.

"Well then, I should particularly like to hear it." He got down on one knee.

"I adore you." He didn't say he loved me. He adored me. Maybe it was the closest thing to love he had ever felt. "I can't imagine life without you." He didn't have much of an imagination to be honest. "Say you'll be my wife, Rose. Now and Forever." There was something in the way he looked at me. It was unexpectedly tender, almost unashamed, sweet even. I almost loved him for a moment. I knelt down to his level trying to show him the same tenderness back.

*Just breathe and say it.* "Yes. Yes I will. Of I course I will." He stood up and lifted me up with him. He slipped a diamond ring on my finger. "It's lovely Cal!"

"You're lovely! Oh I do love you Rose!" He pulled my mouth toward his and kissed me hard. I clenched his shoulders, gripping them. Then moved my arms over his back. He held me for a long time and the deed was done. Then he released me. He had won. He kissed me again. "You're perfect." Then he took my hand. And brought me downstairs and we announced the engagement. But before I left the room I glanced at my mother's window. Now it was my turn. But Mother and Father were saved at least.

Later that night, after all the excitement, after everyone left I found myself in my father's office. I looked at the family tree framed above his desk. Each person had their birthstone under their name and dates. I found mine. "Rose Cornelia DeWitt Bukater February 24, 1895-" And I touched the little amethyst under it. *How lovely to have the Hockley name added to this fine list.* My whole life I had been brought up to believe that I was something special. Something better than common. Something rare. I saw then then that I was just another jewel on the family tree.

The next week was full of fuss and pomp and circumstance. We had to set a wedding date, set it up at the church, bridesmaids, groomsmen, guests, oh the guest's list (really it would be more like a who's who list). Everything. I was being swallowed up. My future looked grim. I saw stretched out before me. Lots of mindless social functions and ceremonies and parading around like I had seen it in my past only this time instead of being showed off by my father I'd be showed off by my husband. I'd bare him children, or heirs, if you like. I hoped I wouldn't give him any boys. I didn't want another Cal running around, but I didn't want to be responsible for another girl either. She'd only see what I saw. I was being sucked in. I was trapped. I couldn't carry on with my own life; I'd lost the will. Still, this was all fine because my life was being handled just fine by everyone else.

After years passed, Cal would probably keep a mistress. Even though he'd be old and fat and I'd still be young and beautiful. My father did it to my mother. He was ten years her senior. I could see Cal doing it to me.

I went to my room and collapsed on the bed. I tried to stifle loud cries. I grabbed a letter opener on my nightstand and plunged into the palm of my hand until it drew blood, wishing I had the guts to put it in my heart.

I went to Lily and Kit the next day. I ran threw the snow down to the carriage house.

"I'm engaged." I raised my arms up half way and flopped them back to my side, almost shrugging.

"Oh." Said Kit. Lily didn't say anything. I had truly lost touch with them. "The Hockley man."

"Yes." I said in a low voice. I almost didn't hear myself. "I'm going to New York soon and then I'll be gone forever in a few months. I'll miss you." They knew what I was thinking. Even Kit knew and she was barely fourteen.

Lily came towards me. "Then go then. This is the way things happen."

"I'll miss you." I repeated. We had grown apart. I'd made them hate me somehow. Maybe I'd grown into 'one of them.' I had. I pretended to be what I hated. Even to my friends. "I'm going to go now. Take care of yourselves." I heard Kit mutter a good-bye behind me. I wished I'd gotten to hug them one last time, I wished to God I could have hugged them, but I didn't. That was it.

I had gotten my hands on a copy of "Therese Raquin." I felt a kindred spirit in her in way. Always meant to be there for other people. Someone with an iron will who was silenced and submissive her whole life. Never meeting a single real human being. And only to find her lover and maybe even she herself were no better. I was fascinated by it; I read about 3 times. I had all this dormant passion inside me that no one knew about or could unleash. I put it all into books.

I decided that maybe I could let myself live like this for the rest of my life. The angst-ridden story of a tortured soul. Ever rebellious, yet ever pushed down. No one would ever know of her pain until she published her memoirs. Always keeping the fire within her concealed, but it was always there. No one could ever truly break her. The warrior spirit trapped forever. I could go on, but I'll stop here. This seemed like a romantic idea and the best I could hope for at the time, but later someone gave me a better idea.

After Christmas our entourage went to New York City. We knew my father wasn't well, but he insisted on going. I met up with Victoria there. She was to be my maid of honor. Her face reflected the remnants of the lively child she had been. That wonderful vitality was gone. She greeted me with a breathy "Rose Darling."

One evening we attended the opera. We had box seats for "La Boheme." I even remember what I wore. It was a sapphire color gown with black beads.

I loved theater. The picture show too. The stories took me away for a while. I loved watching the actors and the dancers and the singers. They seemed so free. It was an escape, but at the same time they spread messages to other people, told stories. I wanted to be them. Their joys and pains were so beautiful. Maybe mine were too. I loved art too. Any art: fine arts, performing arts, anything that celebrated the human condition, anything that wasn't afraid to go deeper, express emotion.

I let myself be in the story for while and feeling their emotions in their song. After it was over I was still thinking about it. On our way up to the hotel Papa took his final blow. He was just in the halls going to his room when he collapsed. Nathan, Cal, and that contemptible man Lovejoy carried him into his bed and called for a doctor. I was kept hostage in my room by my mother and Cal. Trudy, my maid, just stood there in the corner and tried to be comforting. I eventually just pushed everyone out of the way and made my way to my father.

He looked like a sick child on that bed. I had never seen him like that, but I just went to him and took his hand. No one protested now. I was soon joined by my mother. She couldn't bear to look at him at first, but then she came to him. He was wheezing. He didn't speak; he just smiled. Then he closed his eyes and the life just drained from him.

My mother realizing everything collapsed and wailed. I caught her and held her in my arms like a child. She sobbed and I rocked her back and forth with my chin resting on her head. Later I took her to bed and tucked her in.

I went to my room. Almost immediately after Trudy left Cal came in.

"I'm so sorry. I don't know how--"

I put my hand up. "Just let me go to bed Caledon." Personally I couldn't think of going to bed and carrying on normal routines after what happened. I eventually got him to leave. There was nothing he could do.

The funeral services were grand and there was a large turn out. That's all I could say for it. Once everything seemed to pass Mother and Cal decided to take me to London for two months. To cheer me up I suppose. It was one of my favorite cities. It seemed bleak and dreary. Everything was. They threw me a party there. My birthday. I was the only one who forgot.

We left in April and were to be going home on the RMS Titanic. We boarded ship and I was to be married in a month. Every time I looked anywhere I wanted to scream. I was beginning to lose my mind. Every time anyone spoke their voice was like an insect crawling through my veins. I felt the sudden urge to rip out my hair and skin. Nothing was human. Not even me. I looked at my reflection in the mirror one night. I saw a lifeless geisha doll. I ripped at everything on me that I could and hurled something from my dresser at the mirror and ran out. I couldn't even make myself understand.

I ran out on deck. Images of my whole life ran through my mind. The first few times I thought of killing myself I thought of how sorry I'd make everybody. They'd pay. Now I didn't care how they felt. I just wanted out. I had to get out. I thought once of some young man I'd seen earlier that day as I leaned on the stern. Why did he plague my mind? To hell with them. *Fuck them all.* Now there was just me and my final resting place. Then a there was voice behind me. My life changed forever.