Yup. Another chapter. A shorter one though . . .
There was no money for a honeymoon. They both knew that, and they both accepted that. People like them did not have the extra time or finances to whisk themselves away to an exotic island or Europe or even another part of the country. They hadn't even talked about the possibility – it was a flat-out no and it wasn't questioned.
However, under the circumstances, it was quite affordable and easy to turn their little tiny flat in the dirtiest, darkest reaches of New York City into a cozy, forbidden, secluded place of their own.
Jack unlocked the door with one of two bent, tarnished keys and kicked it open. Then, in the tradition of so many other couples before them, he turned to Rose with a twinkle in his eye that reflected the lonely crescent of the moon above him.
She knew what he was going to do, and she shook her head, her scarlet curls framing her shadowed face with their wild twisting. She backed up, and she only had time for her mouth to open in a round "Oh!" of defiance before Jack's arms, rippled with muscles, scooped her off the floor. Her wedding dress billowed around them and it seemed the only sound in the whole world was her delighted laughter.
Before he carried her over the threshold to their humble abode, she laced her arms around his neck and kissed him. It was not one of her soft, meek kisses. It was not a usual kiss. This kiss was like . . . there were hardly words to describe. Lightning striking the ground and the fire devouring the prairies, hurricanes smashing into the coasts, fireworks exploding in the sky, a ship striking an iceberg . . .
Powerfully and sensually she drew him into her world like a magnet, a world that was still on the bluff on which they had been married, a world that was not humanity's, but just theirs. A world in which they were finally safe.
He was so caught up in this new sensation that he stumbled into their apartment, pressing the door behind him, and forgot everything he had planned. He forgot the wine, he forgot the candles, he forgot the speech he was going to give. He forgot everything, like he always did. It would be his undoing, he knew, what this girl could do to him.
He leaned down and put his lips next to her ears, his words hot and steamy against her skin. "Well, Mrs. Dawson, what did you think about that little place I chose?"
She looked at him with eyes that sparkled with tears. It was suddenly deadly serious in the little room. She pressed her mouth together to hold back a sob, and then it all came tumbling forth. "Oh my God, it was perfect and lovely and amazing and I can't believe I . . . no, not I, we, are . . . are . . . Oh, Dawson. You saved me again. What an amazing record you have."
She smiled softly and there was no need for any more words. There never really had been anyway. Jack could see what she saw and feel what she felt without her muttering a sound. Just stares inhabited the room, breathtakingly awestruck grateful stares. Then the kisses and the ragged breathing and the passionate sighs that consumed their destiny were the only things that could be heard.
They had been waiting since the moment they laid eyes on each other for this moment. It had seemed so simple before, Rose thought, her mind flashing back to the night of the sinking. Those few short seconds, hours, between her redemption and her sentence, between the flying and iceberg, had looked filled with possibilities. She had thought it would be so easy. She would tell Cal no, she would tell her mother no, and she would tell Jack yes. There was no thought behind it.
But since when had her life ever been pleasantly painless? Of course, it had not started that night. Her fantastic dreams had been replaced by a nightmare, a nightmare that stained the rest of her life. She remembered being a little girl, sighing with longing when she thought of true love. She had believed in it for a long time, hadn't that been what her mother and father possessed? When her father had died, she still managed to keep that belief alive. But then Caledon Hockley had come like some sort of treacherous storm, whirling and scattering and destructing and terrible. He had been unstoppable.
Except for Jack of course. Jack had stopped him. Jack had given her true love. Jack could do anything.
Suddenly it was intoxicating being this close to him. She felt shy, and it was confusing. She never felt shy in front of him before. Intimidated, yes. Amazed, of course. But shy? Never.
Her eyelids fluttered and she turned her gaze from him to their intertwined hands. His were strong and looked like they had been carved from a heavenly stone. They looked so solid and firm, and they gently took hers, his rough fingers moving in the spaces of her own fingers, smoothing her creamy skin.
He sensed the sudden awkwardness about her, and couldn't think of why it would be there. What was wrong? Had he done something, or said something? He racked his brain furiously, trying to remember, but suddenly all of his old passionate feelings came back because she had raised her face to his, pulled him close to her, and kissed him. It was a soft kiss, a light kiss. A kiss full of adoration and gratefulness. A kiss that ushered in a long night of more demanding kisses, more breathless kisses, more hopes, more dreams, and more relief. Relief that Jack and his Rose had finally reached some sort of mark in their life together.
Because for the first time, they were safe in their own little world. Maybe it was just for a night. Maybe their bliss wouldn't last forever. But as Jack looked into Rose's eyes, eyes that were smoky with desire as they made love, he knew their love would stand the test of time. And he was very glad.
The days melted into weeks, and the weeks melted into months. Time flashed by in a dazzling portrait of memories, memories of a happy couple early in their marriage. And they truly were happy. They were still blinded by the intense glow of their passion. Blind to everything else.
Eventually the leaves began to fade and curl and wither and die, putting up one last fantastic display before the long dreadfulness of winter. Their brilliance could be seen in orange glimpses drifting lazily to sidewalks or yellow piles in the streets or red streaks on the roofs. The air became cold, warning of the season about to come.
Rose was by now well into her pregnancy. Her stomach was perfectly round and she had to go to the local thrift shop for maternity clothes to fit her ever-growing middle. Often, if she was going to be around the house, she simply wore one of Jack's old shirts with a billowy skirt. She was beginning to feel like a cousin of a balloon, but at the same time she was overjoyed. She was going to be a mother!
One evening in early November, Jack was making his way home from work. He hadn't been feeling well lately. Maybe it was because the hours were driving him crazy, or maybe it was because he hadn't been able to sleep. Whatever the reason, he was drained: physically, emotionally, and mentally. It was all he could do to make it to the apartment door. Uneasily, he unlocked it. He hated this place. He wanted so terribly to take Rose out west. Unfortunately, they didn't have quite enough money yet, and perhaps most importantly, he tenderly remembered that his wife was in no condition to travel. Someday . . .
But he knew better. Jack Dawson knew what somedays could do to a person. He was a victim of it several times over. Those hopes and dreams that had before seemed so bright and close and amazing would dim. Their gold sheen would begin to loose its luster. And then they would move farther away, leaving a burning desire in the heart of the person who had wanted them. So to escape from that burning, that person would do the predictable thing, the "sensible" thing; one would simply take the hope or take the dream and put them up on a shelf, promising to take them back down when there was time. Or when there was money. Or when there was possibility. Or reality.
After the baby's born, he decided. Once the baby's born and they're both healthy, we'll go.
He opened the door quietly and slipped inside, hanging the key on the nail in the wall. The warm burnt flickering from the fireplace was all that illuminated the tiny apartment and the peaceful crackling was all that could be heard. He silently removed his boots and, in socked feet, tiptoed to the ancient sofa that faced away from him.
Rose lay there, outstretched, her face calm and serene as she slept. A stray curl lay across her face and her slender hand was on the gentle rounding of her belly. Her lips were parted slightly and her other arm was hanging off the cushion.
He couldn't help but smile at the scene. He reminded himself for the umpteenth time that that goddess was real, and he lowered himself down on the floor near her. He pressed his forehead against hers and placed his own hand over hers.
Months before, he had not believed in true love. It had not existed. It was like a fairy tale that was frayed at the edges. There was no way for it to be real and he was not going to fall for its seducing doom. He was not going to kill himself chasing after a fantasy.
His parents had been in love, he had admitted that. But he knew that his mother had hated his father when she had met him and that his father had mercilessly teased his mother. He had called her a sniveling pigtailed brat more than once, and although it eventually bloomed into love, he had not thought it as true love, which constituted love at first sight. They had not even accepted each other at first sight. And their love was just love. It did not light off fireworks or create magic spells. It was simple.
He had guessed he had had many opportunities to create some sleazy kind of relationship, and he almost had several times. Jack was not an angel. He did live for the "making it count" motto, and he was a compassionate person. But he was still a man. He had wanted a woman before, wanted a one night stand with someone that offered to be drawn. For some reason though, he hadn't let it go beyond flirting. The moment some spindly red fingernail brushed against his forearm, it was over. He had let it go to a kiss a few times, a kiss that would have usually ushered in making out sessions followed by making love sessions, but that very second foreign lips had touched his own he had backed out.
He hadn't known why. If he didn't believe in true love, what had he been holding out for? Still, there had been something . . . something breathing into his ear that becoming one with one of those European women would be the biggest mistake in his life. He listened to that voice, even if he saw no reason to. He figured that some day in the very distant future, after he had explored every corner of the world, he would marry some girl he found agreeable and have a kid or two. He did not expect to love her.
But then that one day had come when he was on his way to America, chasing the ghosts of home and trying to gather back wisps of his broken past. There had been that single afternoon, when he had been sketching a little girl on the deck. Out of all things he could have drawn, out of all the people, Cora caught his attention. She had stood out in her innocence, trusting her father completely as he literally dangled her over the water so she could see the propellers. He had been explaining how they worked as she made motions with her tiny hands to follow the blades. She had never once questioned her safety as she was hanging over the Atlantic Ocean. Never once did a wave of fear cross her face. She was innocent. Because he wanted that, to be innocent from the horribleness of the world again, he focused on her.
He remembered being slightly annoyed as Fabrizio carried on a short conversation with some man on his right. It was unsettling. As he darkened a few lines on Cora's father's hand, he shifted his gaze briefly to meet with an Irishman that possessed curly, sandy hair and a thick Irish brogue. When this man, introduced later as Tommy, remarked something sarcastically about the dogs from first class shitting on the deck, with a double meaning of course, Jack couldn't help but throw his comment in.
But then he had seen her.
He had been trying to remind himself that he didn't believe in true love. He didn't believe in love at first sight. Lately, he had been finding it hard to believe in love in general, in destiny, in the "greater purpose."
He had been reborn though, in a split second. All of his doubts and convictions were wiped away from that one being on the deck above him, the one with the lush figure and the blood-red hair and the creamy skin turning gold from the sunlight. The one with the eyes that spoke of betrayal and hurt and terrible loneliness, but also the one with the eyes that whispered beauty and spirit.
He had never seen a person like that. It seemed as if the sky had opened and stars had fallen and waves had crashed and fate had been decided. He had fallen in love, without knowing her name or her past or the sound of her voice. He had wanted desperately to save her without knowing what to save her from and he had frantically needed to take her with him without knowing where that might be.
The fireplace began to smolder burning coals as Jack relived that memory sweetly, like he always did. That moment had been his redemption and salvation, his joy and his hope.
The irony that the same woman was here, sleeping on a couch in his apartment, her hand gently resting on a stomach that carried his child, made him smile. For a second the pounding in his head was dulled by the beauty and gratitude of the fact that Rose was really his Rose.
Early in the morning of August 16, 1912, Jack lay in the drowsy silence of dawn and carefully outlined the contours of Rose's sleeping face. Her delicate nose, her crafted cheekbones, her curving neck. She wasn't as close to him as she usually was, and instead was curled into a peaceful position with her head sinking deep into the feather-filled pillow, facing from him.
Today was a day that Rose most likely was sure he had forgotten, but of course he remembered. He had been counting down for a month. It was her eighteenth birthday, the first without her mother, the first without the galas and yachts and rooms of gifts. He had to make it memorable enough for her, make it better than the last seventeen.
Again, he found himself fighting against ghosts Rose's heart. Again, he felt this need to be better than those that had been in her life before. Again, it was competition for something he knew only he had and that the phantoms of her past had never had. He couldn't help it. Something inside of him was driving him on to make the people that had made her years painful just distant memories in light of the happiness he gave her. It was a match he couldn't win, he knew. But it was also a match he couldn't loose, because there was no one to fight with. It seemed as though he were wrestling himself, but damn it, he couldn't change it even when he tried.
It was a small price to pay for the miracle of Mrs. Dawson being who she was, and him being who he was, and they being together. He reached over to where she faced from him and stroked a stray red curl, fingering it offhandedly and staring off into space, thinking of nothing in particular. Just thinking.
It was during these times that some of his most terrifying dreams would find their way into his heart. His idle mind would toy with people that he once knew or did know, situations that he had been in, memories and fears of the future. Now he looked tenderly at Rose's covered abdomen, imaging the softness of a slight round coming from her stomach.
His child was in there. Not just any child either. His, his child he had made with his love in a time of uncertainty and eternal bliss. He remembered how he had trembled with anticipation and how nervous he had been. He had wanted to make her happy so badly, and he had thought that it was impossible. She was just too good for him. Yet somehow destiny had smiled and everything had worked and now there she was, in all her glory, right beside him.
What if something went wrong? What if the baby wasn't healthy, or if during childbirth Rose . . .
He refused to even think that. He couldn't. Would God allow them both to survive a disaster such as the one they had been through and then rip them apart? Of course not. She was strong and vivacious and she would be perfectly fine.
This fear had not entered him before. As much as he tried to shun it, he found himself gathering her in his arms and pulling her towards him as she sighed in protest. Sleepily, she murmured a complaint that he couldn't understand until she blindly felt his chest and pressed herself against him.
She was so precious to him that he couldn't let her go, even when his arm ached from holding her so tightly for so long. Her white flannel nightgown irritated his elbow but he didn't notice. She was breathtakingly beautiful, and something inside of him tore when he saw her innocent face, the ring slipped on her slender finger, and the gentle sloped belly.
How could he have done something like that? Even now, he felt as though he had taken advantage of that innocence. He had not been able to control himself, and he had gotten her pregnant out of wedlock, married before she was eighteen, and almost living on the streets. She had been willing to do it all, but he should have known better, he should have –
Then, however, something miraculous happened. Her lips curved into a sweet, soft smile and she whispered his name. "Jack . . ." She breathed lightly and he nuzzled her neck, catching the scent of rosewater.
Lowly in his throat, as though afraid to disturb the morning silence, he began to huskily sing. "Happy birthday to you . . . happy birthday to you . . . happy birthday Rose . . . happy birthday to you . . ."
Her eyes shot open to the size of tennis balls. Suddenly she looked very, very awake. He grinned gently, but then he saw the huge tears traveling down her face and felt her heart speed up against his skin.
"Oh Rose, I didn't mean to make you cry . . ." He muttered, frantically wiping away the puddles of water from her cheeks and cursing himself. Had he stirred some old memory? Had he hurt her somehow?
"No, no . . . you . . . remembered . . . I can't believe you re . . . remembered," she sobbed, cries racking her body. His own heart went out to her without warning. What kind of childhood had this girl had, that she thought her own husband remembering her birthday was nothing short of celestial? It made him shiver and he was disgusted with her parents.
"Of course I did. I love you," he answered back, trying desperately to calm her and make her happy. He did not know much about women, and he did not understand why she had to cry if she felt joy.
"Oh! I love you too!" She exclaimed suddenly, throwing her arms around his neck and holding on for dear life.
In that moment, he freed himself from her past. He realized that she had completely left them and she was his. He understood that he was her entire life now. As he gathered her to him, he himself was crying.
He had just gotten something. She had moved on. Her home had been where she hadn't belonged, and now she was where destiny had willed her. The sparkle of love in her eyes and the blush of happiness attested to how she was done watching the years pass by. She had made up her mind that it was time to change, and she had done it all for him.
His tears fell on the pillow to mix with hers, and he held her close, trying to protect her from what she had experienced before.
She stirred ever so slightly as he leaned closer and his breath tickled her neck. Automatically, even in her sleep, her lips searched hungrily for his and caught them, gently kissing him, before she fell back into the ratty cushions and blindly reached for his body.
He held her to him for a minute, relishing her warm figure against him, and whispering into her ear. He had never stopped thanking God for returning this goddess to him, because he knew how easily he could have lost her, or how easily she could have lost him.
"I'm so sorry," she murmured quietly against his chest. "I wanted to get dinner ready but I . . . I . . . I felt so sick and then . . ."
He tenderly stroked her face, his eyes so loving it made her heart break, and he muttered, "Shh . . . shh . . . I know I like to eat, but what do you take me for? Some fat old geezer who only cares about food?"
He knew he had set himself up with that one, knew it when her sleepy face suddenly awoke with a brilliant smile. He opened his mouth to say something in defense, but she pressed a finger to his lips and beat him to it. "Now that you mention it . . . you are getting a bit . . . heavy, Mr. Dawson," she teased, her eyes lit with mischievousness.
She didn't mean it at all. He was still her finely sculpted Greek god, and he still was the most handsome being she had ever seen. She couldn't help her immense attraction towards him, or the way she shivered as his chiseled hand brushed against her neck and stroked the column of her cheekbone.
She looked at him in adoration, the contentedness filling her entire soul. She remembered when, not so long ago, she had been wrapped in the chains of her ghosts and her demons with decisions she regretted. She remembered when she had built her own prison, a prison of yesterdays and of blame, and how faithfully she had kept herself locked within. Others had made her believe that she was exactly what they said she was – hopeless, with no future other than to build what would become her own doom. And she had believed them, because she had been faithful to her mother. Her mother had led her to think that, if she didn't marry Cal, they would end up on the streets. Even if Rose got the life she dreamed of and made it into the moving pictures or into plays in the grand halls and theatres of New York, it would be trading her mother's happiness for her own, and ending the life her mother loved.
She was a good daughter, such a good daughter that she was going to kill herself so that her mother would live in the world she had grown accustomed to. Not only had her mother expected it of her, but so had her father. Her father had wanted Rose to be exactly like Ruth DeWitt-Bukater, but of course Ruth DeWitt-Bukater was a very different woman when her husband was alive. Rose hadn't seen that, however, and she didn't think there was anything else to life. She thought that she was just made to be ordered around like a dumb beast, birth children, manage the household . . . She had dreamt of true love, of course, but she had also known that it wasn't in the cards for her.
As she felt Jack's broad thumbs caress her cheeks, she knew that not only had she found true love – she had found a friend for a lifetime, which was almost as valuable. He pressed his forehead against hers, and her heart started to clamber. His breath on her neck made her shake. He was so close, so very close, and the electricity that jumped from him to her sizzled the air and shocked their skin.
"Rose . . ." he whispered, his voice throaty. He entwined a free hand in her burnt red hair and his breathing became heavy. Suddenly, she lifted her head slightly and pressed her lips against his. Unlike the last kiss, this one was passionate and searing, soul-searching, fiery, and full of so much devotion that Rose began to cry. He gently kissed away her tears, leaving a trail along her forehead and nose and cheeks and chin.
"I love you," she murmured softly, choked with sobs. It was an understatement and she knew it. Because of everything that she had been through, that they had been through, she knew it went without saying. She knew he knew she loved him. But she needed to tell him.
It reminded her of the first time she had been convicted of her love for him. The icy cold had completely numbed her body, and yet it still hurt so terribly. She had even wished for death. She knew what Jesus had been feeling when He had said, "Let this cup pass from me . . ." She had just wanted to pass the pain, pass the agony. But in the hell that was bound to become her grave, she had found a pinpoint of white light, shining with beauty and purity. Those words still echoed in her dreams . . .
"I love you, Jack . . ."
It was obvious that was what he was thinking of too. He nodded, seemingly unable to speak. She stroked his neck and the streaked blonde strands of hair hanging in his face, tenderly gazing upon him.
"I love you," he finally managed, furiously wiping tears from his eyes.
Her heart shattered. "I know," she whispered.
Two weeks later, Rose was awoken by a sudden jolt. It was as though the bed had been pushed up from under her. Her breathing accelerated and she grasped at the worn mattress. The tremor still went through her body like some kind of earthquake, but instead of violent ripping, it was almost like a gentle ripple, like when she was a girl and had skipped stones in the pond out back. It vanished softly.
She was alarmed at the sudden shudder that had overtaken her and glanced over at Jack, but he was sleeping soundly as always, with his cheek pressed against his pillow. He was facing her, but not touching her, and his breathing was steady and calm, warming the air around her.
It happened again and shocked, a sigh escaped her lips. This time it was a more sharp push and her hand fluttered nervously to where it had come from – her abdomen. She didn't dare to breathe as she waited quietly. Then there was no mistaking it – it happened a third time and she knew where it had come from.
"Jack! Jack!" She murmured hastily, pulling on his shirtsleeve. She searched his face for some sign of consciousness.
"Uh uh . . . too early," he groaned, and flopped onto his back, tangling his hand in his mussed blonde hair.
Even in the urgency of the moment, she couldn't help but giggle at the boyish immaturity that he showed early in the morning. "Jack! It's important!" She squeezed his bicep, and he moaned in light pain, since his upper arms hurt from all his heavy labor at the factory. He moved his arm away from her and sucked in air.
"Mmm . . . what?" He muttered, arching his back so the sheets fell to his waist and his baggy shirt unstuck from his spine. He sighed and his breathing began to steady again.
"Jack Dawson! Wake up right this instant!" She exclaimed, nudging him in the side. When he groaned again, he could feel her glare searing through his sleep-fogged head and obliterating his brain.
Exhausted, he sat up. Yesterday, a Saturday, he had gotten home from work later than usual because he had to work double shift. He hadn't gone to bed until one in the morning and, he thought groggily as he looked at the simple hand clock next to him, it was only four-thirty. A man needed more sleep than that. He ran his hand through his hair again and blinked a couple of times to clear his sea blue eyes.
"The baby! The baby kicked!" She sounded so excited that it took him a minute to remember what she was talking about. Then all of the sudden he had whooped and his head was on her stomach, listening for anything, waiting for anything, that could tell him that his child was forming inside. She was combing his head with her hands, weaving her slender fingers in and out of his strands of hair, smiling softly as the baby kicked again and an expression of amazement and wonder washed over his features.
"That's our kid," he said gently, gazing at her with admiration, tears overflowing his eyes and dripping onto her nightgown. "Hi," he muttered, almost silently. "Hey . . . I'm your daddy, and this is your mommy, and we're waiting for you out here."
Rose broke into sudden sobs, and she knew her baby's childhood would be so wonderful, and so golden, and so perfect. She knew that he would not have to worry about what she had to worry about when she was young, and she knew his father would be the best father that God had allowed humans to be.
So there they were, both crying in the darkness of earlier morning, tangled in each other and the sheets. Jack sat up and wrapped his arms around his Rose, murmuring quietly, "I'm gonna promise you some things. I promise I will never leave you. I promise I will never forsake you. I promise that you don't have to do anything to earn me. I promise that you and this child have my heart, my whole heart, and will never have anything less. And Rose Dawson, I swear to you by my own blood, I will always, always and forever, love you."
She dissolved against him, wordlessly thanking him for loving her, for being part of her, for saving her. She clutched at his shirt, staining it with her tears, pressing her lips against his chest. He forced her chin up with his finger and they looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity.
The eternity that waited for them someday would sometimes rear its head and give them a glimpse of tomorrow, and now was one of those times. The beauty and the silence of this alternate reality captivated them into something that no other lovers would ever share. It was as though their love were just as new as it had once been. The shadows parted and they looked at each other's soul, reading each other's heart, and giving grace to God for allowing them to meet, to love, and then to die and move on eventually.
Her bones turned to mush and she felt hot and shaky under his gaze. He made her feel like water, and the seriousness of his face made her heart slam against her ribs. He loved her, he really did, and he really would forever.
"I . . . I love you . . . too. . ."
She knew what he was going to do before he did it because she started to buzz from her head to her toes. The signal proved correct and before she could take a breath he had hungrily slammed his mouth on hers, bruising her lips and massaging her tongue with his. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her against him as close as he could, tasting the sweet sugary mouth that was offered only to him. She gave back as much as he took, and that's what the rest of the morning was. Give and take . . . give and take . . .
It was mid-December. Winter had hit especially hard and early in New York City, and snow drifts sparkled on the sides of cobblestone streets. The icy air bit at the little apartment and forced itself through cracks in the old walls. It became so bad that when Rose got up early one Monday morning, she could see her breath clouding like silver dust in the air.
With a slight groan, she wrapped the comforter from the bed around her shivering frame and slipped her feet into her shoes, which she wore even in the house now to ward off the cold. Jack had left recently, for his place beside her was still warm and his pillow still indented. She leaned close to the mattress and took in his soft scent of sandalwood, wishing terribly that he was here to hold her.
He wasn't though, and she could not blame him for it. He had been living this monochromatic lifestyle for months – getting up just about six days out of the seven of the week, working so hard he could barely stand when he got home, cramming some food into his mouth, forcing himself to stay awake long enough to show Rose how much he loved her, and collapsing in exhaustion to repeat the whole thing over again. She wanted him to show his art around so that he could get a different job, but he said they were in no position to do that right now. His job at the factory wasn't ideal, and it was painful, but it was also stable. He would continue to trickle in his income, and once they were more firmly set, he had mentioned something about moving out west and looking into "other opportunities."
For now, both Jack and Rose had to sacrifice things in hope that it would someday pay off, and she was fine with that. She stood up, rubbing sleep out of her eyes, and stumbled to the bedroom door. A pleasant light heat washed over her like a bubble bath, and she saw that Jack had sweetly struck up a fire before he left. Yawning, she eased her way to the tiny kitchen area to eat something. Jack was adamant about Rose eating at least three times a day, for the baby, so she decided to force down some oatmeal or something else cheap and filling.
On the table, written in black charcoal on a piece of portfolio paper, was a note that included a sketch of Rose as she slept. It was fresh and the paper was still soaking in the charcoal, so she knew that her husband had drawn it this morning before he left. She picked it up gingerly, in wonder of how he had captured her. There was a tender, content expression wholly developed on her face, and one hand was resting on her stomach. Her other was flung onto his pillow, where she guessed she had reached for him even in her sleep. Her hair was wild, even pulled into the braid she now carefully plaited every night.
Smiling happily, she read the words written in his familiar tidy scrawl and didn't long for him so much anymore.
Good morning, you. I really didn't want to leave you today, so I left this in hopes that maybe part of me will stay with you until the rest of me gets home. I know it sounds crazy, but as Fabri used to say, "La amore is not logical, no?" I'll be missing you. Miss me too, will ya?
Love,
Jack
Oh, God, what did she ever do to deserve him? The fact that she could have woken up every morning lying next to some despicable bastard in a gentleman's body terrified her, and she was so, so glad that Jack had been given to her instead.
Seeing that picture reminded her that he hadn't showed her his portfolio in at least a month, and she was curious. Breakfast would have to wait. She wandered back into the bedroom and began to sift through the boxes on top of their wardrobe. At the very top of the pile was the leather folder that she had bought him, but she couldn't reach it. She dragged a chair out of the kitchen, brought it back to the wardrobe, and hesitantly clambered atop it. Her goal succeeded when she snatched the carrying case, and she gracefully stepped back onto the floor and lowered herself on the bed.
He had been drawing often recently. Her fingertips grazed the form of a little boy on a street corner. He was dirty, and his clothes were tattered. In his tiny, smudged hands were long, fading flowers and a small coin purse. It was obvious he was selling those flowers, and on his face he wore the expression of no hope, and of pain, and of shame. Something inside of her tore at the helplessness that he seemed wrapped in.
She groped at the next picture to get away from his haunting, soul-searching eyes, eyes that spoke of bitterness that one should not have at his age.
It was then that the pain roared through her, like some sort of beast tearing at her insides. She fell on the floor, not able to move, not able to even scream, but there was one scream that was tearing through her mind with as much hideous satanic force as any other had.
Oh God! My baby!
