It was a very ordinary day for Port Jefferson, a busy little town located on the North Shore of Long Island, New York. There was a slight chill in the air, as winter was still trying to linger as spring desperately tried to poke her shy nose into the world. Winter was, however, winning the battle by keeping the sun locked behind a cage of clouds, causing a typical cloudy, windy day for the area. Those who lived there took no notice, however, for this was completely normal for this time of year, and continued with their daily activities without so much as passing a second glance at the dismal sky overhead. This included a young woman in her early twenties, who was busily washing dishes and the like in the ruddy tin sink of her small house, located not far from where the ferries came and went day after day.
"Ouch! Damnit!" she exclaimed, for she had accidentally sliced her middle finger across the blade of a knife while hastily scrubbing away at a greasy dish. She knew she shouldn’t have let the dishes go this long in the sink, because it would only create more work for her to do later on top of everything else she had to do, and this was apparently the consequence of her actions. She flipped on the warm water and held her entire left hand underneath the flow, discovering quickly that there was no chance of her getting any thing close to warm water this time of year. So, she held her stinging finger underneath the cool river of water, watching the liquid make a transition from clear to red as soon as it dripped away from her hand. She looked out the small paned window over the sink and gazed into the sky in a bored fashion. Couldn’t nature give her a break, just for once? She needed the sun to warm not only her skin, but her thoughts and heart as well, for neither seemed to be in very good shape lately. It was around that time of year, the time that she allowed herself to isolate herself from the rest of the world for a few days and cry. Cry enough that she would have no more tears until the next year, in which the ritual would continue. It was 1915. She had let this go on for three years now.
Has it already been three years? she thought idly to herself. Three years, such a long, yet short time. Let’s see. Three hundred sixty-five days times three. One thousand ninety-five days? That definitely makes it seem longer.
The young woman looked into the reflection of the dusty window in front of her, and wasn’t exactly pleased by what she saw. One thousand ninety-five days had definitely made her older, wiser, and more mature, but apparently the same events had taken a toll on her appearance, too.
This young woman’s name was Rose. Rose Dawson. She was born into and brought up in a wealthy family living in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Though she later found that this wasn’t the lifestyle she wanted for herself, it definitely had its advantages. Her hair was always clean, neat, and beautifully styled. Her skin was always porcelain and blemish free, even through the troublesome years of her teens. Not to mention, her closet was always well-stocked with the latest and most elegant in the world of fashion. Though in her later years as an emerging woman of society she discovered she had no particular need for these luxuries, every now and again she would admit that she wouldn’t mind having a decent hairdo, well-applied makeup, and a dress that no one else had worn before she slipped into it.
Now, looking into this dirty mirror, she discovered how much she truly missed these things. Her once beautifully maintained long curls were chopped to the shoulder, previously to the chin thanks to something close to a break down after trying to keep her hair knot free, though it fell to the middle of her back. An unfortunate encounter with a rusty pair of kitchen scissors was to blame for that, she supposed. Now, her once perfect ringlets had lost their bounce, falling instead into uneven curls and waves, alternating in length all over her head. They had basically straightened out completely in the back, she noticed as she ran her free hand along the back of her head. God, when was the last time I looked in a sufficient mirror?
It turned out that her complexion was actually quite ruddy without proper bathing with fancy, scented soaps and a little aid from makeup, of course. This she didn’t mind so much. It gave her natural coloring in her cheeks, and prevented her from having to pinch them roughly every time she wanted to look a little bit more lively. Although she could do without the occasional blemishes that appeared along her jaw line and under her chin as a result of her monthly cycle, but alas, this must be a natural part of womanhood. She did indeed miss her makeup, though, for though she had naturally long and thick eyelashes, they couldn’t make up for the dark circles that had formed under her eyes and seemed to be permanently fixed there, no matter how much sleep she had gotten. What’s this? She noticed that she had freckles forming on the apples of her cheeks and along her temples, probably from working as a waitress at an outdoor café for several months. Her thoughts suddenly stalled as she felt an odd sensation occur in her now scalding hot hand.
"Ugh! Damned faucets!" Her hot water had finally come.
Damn. One thousand ninety-five days, and I look like a common kitchen wench, she said to herself. Even though that’s what I guess I truly am, she added solemnly.
Rose turned off the tap and continued to stare out her kitchen windows, letting her eyes graze along the dirt road that lay unevenly in front of her weed-infested lawn , and look at the house across the street, of an equally small size but differing in color.
I never did go over to meet them when I moved in.
I never met the ones next door, either.
Then again, I was the one who moved in, around one thousand ninety-five days ago. Shouldn’t they be coming to my door with pudding or cakes to come and meet me?
Rose wasn’t sure if this really was what people did in the real world, though she had read about it in some of the books she purchased from the throng of shops that made up Port Jefferson.
Nevertheless, it would have been nice to have someone to talk to close by.
Rose returned her thoughts to the various shops that stood only about a couple hundred feet or so from her house on the next block over. There was a beautiful and quite fancy dress shop that she had to pass every day on her way to work at her current job as a clerk in a small grocery store.
Whatever happened to that beautiful coat I saw a few weeks ago? It really was beautiful. I think my mouth actually watered at the sight of it. Ah…yes. It was a black cotton and velvet walking suit with a tassel-like rope for a sash. The bodice had a classic rope frog closure and a nice-shaped collar made out of silk. The sleeves were long and ornamented with several velvet buttons. The hemline had a fancy looking ruffle about it, which only added to the amazing class of the coat. That was the first time in a long time that Rose wanted something that she couldn’t have. And why was that? It was too expensive.
Everything’s too expensive these days for me, anyway, she thought solemnly to herself.
But it would have looked so beautiful over one of my white cotton dresses.
And it would have been perfect for these chilly April days.
As Rose let her thoughts wander down a depressing road, she absentmindedly prepared herself a cup of tea, for it truly was shaping out to be quite a chilly day.
After her preparations were finished, and the kettle impatiently whistled that it was done so loudly that the whole unknown neighborhood probably could have heard it, Rose poured herself a large amount into a chipped coffee cup left behind by the previous owners and settled into a stiff, tattered armchair located in the sitting room right outside of her kitchen.
Looking over at her calendar, she realized that it was in fact April fifteenth. This was not surprising to her, however, for the haunting events were etched into her very soul so deeply that she could have been living in a cave somewhere and still would have known, for she would feel a hollow start to carve its way out through her chest, a hollow that she tried to fill year after year by keeping herself busy and trying to keep her promise to the one man that she loved, and the one man that she lost.
She didn’t want to think about it, but of course she knew once she said his name in her head that memories would break free of her mind, and her eyes as well. It’s the anniversary, anyway, she thought bitterly. Finally, I’m allowed to mourn.
Let’s see.
It’s been one thousand ninety-five days since I looked into those beautiful, crystal-clear blue eyes that seemed to bore holes right into my soul.
It’s been one thousand ninety-five days since his rough, hard-working hands held my delicate ones so perfectly it felt as though they were made to be intertwined.
It’s been one thousand ninety-five days since my heart skipped a beat every time I heard his voice, his velvety smooth voice that seemed to croon to me, and only me.
It’s been one thousand ninety-five days since I saw his dirty-blond hair fall over his tanned skin and into those beautiful eyes of his, every time he lowered his head.
It’s been one thousand ninety-five days since I felt his tanned skin against my own, and the amazing sensation that came along with it.
It’s been one thousand ninety-five days since I’ve made love. That’s not too much of a downer, though. That was the one and only time I’d done it, anyway.
It was still pretty nice, though.
Oh, who am I kidding? It was the best, and worst, night of my life.
It’s been one thousand ninety-five days since I’ve felt his lips against mine.
It’s been one thousand ninety-five days since I’ve said his name.
"Jack," she said aloud, loving the way it sounded, though hating that she was talking to no one at the same time.
It’s been one thousand ninety-five days since my heart was broken in two and thrown to the bottom of the ocean.
This was the moment when she relaxed the muscles in her eyes and let the tears fall gracefully along her cheeks. And at the exact same time, it had started to rain outside.
She raised her hand to wipe away the steadily falling tears when she realized that her finger was still bleeding. Rising suddenly from the uncomfortable chair, she rushed into the bathroom to try to find a bandage, or at least some cloth to keep blood from getting everywhere.
I must have seriously done a number with that knife. My mind is in the clouds these days.
After a hasty, unsuccessful search in the bathroom, Rose arose flushed and aggravated.
I swear to God, if I bleed to death from a tiny cut in my finger, then surviving that whole damned shipwreck totally just lost its worth.
Not that it had much worth in the first place.
Rose could feel herself slipping away in the unhappy direction it usually went this time of year, and stopped it in its tracks after coming up with an idea.
"One of my prissy old handkerchiefs! I’ve still got to have one of those around!" she exclaimed out of nowhere, listening silently as her excited voice echoed within her small, empty home. "I’ve got to get a phonograph or something. This house is too quiet."
Rose rushed into her tiny bedroom and started wildly opening dresser drawers and flinging anything out that didn’t resemble a square white handkerchief with her initials embroidered into it in scarlet and lace around the edges. After searching through three drawers, she came upon a tiny, neatly folded white square and picked it up so quickly that something folded within it fell to the cold wooden floor with a clunk.
"My God!"
It was none other than the engagement ring that her ex-fiancé had given her before they set off on that trip to Europe, and before they had nearly gotten themselves killed in the biggest marine disaster in history.
But Jesus Christ, the thing was huge. There was no denying that. The diamond, as big as a dime, at least, glittered even though it was surrounded in gray light. Rose’s mind suddenly took on a slightly happier tone.
"It’s been one thousand ninety-five days since I’ve had to put up with all your shit," she said, as if she were talking to the ring itself and not the person who bought it. She didn’t dare try to put it on her ring finger, for she suddenly was disgusted with the sight of it.
Damn you. Damn you. Damn you.
She heard the rain stop outside and the distant horn of the incoming ferry when another thought leapt to her mind. She rushed out of the room, threw on an old coat, and stepped out of her house into the chill of April.
Ring still in hand, she started walking down the street before breaking into an all out-run for the shops, and beyond that, the dock where the ferry was coming in.
It’s been one thousand ninety-five days since I’ve had to run like that, too.
After ten minutes of running up and down blocks like a chicken with her head cut off, Rose finally met her destination. After hearing the thud of her feet change pitch on switching from dirt to wood, Rose slowed and took her time walking down the long dock. The ferry was apparently leaving when it blew its horn, not coming in, which gave Rose the much needed privacy she had now. Coming to the end of the dock, Rose let herself catch her breath before pulling the diamond ring out of her coat pocket to examine it one last time.
It was quite beautiful, she had to admit, but she could never keep it. It symbolized the one thing in this world that would have made her more miserable than anything else, except for losing her one true love, of course. A sensible thing to do would be to sell it. That would surely cover the rent for months and months to come. Hell, she could probably even buy herself a whole new house with the money she’d make off that thing, not to mention countless dresses and coats. But she wouldn’t, for two reasons. One, she couldn’t run the risk of Cal somehow hearing about a large diamond engagement ring being sold. Though this seemed near impossible, Cal had many, many connections when it came to money and making a profit. When push came to shove, he would hear about it one way or another and probably end up coming to look for her, if he didn’t already believe she was dead, that was. And two, she didn’t want any connection at all with him anymore. She had already gotten rid of that coat of his that he so stupidly left the Heart of the Ocean in. In fact, though it was just as cold outside one thousand ninety-five days ago as it was now, she left the soggy thing on the top of a dumpster somewhere in NYC after getting off the Carpathia, figuring some hobo could use it.
It was now late afternoon, and though the sun was still concealed in a veil of clouds, Rose could see it was making its way to the horizon. Time to say good-bye.
"It’s been one thousand ninety-five glorious days since I’ve had to just look at you, you evil son of a bitch. And though they haven’t been the happiest days of my life, they were sure as hell better than the time I’ve spent with you."
And with that, Rose stretched her arm back as far as she could and threw the ring farther into the awaiting waves than she’d ever thrown anything before.
There was no huge difference in her mood, but she could feel her heart getting a little bit warmer by the second. Not only her heart, but her whole body as well. The sun had finally broken free of the clouds, and was shining as if to say good job! as it slowly fell deeper into the sky.
She closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face as she murmured to someone different this time.
"It’s been one thousand ninety-five days, but I still love you, and I always will."
A warm breeze caressed her cheek, and she felt her eyes water again as she said, "And I will never, ever let go."
The End.