A/N: Okay, Titanic story two! I don't know how the idea came to me… It just kinda punched me in the face so anyway here we go!
Disclaimer: I don't own Titanic…sigh
"Would you friggin' listen to me, Anna?" my father bellowed. "Why should I listen? All you do is yell!" she snapped. "Stop changing the god damned topic!" he yelled. "You want to talk about money, William? Is that what you want? Because quite frankly, I'm done talking about money!" my mother yelled. "Yeah? Well I'm not!" my father yelled, pointing at himself, angrily. That's all my parents ever fought about. Money. Hello? We were freaking Third Class! Of course money was a problem! Hell, First Class was always going broke! They solved the problem without going insane!
"—If you worked a little bit harder—," "I work harder than you! I cook, I clean, I take care of Eliza and all you do is go out there and build bloody tools! If you were any good at it we wouldn't be suffering this—we weren't be arguing about this," my mother yelled. I thought for a quick moment my father was going to hit her. He looked absolutely murderous. He threw a punch at the wall nearby, smashing it in. "You'll have to fix that—but wait! We haven't any money to do so, now do we?" My mother screeched. My father turned around and grabbed her by the shoulders, but he didn't hurt her. "Listen to me, Anna! I work my arse off every bloody day! You should be god damned thankfully we still own a roof!" he said in a dangerous whisper.
My mother shook him off and said, "I think we're done. Unless of course you want to keep me here and talk about money all over again," my mother said, her voice hoarse from yelling. My father kicked the chair that was in his way across the room. And went to their room down the hallway. Mother and I listened as breaking glass was heard. We knew he was throwing things. My mother went outside, in hopes to find some sort of closure. My father was still smashing things when my mother returned. It had been over three hours and I was getting sick of this.
Tomorrow, Eliza. Tomorrow. You have brilliant plans to escape and what a better time to do it?
The next morning I woke up, my parents were almost… civil to each other. But right around the end of breakfast just about every day, things went bad. Once my parents began bickering again, I made a slip out my window. I had all my essentials packed and I was prepared to leave. I didn't even look back. I didn't want to remember what I was leaving. I was going to start over. Once Titanic docked in New York, I was heading to Santa Monica. Never looking back. I wanted to start fresh. I didn't want to end up like my parents. What if I did—No! Stop, Eliza! Do not think that! You will never be your parents! I made it to the boarding dock with five minutes to spare. Two men rushed past me, "We're practically damn royalty!" the American yelled. I remembered living in America and finally I would return. I made my way to room 13 on "D" Deck. When I entered, there were already three girls. The fourth, from what I could understand wasn't anywhere to be seen. Maybe she was at the bar across the street flirting with some guy she barely knew. It wasn't that I thought of French girls that way, it was that some were, nowadays anyway.
"Bonjour," I said. "Bonjour," said the girl sitting on the top bunk. "Savez-vous où Elizabeth est?" asked the girl. I didn't understand much French, but I knew she was asking the whereabouts of her friend, or so it sounded. I shook my head, and she frowned. I didn't bother calling them off about the looks of disappointment they shot me. So I stole some missing girl's bunk. I would never see them again… Hopefully.
I tried my best to stay focused on my drawings. Scenery. Scenery was my specialty. I could draw people, animals, scenery, and imagination. I could draw emotion, but it never felt like what I enjoyed drawing. Sometimes I found drawing people was useless. No one appreciated my art, not even in old Paris. Sure I made a dime, and if I was lucky… People threw in nickel. Cheap brutes.
Feet. Why were there shoes in front of me. Oh, wait, there was someone in front of me. It was the American who was yelling to his friend over the excited crowd back in Southampton. "You draw too?" he asked. "Er—yeah. Well, scenery is a specialty of mine. I can draw lots of other things, too, but I'm more into landscape," I said, calmly. "Like Monet?" he asked. "Who?" I said, obviously lost. "Never mind. Do you mind if I look at your drawings?' he asked. "Sure. I'm Eliza Hancock, by the way," I said. "Jack Dawson," he said. "Well, Jack. Since you have a notebook, might I look inside it?" I asked.
He handed over his notebook, and I, mine. "These are amazing, Mr. Daws—," "Jack," "Jack. These truly are amazing. Even more so than mine," I said. "Well, you do pretty well, for what? A beginner?" he teased. I laughed. "No! For your information I'm quite skilled at landscape drawings. I can draw people just as well as you can, but your work, it's like you see people, truly well. You can see them in a way most others can't," I said, laughing most of the time. "They didn't think too much of my drawings in Paris," he said. "You've drawn there, too?" I asked. "Yeah. I lived there—under a bridge—for a while," he said. "I traveled there, but I lived in the smallest house possible in Southampton. My parents were always fighting, and still are… Maybe they haven't even realized I'm missing," I said, running my finger lightly over a drawing of a woman.
"You ran away?" he asked. I looked up at him—he looked utterly confused. "Yes. I love them, but all they do is fight and if it takes me being gone to show them how sick of it I am, then so be it," I said. He handed me back my notebook and explained why he was traveling alone. "Chippewa Falls?" I asked. I wasn't too familiar with many places in America. I only knew of Boston, where I was born, and many places of New England. Everywhere else, I hadn't a clue of. "Well, Jack. I must be heading back now," I said. "Erm—Eliza?" he asked. "Yes?" I said, turning to face him again. "My notebook?" he asked.
I blushed as I realized I was still holding his sketchbook. I looked down at the brown leather book and said, "Oh, right! Sorry," and handed it back to him. "See you around?" he asked. "Sure," I said. I headed off for my room with the three French girls. Elizabeth still hadn't shown so they got over my imposed entry. Good. Less drama I have to deal with. I knew it was silly of me to just get up and run because my parents were always fighting, but it was more of a plan than an escape.
I just had to live it out now. I mean I was seventeen, of course not nearly old enough to travel on my own but I could probably pass for eighteen. I need to stop thinking about this. I've given this months of thought! How could it fail?
And so heaven answered:
The captain came down the hallway with Mr. William Murdoch and I could hear some of what they were discussing. "On the ship? Do you have a name?" asked the Captain. "No. The last name is Hancock I know that much. She's a stowaway on the ship. The crew's been told. We'll, have to keep a close watch on the Third Class passengers," said Mr. Murdoch. "Why Third Class and not any others?" the Captain asked. "She comes from a family of limited funds. And no Middle Class—or First Class—would have to sneak aboard such a luxurious ship," said Mr. Murdoch. The Captain nodded.
That's how it could fail. I only had to change my name! Great.
A/N: Yayyy! Finally I beat my writer's block!