First off, HI. SO sorry for the lack of updates...school was hectic, band revue was hectic, work was...I suck, lol. :( I am sorry, but I will try and be more diligent. Don't worry, I have lots of Cal/Rose epicness planned. :D ;)
And sorry: this chapter is awful lol. But reviews would make me happy. :D
"To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an evil!"-Elizabeth Bennet
Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 18
This was not how it was supposed to be.
This was not how it was supposed to be!
Rose Dawson, nee DeWitt Bukater, stared across the black river, oblivious to her surroundings. She knew it was nighttime. She knew it was cold. She knew it was New York. The cold did not bother her, even in her painfully thin nightgown the brothel provided for all the girls.
Nothing could ever, ever match the coldness that had steeled her heart, her body, her soul, ever since he had died.
She had cried what seemed a thousand tears since that fateful night. She had thought she was all cried out. But no. Tears seemed to live in her body, hidden, and appear unbidden at the slightest memory of him. His laugh. His smile. The way he had held her, had kissed her, had made love to her. The warmth of his hands. The way he danced, the way he spit, the way he drew. All his fantastically whimsical plans for their fairy-tale life together; their eternal adventure, never-ending.
They were supposed to have gotten off in New York, together. They were supposed to have gotten married. She had pictured it many times when she could not sleep, and to picture it made her heart puncture. They would have gotten married in a small chapel, she wearing a simple yet beautiful dress, and he a simple, rented tuxedo. Jack's wonderful kiss would have made it real; not some gaudy ring, some cheap jewel to sodden their love. It would have been simple, elegant. She would have been fine with a cheap wire ring, or even rope; it did not matter to her. Simply being his wife forever would have been the greatest thing she would ever be, or even hope to be.
Then, oh then. They were supposed to move. It would be tough for awhile, yes, but she'd get a job, and he would, and by day they would work, and by night they would make love, and dance, and laugh, and sing together, and everything would be all right. Someday, somebody would be bound to see the elegance of his drawings, his endless talent. She would one day fulfill her dreams of becoming an actress.
They would go to that pier in Santa Monica, ride that roller-coaster a thousand times, (even throw up a little), drink cheap beer, spit and dance to their heart's content, and he would hold her, and make her feel as though she were flying every time they saw a sunset.
He would look at her and she would feel her heart pound. He would kiss her, and she would feel herself begin to float.
He would... Tears reaching her eyes, she reached for an umpteenth stone, and almost angrily, threw it into the river. The resounding splash was satisfying.
Crumpling onto the ground, she quietly began to sob, her shoulders shaking, digging her fingernails into her thighs, hoping she drew blood. None of it mattered. None of it would ever, ever happen! She knew better, yet to picture it made her almost feel better. Content. Forgetful.
She had hoped, in the early days after the sinking, and certainly the following months, that, somehow, she had conceived with his child. Their child. Their precious, precious child. Whether it was a darling boy with his blond locks, sea-blue eyes and mischievous face, or an adorable girl with her red hair and pale eyes, it would not matter. She would love it, love it forever, and in that way she would always have had a part of him. Of them. Of their love.
But no. Her hopes had been dashed. There would be no child of theirs, no baby to raise, to adore, to shower with love. Of course it would have been all the sweeter if he were still here, had that happened, but he was not, and she was not with child, and now she was living a hellish existence, and that would never change.
She was going to get out of this place. New York was loud. New York was smelly. New York was full of doors in her face, people unwilling to hire her, unwilling to give her a chance to prove herself. New York was full of her own broken, desperate, sometimes angry pleas, her pounds on doors, visions of herself on her knees, begging people for a chance, hating how little girl-ish she was becoming. How weak.
She was slowly but surely making money, and her goal was to move to Santa Monica. Become an actress. Fulfill every single one of her and Jack's dreams. Live the life she had always dreamed of. She knew Santa Monica would be better than here; she just knew it!
She hated being a whore. She hated, hated, hated it. She hated that choice she had made, all those months ago, at the sad realization that nobody would hire her because she was a woman; nobody would hire her to be a maid, or a waitress, or even to watch their children or to train and try and become a seamstress. Nobody would give her a chance, also, and mostly because, she was a woman with no skills all the lower-class girls her age and people had. It was either stay here, starve, bleed and die, or...go back to them.
Wiping her eyes, she thought. She had agonized over that a million times, and each time, the conclusion had been the same: She could never go back to them. Ever.
The decision would be worse than death.
His diamond she still held in her possession, albeit safely, safely hidden away in his coat, in her room which she shared with three other girls. Many times she had wanted to sell it, to get all the money she could draw from it, but then she remembered. She would be getting help from him. Cal. And every fiber of her being, every pound of her heart, screamed against that. Not to mention, it would certainly be traced. Or even...it was probably all over the newspapers now. Her death. Her funeral.
Her mother she sometimes thought of, but each time there were bitter thoughts. Her mother's smugness, her snootiness, her irritating fantasies she made Rose live daily. There had been no love there...not at all like Rose secretly hoped.
And him. Him, with his handsome face, dark hair, and million-dollar smile. Him with his arrogance, abuse and hatred of humanity. Him, with his outburst at breakfast on Titanic, him with his slap, him with his gun, him with his willingness to kill Jack. Murder him. To go back to that would make her scream. She hated him, hated him, hated him.
She remembered how lost he had seemed, how dejected, as he had searched for her...how he had looked at her when he gave her diamond...how he had seemed hopeful as he had searched for her, and spotted a woman with identical hair color and length from behind...
She thought, and realized that possibly he had had feelings for her, but at most, they had been shallow. Lust.
She refused to entertain any other possibility about him. It would destroy her.
True, there was always something about him that had always made her heart pound, her head spin a little. But she had always hated the man he was inside, despite his immense good looks. And substance mattered to her more than surface did.
She was glad to be free of him. She was. Wasn't she?
True, at night sometimes she would lie awake in bed and think. Think about him. Was he awake now, in his lonely mansion situated on the hill? Was he thinking of her? Was he drinking? Reading? Doing work? Then she would grow frustrated. Why the hell did she care? It was just Cal.
Shuddering, she only stared with mild interest at the thick fog that was quickly swarming in, and remembered how she had come to be a prostitute. She hated it. Detested it. At first she had rallied against it, steadfastly refused, but eventually, her desperation to get out, get money, and move and start her real life had been too much.
Every single customer made her want to scream. Every man she saw made her want to vomit. They were all horrible, abusive, disgusting brutes! Every single one of them. She took every single precaution possible not to become pregnant, and she prayed that that seemed to work each time. To make it more bearable, she would close her eyes and imagine Jack's kisses, his caresses, his gentle touch. Try with all her might. When she could (which was often), she got them drunk enough and managed to avoid intercourse. It was just too horrible, too degrading, too disgusting. Too vile. She used all her considerable wits and acting talents and brains, and succeeded with the vast majority of them. Then she would successfully pick their pockets and be on her merry way, leaving them passed out and askew.
But it did not make her any more proud. She imagined what her mother would say. Despite Rose's hatred for first-class, she could not deny the way she had been brought up would always be ingrained in her. Prostitution was vile.
She was nothing like the other girls, though they were nice, the majority of them. Some were mean. Some were sullen. Some were...she did not know how some of them managed to survive, they had been at it so long. If she were them, she would have ended her life, long ago.
Running her fingers through her long red locks, and then digging into her arms, she remembered, and hated her decision. It always seemed to stay with her, that day, as though it were yesterday...
TWO MONTHS PREVIOUSLY
She shivered as she came to the brothel. Good god had she thought of every possibility, tried every single thing available to her, to no avail. At first she had rallied against it, rallied...it had taken her two months to come to this horrid decision.
She was Rose DeWitt Bukater, for goodness sake! She was not some prostitute, some low-life, low-class woman. She was well-bred. She was well-educated. She was everything these girls were not!
Then she would remember how dirty and unkempt she was, how her clothes were threadbare, how her food supply was low, how she would never get to Santa Monica, start her life, and then she would relent.
Steeling her courage, she knocked on the door. A large, far older woman opened the door and stared at her. "Yes?"
She swallowed, suddenly nervous. "Yes...I...I've come in hopes of gaining a...position here."
She grimaced in her head. The woman stared at her, a long, searching, steely look, and then opened the door. "Follow me."
She followed her through the immense, almost labyrinthine building, and they entered a small, dirty, cluttered office. The woman gestured to a rickety wooden chair in front of a desk, and Rose sat, feeling sick.
"Name?"
She swallowed. She hadn't thought of that, but she would not give them her real name.
"Ahem. Uh...M...Melanie. Melanie Ruthasson."
She hoped her mother would forgive her for her made-up last name. It was all she could think of on the spot.
"And why should I offer you a position here? What? Did your rich...man of sorts leave you and go back to his wife, leaving you down and out?"
Rose almost glared at her, harsh words on her tongue for the insinuations, and then bit her tongue. Hard.
"N...No." Realizing she would have to come up with a better story, she remembered Titanic, and tears came unbidden to her eyes. But no. She would never speak of Jack. They would never, ever get the privilege of knowing all of it, all of him. Never! Those memories were hers, and hers alone! He was all hers, and hers alone!
Feeling sick for using Titanic as a sob-story of sorts, she swallowed and went forward with the lie.
"I...I was on b...board...T...Titanic." The words, the very name of the ship, made her want to vomit. Remembering was too horrible.
"M...my fiance was rich, and he...died, leaving me alone and penniless. We were in love and going to get married. Please."
Unbidden, the rich fiance she spoke of was Cal. She wasn't lying. She really wasn't. At least not that part. She used all her acting skills to project her real tears and sorrow over Jack onto this made-up story of she being in love with Cal. To anyone, this rich fiance had held her heart, not a poor artist who lived life as he laughed: beautifully.
The woman looked at the young woman in front of her and took pity. Eyes softening, she relented. "Fine. You have a position, and you have my deepest condolences. I heard...why, we heard all about that ship. It's horrible."
Mouth feeling dry, heart feeling leaden, she forced herself to nod. "Yes," she whispered.
The woman still stared at her. "You know, forgive me, but you seem far too...shall we say...upper-crust than any other girl in my establishment. You look far cleaner, far...more groomed. Proper. Are you absolutely sure you don't have any other relatives who would care for you?"
Rose shook her head. "N...no. I'm an orphan. Truly."
The woman still stared. Rose still stared back, beseechingly. Then the woman actually smiled. "Well, you certainly are pretty."
Rose only stared, then realized. She had a position! She stared back, and then words came to her. "Th...thank you."
The woman now turned serious, and then went on about rules, how strict she was, how she didn't tolerate this, that...
Rose only half-listened, dull elation flooding through her. She had a job. A horrid job, but a job nonetheless.
As she watched Rose leave, the woman shook her head. True, the girl seemed rather odd, and seemed a little too fond of that long black coat she clutched to desperately, but she could only assume it had been her fiance's coat. It was sad, really. Tragic. But hopefully she would do her work, be quiet and obedient, and gain her money. That was the most important thing. And if not, she would throw her out.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
"So was Titanic all you dreamed about, as grand as everyone said it was?"
Rose started, feeling sick. Yes, it had been...it had been bliss...wonderful...divine...
"Clara, you stupid twit! Why the hell are you asking her about that?"
Clara, Martha, Ruth. The three girls Rose shared a room with. At least they were nice.
Staring, Rose forced herself to smile. "Ruth, it's alright. Truly. Y...yes, it was. It was wonderful," she whispered.
"So what happened. Did you lose your fiance?"
She started. Yes, yes she had. At least she considered Jack her real fiance. But no. Her cover was Cal. Not that they would know his real name, either. But it was of Cal she thought of when she responded.
"Yes. Yes...I did." Tears were coming to her eyes, from Jack. Not that they would ever know.
Now Clara seemed sorrowful. "I...I'm sorry Melanie. Truly."
Rose smiled a watery smile. "It's all right."
"Was he handsome?"
She couldn't lie. Yes, yes she had always found him handsome, despite her hatred for the man he was inside. "Yes, he was. Immensely handsome."
"Were you two in love?"
This question made her sick. "I...I want...I need air." Then she left, closing the door behind her.
Because she didn't want to think of her and Cal in love. Ever.
Two evenings later, Rose was on the dark New York streets, dress in place, and suddenly, dread and fear pooling in her stomach, she spotted the man all the girls had warned her against. He had beaten Clara many a time before. She did not know his name; just his appearance. He had long, unkempt stringy dark hair, and was repulsive. He had yellow teeth. He was muscled. He was abusive, vile and cruel. Steeling herself, she watched as he approached her, slightly drunk, leering at her in a way that made her feel most uncomfortable.
He stared at her cleavage, very obvious in the low-cut dress, and leered. "Don't think I've seen you, Red," he grinned.
She longed to slap him. But she decided to lie. "I am off business for the night, sir, I'm terribly sorry," though her airy tone dripping with condescension betrayed her true feelings.
She began to quickly walk the other way, planning to take a detour and suddenly he grabbed her, snarling. "Nobody walks away from me," he snarled.
Rage gripping her, as he gripped her shoulders and began to feel her up, she slapped him and drew blood on his face. Snarling, she spat in his face. "I believe I just did," she snapped, and then hastily began to run. She knew it was a bad decision, but she just couldn't take it anymore.
All the same, she regretted it. She tore down an alleyway, and suddenly he was behind her, and he caught her. Her dress ripped. She kicked and bucked against him. No. He would not do that to her. He would not rape her.
But he seemed intent on slapping her endlessly first. He slapped her repeatedly, and the pain was staggering. She could feel her lip was bleeding. She saw stars. Then he punched her, and then she began to scream and cry. This was far too much. This was...this was horrible. Each subsequent blow ripped her hair out of her pins and made her head pound, throb. And then she was on the ground and she was dodging his every blow, feeling like an animal, an insect, and she hated it. Hated it, hated it, hated it. She wished somebody would save her from this monster! And then...oh god, then! Suddenly, she wondered if she were dreaming. A man, a wonderful man was in the alley, beating her attacker, and she was so eternally grateful...and then she saw him close up, and words failed her. Utterly failed her. No. No. This...it was...how? It was...Cal!...
Cal was happy his business trip was almost at its end. It had been successful, but the people he had had to deal with were stupid. Not to mention it was so endlessly tedious as well.
He was happy to take a trip to the prostitute's side of town. Grief, lust, alcohol, and plain boredom were all swirling inside him.
New York was stupid. New York was dumb.
He reached the corner by a dark alleyway when, suddenly, he heard screams from a woman, and yells from a drunken man. Looking, he was horrified. He was beating a woman...looking closer, a woman with red hair. Her hair...
Squinting, he looked closer, and his heart literally thudded. He was able to make out her face...her tone of voice...her voice...No! Impossible...either he was too drunk, or he was dreaming...one of the two. Considering he had not drank too much that evening, he assumed it was the latter. But to no avail.
And suddenly she moved into the light of the streetlamp, dodging another blow, and he knew he was not dreaming, and it was her. It was her, Rose! Without a doubt!
Not even thinking, he suddenly lunged down the alleyway and began beating the larger man to a bloody pulp. He relished every single cry of pain from the bastard, every single bruise and laceration appearing on his blasted face. Because nobody, no man, no bastard did that to his Rose. Nobody.
Eventually the man was rendered unconscious, and suddenly, breathing hard, he turned, trembling, and looked at Rose. Her lip was bloody, her eyes were wide, incredulous, and she was trembling.
Suddenly he found himself shaking, sweating. Somewhere inside him, he found himself beginning to chuckle darkly in his head. Of course, she was alive! Of...of course! She had...she had faked her own...her own death...just to escape him. It hurt him...but of course she, of all people, would do that!...of course...
Their eyes locked, and Rose finally found words. "C...Cal?"