She believed in God. He smoked too much. She thought she was in love and was getting used to the fact. He knew he was in love and positively hated it. She smiled and laughed a great deal. He did too. She was dramatic. He was dynamic. She was precise. He was impulsive. She excelled in diplomacy. He excelled in that area too, but often resorted to throwing punches instead. She thought he was barking mad. He thought she was positively insane.
You see, it is probable that falling in love was the most important affair that Jack and Rose ever accomplished, and they accomplished a number of quite essential details, most importantly, in my opinion, singlehandedly ripping to shreds the fabric that made the upper class society. And they probably didn't even regret it.
I, being me, hounded the Carpathia's staff for information; most of them were reluctant to share anything they knew. Some others spilled anything they knew in an effort to sound more important than they actually are. That suits me just fine. There was an official report filled, of course. I presume there always is for this sort of thing, and it continuously goes the same way, so it seems. The time, place, nature of the tragedy, outside involvement and the – if there is any way to evaluate the situation – some kind of conclusion. The conclusion of this particular report was brief and incomplete, because exactly what happened that early morning was unknown at this moment in time. Nobody knew, so nobody could say.
Bringing myself back to the present, I took in my surroundings. The night sky stretched out, a regal portrait of diamond studded black velvet as I scurried across the dampened, wooden boat deck. That's when I saw her. Rose Delvilt-Bukater was complex. She zigged when I thought she would zag. One thing I knew was that secrecy was not one of Rose's defining characteristics. It seemed that she tried to maintain a very open personality, and suffered no embarrassment over some topics that would cause other girls to blush. Rose did not believe in dishonesty, and lies were not her style, so when she began to sneak around, it was almost as if she was begging me to chase her.
How can someone describe the raw unadulterated beauty of Rose Delvilt-Bukater? Her thick luscious hair was something envied by every woman alive. The fire in her eyes was equally manic, terrifying and interesting. It was impossible to look away. She had curves that many would kill for and had a passion that when ignited was not something to be messed with. Rose was something to admired and revered and never let go. But I did, not by choice. She chose him over me. A choice which will forever astound me.
I was drawn to her. There was no other explanation to it. I watched as she looked up. Her crystal blue eyes were fixated upon the changing sky – a mass of black nothing, white starlight, and heavy clouds, which seemed to be moving out. It was late, and her chances of getting caught were slim, but she ought to have been more conscientious, for she had just survived one of the worlds most publicised and sacred disasters, people would be out for her blood. She looked peaceful; nothing in the universe could bother her now. She would always be a mystery to me. Ever growing and ever changing. Once you thought you'd caught up with her or began to see what was encased in that ripe, fresh mind of hers, she bolted the doors closed. People told me that she wasn't worth the effort. She was, but she was stubborn. Rose could be walking head first into a solid, brick wall and still try to convince everyone around her that it wasn't there.
It was pouring with rain. Rain drops splattered our already soaking wet bodies, the chill freezing us to the bone. I was always fascinated with the rain. Everyone always told me that it was odd when I used to sit out in the storms. No one would or could follow me there. The rain gave you nothing and was the black child of nature, since nature was the one who gave you everything. Nature have you solitude, quiet, peace of mind and clarity in your life. If everything crashed around you and your life was torn away, nature gave you a place where you could forever be at peace; rain was the exact opposite and took all that away. It was soothing, but that was a fringe benefit of being emptied.
There was only one person that I ever told my reasoning behind the rain and my beyond unexplainable obsession with it. That was Rose. I think that was the moment that I fell for her, it would be hell and I knew that landing would be far from enjoyable, but she enticed me and kept me interested. And for her, I offered her security. Before then it had been nothing but a marriage of convenience, forced upon us by our elders. When I let her into my mind, she told me that I was finally showing her something behind my shallow and admittedly cold hearted exterior. I allowed the words to stab me, knowing that they were true. I allowed the pain to fill me, but not subdue. There was a point to all of this.
I knew that Rose had seen me. She was aware of my presence, but I couldn't bring myself to stop. Either one of us would be forced to make polite conversation, but to tell that truth, now was not the time. She had just lost the one person that could bring out her true personality. The person behind the mask, so to speak. I carried on walking. Nothing could be said or done now, nothing could bring back Jack Dawson. The sooner she started the healing process the better. It was best that she never see me again.
Rose needed time. Time never stopped, never slowed, and never had any consideration for those of us that wanted moments to freeze and our ignorance and happiness to stretch for as long as possible. Time had no conscience and didn't discriminate against anyone, it simply just moved at a steady pace, expecting us to keep up. This would be that last time I ever saw Rose Delvilt-Bukater.