Written by Nameless for Now
Based on some situations originated by James Cameron.

They still remember about me, and it's so strange. I always think they’ll forget about me, but they don't.

They write the books about me. They make the films about me. They learn my story while studying shipbuilding. They send the scientific expeditions to explore me.

Oh, God, it irritates me so much. Why won’t they just leave me alone? I truly want to be alone. I'm tired. But they keep on returning to me again and again. Actually, I'm not so young to tolerate them all.

What is more, I’m dead.

It's been ninety-seven years since I died...a long ninety-seven years.

You know, there is one date which I hate. You should never mention it in my hearing. Do you want to know what the date is? You're welcome--it's fourteenth to fifteenth of April, 1912. I guess you won't be surprised if I say that is the date of my death.

And I also hate one word; you shouldn't mention it in my hearing, either. It's iceberg. He hurt me, and when I think about him, it always causes pain. You know, he deserved me very much; he was hangdog, actually. In some time, they revealed he was a so-called black iceberg.

Also, I don't like very much the three following words--White Star Line. No, I don't condemn them; they gave me my life. But I just have compassion for them. They adored me. They almost idolized me. They paid so much money for me to appear in this world. And I simply sank, breaking all of their joy and pride in me at once.

Damn it, it's so cold. It's always cold down here, be sure.

You know, when that iceberg hit me--or perhaps it was me who hit him--I cried out from pain. It wasn't very painful, but I felt it anyway. But the most interesting thing was that nobody actually noticed it--except the crew, of course. Oh, the crew. I miss them. I loved those people; they were so loyal to me. God, almost all of them gave their lives for the people who were onboard.

To say it honestly, I was scared, really scared. I couldn't accept what was going on with me. I heard the screams of my passengers; I was frozen in the icy water. Damnit, I didn't want to die. But I died. God, it's so cold! I guess the Atlantic Ocean wasn't the best place for me to sink. However, I didn't have a choice--it was my route. I remember Southampton; it was so bouncy and promiscuous. Oh, I wish I could see New York.

I miss the captain, Edward Smith. Actually, my sister Olympic yammered that he hadn't been too polite with her--oh, Olympic...I hope she didn't cry too much after finding out about my death--but I trusted him anyway. He seemed to be such a clever, strong man. When I was sinking, I realized that he wasn't as strong as I thought. He was afraid...but he wasn't broken. He stayed with me and died on the bridge.

I miss the band. They played really beautiful music. They were playing while I was sinking; they tried to calm the passengers and me. I remember their last song--Nearer My God to Thee. When I remember it, I have tears in my eyes, you know. It was a perfect lullaby for me--my first and my last lullaby.

I miss Thomas Andrews, my designer. God, it was due to him that I lived my short life. He was actually like a father to me. I know he really loved me, and I still love him, too. I wish to see him so hard. I hope he didn't suffer. I hope he is happy. I cried looking at him in the smoking room. He fixed the clock at the time--2:20--the time when I disappeared into the ocean. He knew everything about me. My dearest father, I'm so sorry.

I miss my passengers, too; it's so hard to realize they died onboard me. They all had their hopes, their dreams, their…I believe it's my fault that they died. Fifteen hundred people. Please, forgive me, too.

I'm happy that the others were rescued. It's always shocking when I think that only six of my passengers were rescued from the water. There was a young girl among them. I remember watching at her from the water, which had already become my icy grave. "Come, Josephine, in my flying machine…" That was what she was singing while waiting for the boat and laying on the one of my numerous doors, a popular song of that time. It sounded along with the abating cries and sobs of the dying passengers. "Going up she goes, up she goes..." I'll never forget that song.

Damn it, why on earth is it just so cold?

I'm tired. They say that in fifty years I will turn into dust; nothing will remain of me. I'm even glad of that fact. They will leave me alone and allow me to rest eventually. I wonder what the reason is for my great popularity.

Ship of Dreams. A Legend. A Mystery.

Bah...

I hope that today's ships will be more lucky than me.

The End.

Stories