Hypnotic.

In the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and twelve, a tragedy occurred. Perhaps the greatest tragedy one had ever encountered. A tragedy so great that one would never quite forget it. It would rest in the corner of people's minds for centuries to come. The most famous shipwreck. The most ironic of journeys. The unsinkable ship which had sunk to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. The maiden voyage was so spectacular. A ship so grand. A ship so large one believed it to be the safest place. The ultimate in luxury for all classes. The ultimate price to pay to board her, turned out to be their life.

The years leading to that particular event was a time when men were truly on top of the world. It signalled the end of the age of innocence, the guided Edwardian age where science would allow us to master the world, bringing only change for the better in an upward spiral of peace, prosperity and enlightenment. Within the previous decade the automobile, the aeroplane, the electric light, wireless communication, telephones and motion pictures had gone from invention to commonplace. There seemed to be no limit to what the human mind could accomplish. Man had mastered the physical world and civilised his own base nature. And now, man has built the largest moving object. The most luxurious liner to cross the ocean.

Titanic.

Sailing day had been euphoric. The gleaming white superstructure of Titanic rose mountainous, beyond the rail, and above the ochre-coloured funnels standing against the sky like the pillars of a great temple. Crewman moved across the decks, dwarfed by the awesome size of the steamer. It was a spectacle that even he doubted one would witness again, or at least not for some years beyond his time. Whatever time he would have left. He could have a day, or forever. One never quite knew...

It was almost noon on sailing day. The sky was partially overcast, but shafts of late morning sun streamed down through gaps and patches of light swept across the docks and great ship. The steamer was majestic and dignified in its black-tie colours, and it almost seemed to glow in the dark. A polished Daimler Benz touring car was lowered into the forward hold and on past it until the deck fell away like the edge of a cliff and there, far below were the blackened crowds in their thousands at Southampton dock. First class gentleman and ladies streamed to board the ship, jostling with hustling seamen and stokers and steerage passengers in their coarse wool and tweeds. Horse drawn vehicles, motorcars and lorries moved slowly through the dense throng. The atmosphere was one of excitement and energy. People embraced in tearful farewells, or shouted to wave to friends and relatives on the decks above to call out their bon voyage wishes. This was the day many had dreamt of, saved their last remaining pennies for. If there had been a heart beating within his chest, then he would have felt something there, twisting into the depths of his deadened soul which had once been as alive as the rest.

He had pressed onwards, taking care to keep to the shadows, to ensure that he wasn't out in the centre of it all in his entirety. The heavy woollen coat shielded most of his body, and his navy flattened cap pulled right down across his face to keep it all out of view of others, out of the way of the smoke, the scents and the fumes. They all seemed to merge together into one large vibrating sound. Rattling its way about his half functioning mind. He was supposed to be gifted with something; the ability to completely eradicate every single sound or smell that he wanted and to concentrate on only one. Now though, something seemed to dominate him.

There was one scent that was stronger. Sweeter. Intoxicating. The rest were shop purchased, mixed from some vile chemicals and it hindered his nose and his use of it. What was the fascination which the upper class found so fascinating about expensive perfumes? They piled together, their ignorance and arrogance surrounding them and they were all oblivious to another other than themselves.

He searched, in a crowd of thousands for the familiar scent. His eyes, once a stark blue had dimmed over time, but now, they were muted colour, one in which he would examine in a looking glass if that was possible without it causing the most indescribable pain. It wouldn't end him. Not much could. Somehow, he would be left to suffer. Left to wonder this Earth which he had once loved, nurtured and wished to explore every single part of. The truth was, being a man of twenty for a number of years had left him bewildered. Lonely. He could make a friend or two but then he would move on. The friend would find a wife, start a family and he would be left lingering in the corner, watching as another beautiful moment emerged into the next for the ones who he loved the most, but never for him. He couldn't expect it though. As an adolescent, his love for travel had niggled at him until his parents had died and that had given him, well, a new lease of life. It had almost freed him. Almost...

California had welcomed him with open arms, when the night fell. The beer there could almost be tasted. Almost. There had been a certain longing to remain there, to make a life in each and every single part of the warmth. To dig in his heels. Maybe even fall in love with someone, or something, other than art. That never happened. The Pacific Ocean had not been dug deep enough for him to swim through. With his feet in the ocean, the once warmth of the wind felt bland. It was beautiful, but muted. It all was. It was like looking at this huge, lovely canvas of colour but with pale pastels instead of bright beauty.

Travelling through Europe, it had been ever so easy to stow away in the barrels, in cargo holds, in luggage. It was easy to sit there, in the darkness, watching as immigrants made their way from place to place on tramp steamers. Watching as the families were making new memories, and a new life. He would watch them, through rose tinted lensed eyes, he was sharp. He was able to almost read their thoughts. In Italy, he met a wonderful companion, Fabrizio, but that couldn't last past mere weeks. How else does one explain they cannot go out into the sunlight. They cannot enjoy food the way another human did? That he would need to find his own ''food'' once the sun was well and truly gone and the rest of the world was settled, then his own night would begin. His hunt. His thrill. The thrill which gave him nothing. It never had.

In Paris, he had willed himself to feel something within the bodies of the many beautiful women. He could lay with him, allow them to pleasure him and he could to them in return. Bohemians were known to be completely submerged into the free life. He had believed himself to have found some peace there. In truth, he hadn't lain with a girl since he was a teenager, and despite the great efforts, he believed that he never would again. So, he would take pleasure and pride in simply drawing their wondrous bodies and find no other treasure there.

Out in the fields of Giverny, he had witnessed Monet working through a key hole as he had taken a stance beneath a bunch of lemon trees. The smell carried across for miles. It was idyllic, there, beneath the branches watching a true artist work on another masterpiece but there was no true feeling within his gut. Nothing seemed to happen. Another cigarette dangled from his lips, as now his line of sight was clear of life, aside from the landscapes but he was no Monet. He would never be one to use a watercolour or a canvas. And so, he was restless again, his fingers itching to draw and his eyes eager to drink in. Hitching his bag across his shoulder, he jumped to his feet to find another meaningless adventure. Another mind occupant. A temporary distraction. He would walk for hours. Take shelter beneath bridges and hitch a ride from strangers if he needed to. Afterwards he would lay in the field, laughing at something until his stomach pulled, cigarettes were low in the stash. Some days he ate, sometimes it was two or three days without. The beauty of life on the road though was that there was a small distraction, somehow, somewhere. The nights were spent in a bar or a garret, drinking what he could before dawn and before everyone else fell asleep and then that was when loneliness enveloped him like an unwelcome embrace from his enemy. Spending nights in the bed of nameless women could have been a good distraction but only for a couple of hours. Trying would be useless; he would never be able to give them more them that and he would never be able to love. Never fall in love. He never could.

He had loved his friends, loved his parents, or what he recalled of them and he loved to draw, beyond that, it felt impossible to ever think of falling in love and so, in typical artists fashion, late into the night, Jack would lay and study the stars and consider the point of his existence.

Now though, in the year of nineteen hundred and twelve, Jack Dawson found himself following his given instincts. The scent. He stood there until there had been split second in which he had found himself aboard the ship. Stood in a vast but narrow corridor, completely surrounded by people of all walks of life. All languages. All barriers seemed to be removed.

The plan had been to witness a piece of history from a darkened corner of a pub, whilst consuming a cheap beer and maybe a great wine afterwards but something had been alluring about the ship. About the sight of it. It seemed to be new, in comparison to just how old he was. Or how old that he felt.

The scene seemed to such a stark contrast of happiness to the otherwise miserable existence in which he had lived for these past years. Wondering each corner of the world and leaving after a few months. Perhaps he could find something aboard the ship. Just something...

As the anchor pulled away, all he could do was stand in the shadows beneath a sheltered doorway to watch the sixty or so feet below, as passengers bid their farewell to loved ones. The scene should have been magic; the ship should have been majestic but inside his hollow chest, which had once felt so full, and within his heart, which had once beat so fast, he failed to find anything but a failure.