HIYA GUYS!! Long time, no update, I know. But, I have it in me to finish what I started, so I'm back for good.
DISCLAIMER: I wish, I wish that I owned the Titanic story, but I don't... all I own is Lily, Stephanie, Anthony and George (not to mention countless other characters who don't even exist yet) and that's nothing to be proud of... :)
An icy prison of black water. That was the closest way to describe this torture. Nothing else could possibly describe the feeling of breathlessness and icicles gathering swiftly on his eyelashes, and numbness and heaviness of limbs as they burned, the sting of opened eyes as you looked upon the faces of the dead. Lifeless eyes staring back, wrapped up pathetically in lifejackets that no longer protected the living. Mothers holding children close, even in death. This was truly hell, yet no hell anyone had ever envisaged before. Ice instead of fire, heavy water instead of flames.
Except Jack, who awoke from his restless sleep in a frenzy. It had been nearly 6 years since that fateful night. The night where he had gained everything and then lost it again. It still brought along a night of terror, her terrified face as he promised her salvation. And then, he'd let her down. She'd died and he'd been rescued. He could remember waking up in that dingy little boat, wrapped up warm in a shawl. Well, as warm as possible in that environment. The feel of the sun felt pleasant, if not heavenly on his blue-tinged face, the ice forming on his hair. A quick glance around determined that not many people had made it. A few people were curled up, some silent and still, others mumbling in sleep and one man who seemed to be fitting from the cold. A small child was crying for a mother that wasn't there, may never be there again. A woman was trying to comfort him, but he knew. He knew that the world had gotten a whole lot worse for him. In his exhaustion, Jack fell asleep once more.
It was his shame that made him not register with the other survivors. Once on the Carpathia, men with clipboards seemed to be coming around. Everyone had to sign, so that loved ones could check up. He couldn't face the finality that he's survived and she hadn't. Heck, who'd want to look for him anyway? The one person who he'd loved and who loved him back had died that night. Signing that list would just make it even more real. He'd hidden away in a small alcove until the ship had docked, weak from exhaustion and recovering as well as he could, and then limped off quickly. There was nobody to wait for. The people who he'd grown to care for had all perished. The one person who meant more to him than all the others combined had been snatched away from him, a cruel twist of fate. They'd know each other for a few days, and it was over. Like a click of his fingers.
Jack knew that if he reminisced like this, he'd end up staying in bed all day. Not to mention that he was to meet Stephanie at her home in a few hours, to plan the invites to the wedding. She never liked when he was late, when there was something as important as a wedding to consider. Especially something as important as her wedding. No, not even the groom would ruin this. Would she even notice if I didn't turn up, Jack smirked away to himself, seeing as the day will revolve completely around her and her only? It wasn't like he had any people to invite. Well, except old Molly Brown. She was the only person he'd kept contact with. He thought of inviting Ruth, just to show her how well he'd done for himself when she'd failed. But, with Ruth's face, her eyes, looking so much like her daughter's, the memories would come flooding back. He'd see her eyes again. And he didn't think he had the strength to go through with the wedding after seeing her eyes again. Jack sat up abruptly, trying to remove her haunting, white face away from his memory, floating on the door. This is beginning to become quite a morning ritual, he thought. Shaking his head and breathing deeply, he stood swiftly and moved to the wardrobe. Such a large wardrobe, too.
How it had differed... Jack could remember the days when he'd wore only the one outfit. His father had always taught him to be practical; what was the point of owning more clothes than you could carry when you lived like they did? Well, he didn't live like that anymore. And, mainly, it was Stephanie's influence. She'd always said that a man should have choice when dressing, look his absolute best. Image meant everything to her, and she wanted to be with a man who knew how to look good. These days, Jack did all he could to please her. Heck, he was willing to change himself to please her. Not because he was wildly in love with her. But because every day he spent with her enabled Jack to forget, and that was something that he craved. He craved the ignorance that spending time with Stephanie brought him; dinner at a fancy restaurant, visiting a tea shop with her and her mother, even playing with her son, George. It seemed like he was with her again, living life without this black pit in his soul, without feeling like a part of him was missing, something essential like an arm, a leg, his heart.
Jack picked out a simple outfit of grey pants and a light-blue button up shirt. As long as it was designer, Stephanie wouldn't matter. He dressed quickly, brushing his hair swiftly with his fingers and straightening himself up. He walked back into the room and neatened the quilts and pillows on his bed. Even though he was now rich and could employ a house full of servants, who would answer to his every whim, he still didn't feel right letting other people mill around him. No, he'd done it himself for all these years, and it wouldn't hurt to continue now. He sidled over to the rather extensive mahogany wardrobe, and plunged his hand deep within its contents. Discarding the various ties that littered the floor, his hand wrapped around what he was seeking desperately; a half-empty bottle of whisky. Expensive whisky, mind you. These days, Jack's morning drink was all he bothered spending lots of money on. Cheap food and cheap clothes, he could handle. But, his alcohol needed to be top notch. The higher the price, the more effective it was chasing away the demons of the night's dream. The cheaper stuff never worked as well; Jack knew that from experience. He went into his adjoining bathroom and reached up into the medicine cabinet. Fumbling behind the many bottles of aspirin, he found the glass that he reserved especially for his morning tipple. He desperately filled up a glass tumbler to the top and swallowed it down in one, grimacing as the alcohol burning the back of his throat. The stuff was never nice warm. In fact, it wasn't that nice at all, but if it brought that oblivion, he was more than willing. He'd happily drink the whole bottle if he wasn't meeting Stephanie in the afternoon. Many a time, he'd sleep away the day. Not the natural sleep, of course, but that blissful, dreamless sleep that only came about with a little prompting.
"One more glass won't hurt," Jack said to himself, pouring another generous measure, after feeling the familiar calm seep into his bloodstream. This time, he sipped slowly from the glass, and walked over to the window and onto the veranda. He often did this in a morning, breathing deeply. He was coping. Jack knew she'd be proud, wherever she was. Maybe not at the "whisky-a-day" part, but he was moving on. Perhaps one day he could get through the morning sober, perhaps he could look at Stephanie with genuine love and emotion in his eyes, perhaps one day he'd have children of his own, see their smiling faces instead of hers when he drifted off to sleep at night. Perhaps... with a deeper swig, his mind drifted back to familiar memories, his life before he'd made his fortune...
Jack sat slumped on the grass of the park that had been in his home for the last couple of nights. It was actually surprising that a bed of leaves, grass and twigs could be so comfortable. When the night was clear, it was actually quite peaceful. The stars provided enough light, and Jack would sketch mindlessly in the darkness. Nothing specific, just shapes, what he was thinking. Gradually, they took forms: a woman, a tree, a dog, the bench across from the one he lay on. Now, these works lay spread out in front of him. Every so often, a woman would buy one for a few cents to hang on her wall, a pretty little cat for the baby's nursery, or someone would feel sorry for the homeless guy dressed in rags, and throw him a dollar in exchange for one of the pretty drawings that, let's face it, wouldn't be becoming valuable any time soon. Jack had to admit, looking at them, they were good. Very good. Much better than anything that he'd churned out before he'd set on the fateful voyage that was the Titanic. They were much softer, much deeper than the other pencil sketches he'd made. They were also much darker. Not literally dark, but... they was something much more twisted about them. Nothing major, but in some of the lines that he sketched, the faces, the eyes that he drew on the people, the way they always looked back, looking back with sorrow and anguish. No matter the scene, they were always the same eyes. Oval and thin, the darkest pencil grey possible. Jack didn't even know he was doing it; it was around his fourth full scrapbook that he realised that he must be doing it sub-consciously. Replicating the eyes of the people he saw that night.
One relatively warm July evening, he was dozing in the pleasant sunshine, when a man in a suit walked past.
"Excuse me, sir?" He said, crouching down nervously to be on the same level as the guy with the glazed eyes and blank face. "Is this all your work?"
"If it wasn't, d'you think I'd be selling it?" he answered gruffly, not looking to face him, "And why would I steal it? These pieces of crap ain't worth nothing."
"On the contrary, sir," the man stood up tall again, admiring the works from different angles, "These are magnificent. You don't display these in a gallery?"
"If I did," Jack sighed, exhausted, "would I really be sat on the damp grass with them in front of me. I'm not doing this for the fun of it."
"Wait... so," the man moved himself again, and shook his head in awe, "do you think you could do more of these?"
"Of course," Jack answered, looking around suspiciously, "Look, are you going anywhere with this? Are you planning on buying one, because this is valuable time for me right now. If not, I have a million things better I could be doing right now," he chuckled under his breath. "You got a smoke?"
The gentleman nodded quickly and tossed over a cigarette.
"Erm, it's not going to light itself, pal." Still looking at the sketches, the man rifled through his pockets and tossed over a pack of matches.
"Listen, I could make you a lot of money with these drawings, sir." The man stared up again.
Jack puffed on his cigarette, then dragged deeply, and looked up. "Money. OK, I'm listening."
The man reached over with an extended hand. "I'm Anthony. Anthony Cunningham. My father works in oil, but that never was for me. That was my brother, Lawrence's, field of expertise. I'm more into the art world. I've opened an art gallery, and, with the help of my father's money, I'm living quite comfortably. I'd be really interested in displaying some of your work."
"What's the catch?" Jack pulled deeply again, and stubbed the cigarette out, pocketing it for later. "Why me?"
"Why?" Anthony asked, incredulously, taking a seat on the bench across. "Because you're good. You're different to all the other guys who walk through my door with a "masterpiece", thinking they're the next Monet or Da Vinci. No, you're new, you're talented and you have a lot more to offer than these. And the money we could make..."
"Money?" Jack looked up again, "How much money are we talking about?"
"Well," Anthony took out two more cigarettes, tossing one to Jack and lighting one up himself. He offered the matches again, to which Jack declined. "Enough money so you have a roof over your head, food in your stomach and you'll never have to scrimp on another cigarette again. I say that's ten times better than what you already got."
"Well, I gotta think about this."
"Sure, I understand, but what is there to think about? Tell you what," he stood up, bundling his jacket around him, as the evening air suddenly became more and more chilly. "I'll buy you a drink and we can discuss this further. People like you'll never be able to resist a stiff drink." He laughed at his own joke, and Jack thought about it. Why not? Maybe she was bringing this upon him, one stroke of good luck for his lifetime. Why not take it?
And that was the beginning of his partnership with Anthony Cunningham. He did the work, and then Anthony sold it for a ridiculous amount of money. He'd always give Jack a share, maybe not as generous as the one he gave himself, but it was his art gallery after all. Pretty soon, Jack was living the life of fast motorcars and house on the coast and fancy restaurants and holidays all year round. Everyone who was someone was trying to get their hands on a "John Olivier", the fancy new pseudonym that Anthony had convinced him to create for business. "Jack Dawson just didn't have the same ring to it", he haughtily exclaimed, pocking a four figure check for a work entitled, "Rose". He secured himself a place in society, eventually winning over the heart of Stephanie Elizabeth DeLacy-Cunningham Smythe. She was Anthony's widowed sister, who'd he met at one of his many parties. Having lost her husband and raising her young son alone, she was lonely. And, she reminded Jack of someone, with her flowing red hair and brashness. Not that he'd ever say it aloud.
Ending his flashback, Jack pulled himself away from the veranda that he now stood. The glass that he held in his hand was nearly full, and yet he didn't want it anymore. He hurried to the bathroom and emptied it in the sink, rinsing it out to remove any trace of alcohol. He then scrubbed his mouth clean to do the same; Stephanie would be furious if he'd been drinking. He wasn't completely sure about going through the marriage, but he wouldn't dare admit it. She was Anthony's sister, and admitting it would almost guarantee him losing him job. Hiding the glass in the medicine cabinet, as usual, Jack descended the stairs, concentrating heavily on the day to come. Taking life one day at a time, he thought morosely...
So, whaddya think? You know I like reviews, they get me up in a morning :)