A/N: I wanted to get this chapter written and posted today, so just a heads up that it hasn't been beta-read yet. All errors are therefore my own, though I've read over it a few times myself to make sure it looks correct. It's a short one, but very emotional.
"The fiercest anger of all, the most incurable,
Is that which rages in the place of dearest love."
― Euripides
Wednesday, April 10th, 1912
RMS TITANIC
For a moment he could only stare at her in disbelief. He recognized her immediately, though time had whittled away at her with a cruel hand: the soft lines of youth had wasted away into sharp, skeletal angles; a crown of silver bled from her temples into the dark curls that had once been a source of pride; rings of bruised-looking skin hung beneath her eyes, lending her the appearance of perpetual exhaustion. Vaguely, he knew that the sight of her should have inspired a deep sense of satisfaction, of fulfilled justice. Instead, he felt as if he had plummeted from the ledge of a three-story building and landed flat on his back.
When at last he recovered his wits enough to speak, only a single, frostbitten word moved past his lips. "Mother."
Her ribs buckled inwards, as if the weight of his voice had struck her like a blow to the chest. What little color was left in her cheeks drained completely. Stone still and pale as the grave, she seemed more wraith than woman.
She said nothing.
A hard knot was rising in the back of Gustave's throat, and he swallowed viciously against it. So many years… he'd spent so many years waiting for this moment. At night sometimes he would lie awake, rehearsing the scene in his mind – each time a different scenario, a different chance meeting point. He'd had his speech perfected by the time he was twenty five. It was witty, scathing, and always delivered with ice cold indifference. The punch line at the end was especially cutting; he worked on this the most, trying out different facial expressions, emphasizing different syllables until it sounded as good out loud as it did in his head.
This was his opportunity. The silence stretched on unbearably, begging to be filled with those confident, razor sharp words. Of course, now that he needed them, his mind had gone utterly, impossibly blank.
A high pitched noise caught somewhere in his throat, and suddenly he was laughing. It was all just so completely absurd. Giddiness crashed over him in waves, and he couldn't stop… he laughed until he choked, until his lungs burned, until tears were streaming from the corners of his eyes. His mother just stood there watching him, horrified.
Of course she did. Hadn't she always?
The thought was surprisingly liberating. It was not as difficult to choke out words between guffaws of laughter, and although the tone wasn't quite the acerbic one he had practiced, the words were close enough. "Nice to see you, too. You look well. No, that's a lie. I'm lying." He laughed even harder, bordering on hysteria. "But never mind that. You're here! Right here. Of all the ships in the world. My, my. Been a long time, hasn't it? What – twenty years? You'd probably forgotten that you even had a son. How silly of me, I should have introduced myself." He thrust his hand in her direction. "Gustave McAfee, at your service."
She shrank back slightly, her eyes never leaving his. By that point, others had begun to take notice of their little debacle; a few feet away, a doorman watched with a furrowed brow. He didn't intervene until Gustave put out his hand. Suddenly he took a step forward, addressing Christine in a firm, clear tone. "Is this gentleman bothering you, ma'am?"
The remark was sobering enough to turn Gustave's laughter into a harsh bark. "Hah! The story of my life!" he told the man dryly. As quickly as it had come, the giddiness was gone, replaced with the decades-old ache of raw anger. The lump in his throat was throbbing again, and he knew that to stay any longer would risk utter humiliation. Gathering what little scraps of pride he had left, he smoothed his hair, straightened the lapels of his jacket, and eyed his mother with the most convincing look of indifference he could muster. "Don't worry, Mother," he said. "Titanic is the largest ship ever built. I'm sure there's no reason for us to have to bump into one another again."
With a curt nod to the doorman, Gustave turned on his heel and strode briskly across the deck. He kept his head held high and cocked slightly to one side, nodding occasionally at the other passengers whose gaze lingered on his face too long. He didn't dare glance sideways at his reflection on the glass surface of the windows; he didn't want to know how terrible he looked. He just kept walking, eyes straight ahead, counting his paces to keep his mind superficially occupied.
It seemed like hours that he wove blindly through whitewashed corridors and stairwells. The ship was a veritable maze in which Gustave was glad to lose himself. It was only when he staggered out into the open air that he realized he had run out of ship. He paused in the middle of the deck, listening to the roar of the ocean as it churned beneath Titanic's propellers. The bitter night wind tugged at his sweat-dampened hair and clothes. Gustave raked trembling fingers across his head, slicking the dark waves back until his fingers entwined at the nape of his neck.
The sobs came in a sudden, violent fit, erupting out of him with enough force to send him to his knees. He pressed a fist to his mouth in a vain attempt to muffle the cries that the ocean drowned out anyway. For a while he surrendered himself completely, broken and shuddering with only the stars to see him.
It was sheer pride that propelled him back to his feet a few moments later. A cigarette, he told himself firmly. Light a cigarette and get yourself together before somebody sees you. Gustave swayed on unsteady legs for a moment as he fished in his pockets for the pack and staggered over to the railing, needing something to hold on to. Between the wind and his shaking hands, it was an effort just to get a cigarette out of its box, let alone to keep it pressed between his lips. As he searched in his pockets for the accompanying match book, the cigarette slid from his mouth down into the foaming water several stories below.
What little remained of his composure snapped. With a scream of rage, Gustave flung the entire pack out into the sea. He took violent fistfuls of his hair, pulling until the roots screamed in agony, ready to try anything to escape the image of empty brown eyes staring up into his own.
It was so much easier to hate his mother in theory than when she stood before him like a physical mirror of his soul.
Tom was not around to save him now, as Gustave teetered precariously on the edge of despair, shuddering and hopeless, wondering how far of a fall it would be to the black depths below...
A nudge on his shoulder nearly scared Gustave out of his skin. He grasped the railing with white knuckles and looked up with a start. Through tear-blurred eyes, the only thing he could make out were two glowing golden orbs trained directly on him.
A/N: Poor guy. :( I'm not just dangling this thread indefinitely, by the way; of course I will eventually reveal why on earth Gustave has such a problem with his mother. But needless to say he's got some lingering emotional issues, here.
I cannot begin to describe the feeling of writing this chapter on Wednesday April 11, 2012, when the chapter takes place on the RMS Titanic on Wednesday, April 10, 1912. Chills.
That said, I think you can all guess that this story is nowhere near completion. I have not lost interest in it at all, and I promise I will finish it. But it's not going to be done by Saturday. ;) The last few months I have been in survival mode, just barely managing to get everything done. I had NO days off, ever, for a while there – went directly from work to school without stopping for 10 weeks. Exhausted doesn't begin to cover it, ha. But my schedule this quarter is much easier, so knock on wood, I'll get more time to write.
On the upside, Titanic is back out in theaters, people! Guess who is going tomorrow night? THAT should be good muse fuel. :)