HEARTS CAN BREAK
Chapter Twenty-Three

"And we will forever remember what they did here...Nothing can ever be more consecrated than that."

Rose did not cry as she stared ahead like stone during the memorial service for those who had had the breath ripped from their lungs on Titanic. Their blaspheming savior, Captain Rostron, stood in front of the mass of weeping and mourning people, his square shoulders trembling beneath their heavy adornments of medals that he had earned. His navy officer’s uniform was crisp and not a wrinkle was to be seen, and that made Rose furious. She was standing in the very back of the dining saloon, her shoulders pressed against the peeling wall, her hair sticking to her face. Still she shivered with cold that had everything to do with the spirit and little to do with the water.

How many brave stories of heroism would never be told because their witnesses were never to be found? How many widows would never know the true fate of their husband? And how many Roses must die inside to try to fill the void that Jack had been? More than a void. He had been her whole heart. He was her whole heart.

Before the sailing of the Titan of the Deep, Rose had never really believed that a person truly had a soul and heart and spirit inside of them. She thought the blood, bones, and tissue method worked best. But now she knew that a soul, heart, and spirit were all people really owned!

She closed her eyes against a flood of tears, locking them in her body.

"No one will ever forget the blessing and curse of surviving..." Captain Rostron went on, elaborately trying to wipe away the grief of the orphans and lone spouses and childless parents that was drowning his ship. But the cold eyes of those who had escaped bored into him in a way that said they would never allow the anguish in them to be taken away. It was all they had now. The room was heavy with the smell of blood of those whose bodies had been sacrificed.

"And now we honor those whose destinies were fulfilled in one terrible night with a moment of silence."

One terrible night. Was that all he could say? There were no words in any language that was spoken or ever had been spoken on the face of the Earth to express the horror of a Time that no one who had seen it would ever leave.

This was the part Rose had been dreading, the moment of silence. There was too much to think about in silence. It overwhelmed her, left her to the suicidal rage that built in every crevice of her body.

When her eyes had first seen Jack Dawson, she had been intrigued by his gaze, could see his icy blue eyes from where she stood on the deck above him. But not once, not even in the bottom of her heart, had she considered loving him, or ever seeing him again. They were separated by the strongest boundary of all, a boundary not invisible and not unnoticeable. Class was a wall between them, a steep wall that she had neither the strength nor courage to climb. She never even thought about trying to climb it. She just took it for granted that no one would ever be able to help her.

But there had been something different about him, something that could only be found in someone like him. She had felt a curious and strong feeling radiating from his vision into her heart, like he was reading the pages of a book, the book of her life stained with tears. Something heavy had been lifted from her shoulders just for a moment, but had been placed on again.

She couldn’t even think about going back to that burden now. Too much had changed. She was a completely different person, with different values and priorities and looks on life. She didn’t even recognize the girl she had been. In her mind she had gone through three different identities, the Rose before Jack, the Rose with Jack, and now...the Rose after Jack. She knew the second one was what she was supposed to be. But she couldn’t find the bravery to be Rose with Jack when Jack was no more.

That one statement made the battle in another world explode and all hell break loose in her body. The Captain ceremoniously dropped a wreath of roses into the blue sea, and she envisioned herself tied in with them, going home. Tears rained.

*****

Jack’s body was entirely drained of any energy within him. He was past fighting as a petite nurse with long blonde hair messy from hours of work spooned soup into his mouth and warmed his body with blankets. His mind was out of himself, still in the sea, still screaming...

The nurse asked something tentatively, but he wasn’t listening. His sharp gaze shifted from nothing to her, pools of blue focusing on her frame with almost painful realization that it was not the woman he had expected.

"...What’s your name?" she repeated softly, as if afraid of him. Remembering his display he knew she had a right to be. He detected an English accent somewhere that was covered by an American upbringing.

Who was he? He didn’t even know. Everything was lost, but he didn’t even attempt to find it. There was nothing to find. Tragedy was now his. That was who he was.

But somewhere deep in a memory, a voice that he almost recognized as his own whispered, "I’m Jack Dawson."

And then, his heart stopping, he heard her voice replying, mixed in with her chorus of hurt and terror and relief. "Rose DeWitt Bukater."

I know who I am, he thought. If just for Rose, I know who I am.

"Jack..." he trailed off, not able to force out his own last name. Because he had thought another would share it, and he would never come to terms with the cold, hard fact that she could not. A life he had been mentally planning for the past three days was just a heap of broken dreams.

This nurse didn’t ask for a second name. She was looking at him as though he never had one. "I’m Charlotte," she returned, as though he had asked. He didn’t hear. Didn’t want to hear. The last girl’s name he had heard had been so beautiful and terribly lost that he could not bear anything else coming from anyone else’s lips.

What-might-have-been haunted him like restless ghosts, a sea away, and yet they sounded like demons lying right in this bed beside him, whispering curses in his ear and reminding him of all he had failed.

His true self was still within him, he knew that, but he didn’t know how. Maybe Rose had not let him escape his own body, or maybe he had not, but whatever the reason he could not find that self in the layers of torturing anguish he was feeling now. It seemed like centuries since the pain had started and briefly he wondered if he would ever be free of it.

He closed his eyes and could see images evolving into his brain, timeless images that showed just how much more suffering he would make himself endure. If he imagined hard enough, she was here, in his arms, her head on his chest, hair tickling his neck, body shaking with fear against his own. But eventually he would stop imagining and reality would soak into him like vinegar, making him scream out loud from the stinging agony.

This girl, Charlotte, mopped his face with a damp rag, and he shoved her hand away. Did she think that he needed to cool down? How dare she, knowing how cold he had been...

She sighed with frustration and the corners of her white, petite lips fell. He remembered another pair of lips, luscious and full and red as a rose...lost in sweet memories, he did not notice the nurse arranging his bed sheets and looking at him curiously. Suddenly, he realized he needed to know something.

"How many?" he asked, his voice escaping his throat in a husky, raspy groan.

She stared at him, not comprehending his question, and his heart pounded so hard with disgust at her stupidity that he nearly fell back and ignored her. But he wanted to know, he needed to know–there were so, so many things he needed to know. So, getting choked up because the horror was still too fresh to discuss, he clarified, "How...many of my...fellow passengers...won’t be coming home?"

He couldn’t make himself say, "How many died?" It was too impersonal. Even though he hadn’t known even a hundredth of the Titanic’s people, they were all laced together with the unmistakable thread of destruction.

She bit her lip and shook her head, and his stomach thrashed within him. He knew the numbers would be high. He had lived, prayed, and died next to these people. Trembling, he spoke again, strength gathering in his utmost hate at what had caused this disaster. He didn’t know what it was, but he felt such a need to vent absolute abhorrence that he made it up in his mind, and went on, "I need to know. You don’t understand...I was...there..."

Pity clouded in her eyes like smoke and savagely he fell back on his pillows, fury erupting in him at his situation. "Just tell me!" he bellowed, the burning in his throat subsiding.

Charlotte gazed at him, as if judging his character, and sorrow and regret dripped as visibly as tears down her cheeks. She sat in a chair next to him and he knew it would be bad.

"About fifteen hundred," she murmured.

At first he didn’t connect. The number was too high. And then it hit. Grief spilled and he wept.

One thousand five hundred members of humanity had been silenced for crimes they had not committed in the Abyss of a place they did not belong. His entire self shook with horror as he thought of the hundreds of bodies in the sea, of terrified children and screaming parents, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters...

The loss was too big to take in. He wasn’t ready. He just couldn’t.

"Rose..." he moaned, reaching. Because of all of the people that had been murdered, in his mind only one thing was clear. He had helped the ocean in its crime.

Somewhere deep in his brain the shriek was returned. "Jack!"

Never again.

*****

Inside, Rose was walking through black rain and could see nothing out of the mist, because in her mind nothing was there. All day she sat huddled on cold, damp deck, tears falling or eyes staring as blank as her soul. Memories were almost gone, she felt as though she were in another universe and time. But the few she had left were precious to her and she had relieved them again and again, touching things she hadn’t felt before and catching the scent of a man that had changed her life for an eternity and then vanished before she could even understand what he had done.

The stale slice of bread in her lap was not at all tempting. She forgot it was there. Leaning against the mast, Rose wrapped herself more firmly in the thin flannel blanket and closed her heavy eyes. She had slept continuously for days, because it was her only true escape. As long as she dreamt, he was there, kissing away her stinging tears, bringing her with him to the Atlantic, back to Titanic, to his arms, to his heart. That was where she belonged.

With a wash of new tears, Rose was again stumbling over things that she had never known about her love. She had never figured out Jack’s birthday, or his favorite color. She hadn’t asked why he was so into art or what he had wanted to do with his life. And worst of all, she had never asked if he loved her.

He had never said those three words, "I love you." Sometimes Rose convinced herself that he hadn’t, because it took the sharp edge off of her pain. But then a pang in her heart would begin that was a thousand times worse since she knew he had and did. Love was the only thing that she had or would ever have. She thought of his soft smile and his bold blue eyes that looked at her as if she were the only woman in the universe that had ever been or ever would be. And no one had ever made her feel like that before.

Her father, still imprinted in her mind even through her mixed feelings about him, had not been able to lift her so high that she was clearing the clouds to touch each glimmering star, watching down on Earth from their eternal place in the heavens. But Jack had more than lifted her, he had let her fly alone and yet with him, holding hands and guiding her but letting her be herself.

And her mother...

Rose had not seen Ruth DeWitt Bukater since that fateful moment in the icy, silvery air that had cloaked the deck of Titanic and shrouded the lifeboat that Rose had been nearly forced to step in to. But in that moment, it had not been a lifeboat, it had been a death boat, a boat making her leave the only true shred of life she had, a boat taking her away from every hope she had ever dreamed of. So, of course, she had left her mother without a second thought for her. Ruth had made Rose’s first seventeen years as cold and hard as the marble they walked on. Somehow she reminded Rose of a stone column–noble and dignified but, the closer one got, they saw that she was just barely holding the roof up and had nothing left but cool, rigid, inflexible emotions that weren’t even classified as feelings at all.

Caledon Hockley had been surely different. Meaning harm or not meaning harm didn’t really matter; he had inflicted scars upon her soul that would never be healed and cuts that would never mend. Because she had learned that trust could be taken advantage of and beauty could be raped. She had almost had her innocence taken from her, violently, more than once, and saving that once-in-a-lifetime gift of her virginity for Jack Dawson had been the best decision she had ever made in her life.

Rose did not intend to ever find Cal or her mother or ever establish contact with them. They were a part of a life she was determined to never set foot in again. Now that she had felt the water she could never go back to the desert. When she closed her eyes she could see herself, her pain hidden behind gowns and splendor that her family could not afford, a diamond on her finger that didn’t belong there. For once she had realized that she did belong somewhere, in one man’s arms, her head pressed against his chest to hear that one man’s heart beating as quickly and mercilessly as her own, flying over any boundaries that had ever existed between them, soaring over walls.

A young woman, maybe a year or so older than Rose herself, was watching her with a worried expression from under the promenade near the hospital wing. She must have worked for the infirmary.

She licked her top lip, as if trying to decide something, and Rose fervently and desperately prayed to be left alone. She couldn’t stand being around other people because they were nothing compared to her Person.

To Rose’s dreading horror, the girl sauntered over to her, her eyes raking Rose’s tangled mess of blood-red curls, her haunted blue-green eyes, and her clammy alabaster skin–magnificence that had faded with everything else.

"Miss," she murmured, knowing that a loud voice would not help her if Rose did not want to hear, "Miss, we’re here. It’s Thursday. We’re docking in New York."

Rose had not noticed the steady increase in size of buildings as they drew closer and closer to the foggy gray coast. Her entire body clenched like steel when she heard. New York. The land she had left as a girl and was finally come home to, the land of a new day and new opportunities.

She bolted to her feet, her fatigue almost gone and her muscles soft but workable. If there was one thing she ever wanted to see again, it was the Statue of Liberty. Something about it symbolized something she had lost, something so utterly beautiful and awesome that even the symbol couldn’t even be true to the real thing.

She walked without trouble to the edge of the Carpathia, hands gripping the fading metal rail so hard her knuckles turned white. She bit her lip and let her eyes soar upwards along that glorious, gigantic sculpture, amazement overtaking all of her emotions for one dreadful moment.

The robe of the Lady was swept gracefully up her arm, folding over and falling down to her knee. In the crook of that elbow she held a book, on which Rose could make out the inscription–JULY 4, 1774. That date was, to America, life and death, the alpha and omega, where everything started and ended. Then in the figure’s right hand, lifted in utmost triumph of conquering the rest of the world, was the torch that glinted like gold on fire.

But something that Rose had not noticed before brought tears to her eyes. Around the statue’s feet was a chain emblematically broken, lying in two sections on the ground, telling a story of freedom.

Her mind raced as she remembered. A crash in her head cleared her thoughts. Because to her freedom was not a thing, it was a being–it was Jack. He had rescued her from drowning and suffocating from the world she had thought was all there was to life. And as she stared at Lady Liberty, hands shoved deep in her pockets, it felt like, for just a moment, she could see him in something more than her dreams.

It was such a relief to be in the rain, to be in cold water again, to feel it wash like ice across her skin and strip her body of any heat it had gained in the past few days. In this freezing stream that had come from the very sea itself, she was back in the place of death that she had never really left. She came to realize that she would always be in the Atlantic, on a board, screaming and weeping, because she had left her heart there and would never really get it back.

She lifted her face to the frosty drizzle, letting each drop fall on her cheeks and eyelids and roll down her neck. Each was like a tear from Jack, and she felt connected to him for the first time in a long, long time.

And through it all, the Statue of Liberty, the free Goddess of America, watched.

"Can I take your name please, love?"

She heard the voice softly intrude on her moment of sacred silence and, stunned, she looked down. The officer with an umbrella was speaking gently, as terrified to frighten her. And as she looked at his clipboard, she knew what was on it.

The survivors' list.

The list of the chosen few to suffer on through life because their time was not yet done. The list of empty bodies absent of spirit. The list of those who had lived through the wrath of a sea and the dying groan of a Titan.

She stared dumbly at him for a moment, because she didn’t believe she was really alive. Like a ghost she floated in and out of herself, not really supervising her functioning.

Her tongue automatically curled into DeWitt Bukater, because that was all she had known her entire seventeen years. But, looking beyond the officer and into the sea, gray with a lover’s blood, seeing the sky gray with a lover’s weeping, and looking at her destination that destiny had taken her to, she could not force it out of her lips. Instead, the name of another was there, a name so unbelievably revered in her mind that she had to relish in it for a moment.

She felt as though she were Jack’s wife in a way that vows could not do, in a way that had to do with two creatures of God being tied together between two Times and two Places with a strand of love so pure that it could never be broken. So she looked beyond the man beside her, trying to find another, trying to feel another, be another. And she strengthened the string between them with iron, binding them in one forever.

"Dawson," she breathed, and feeling a bit of warmth spread through her, knew she had made the right choice. The officer took his pencil and wrote it, concentrating just on the letters and refusing to concentrate on Rose’s emotions. She didn’t notice but was trying to get out the whole name she had made for herself from him. She trembled because she had heard it only in her wildest, most beautiful dreams. "Rose Dawson," she confirmed. And she knew, beyond doubt, that yes, she had been loved.

The man nodded softly, as if still terrified to startle her, and whispered, "Thank you." He moved on to the next torn life, the next absent mind, the next tortured fragment of a person.

She put her hands deeper into her pocket and looked back at the Statue of Liberty, truly in her mind saving this moment for all moments to come. She was here, but here wasn’t what she had wanted. She had freedom, but it didn’t feel like it was supposed to. She was definitely a new person; she knew that, felt it deep inside her very being. But she didn’t have the joy that a free woman had; because she was chained to her past by ropes weaved of blood.

Her knuckles scraped against something heavy in her left pocket. She didn’t remember putting anything in it, but, she’d be damned, her fingers wrapped around a thick yet delicate feeling rope of metal. Confused, she pulled it out, watching the object emerge from the folds of the black coat.

For a second, she simply gazed at it, not understanding the heavy jewel in her palm. A blue that shone more than the sky ablaze at dawn looked right back at her.

"And they call it Le Coeur de la Mer, or–"

"The Heart of the Ocean."

Something molded differently into the diamond and she could see a story in the reflection on it, a story that was shiny with her tears and a story that could never have a happy ending. A story that said, I was there, I am there, I have always been there, in the moment, in the screams and the pain and the ice and the sweat and the love.

She had been lost in blue like this before, the blue of someone’s eyes, transfiguring into lenses peering into her soul, cutting away layers of falseness like a knife cutting back fabric.

And as she closed her eyelids she could see it just like it had happened seconds ago–a soft orange glow hanging in the room like perfume, as heavy as tension the two people in love created. The scratches of a charcoal stub drawing more than her form, drawing her life. Her heart banging against her chest to pick up speed and race with his.

But when she opened her eyes there was nothing but a gray Thursday evening growing blacker by the minute, turning into deep night. Her head fell to her chest as she clutched the necklace to her, stroking her fingers over the very same edges that her Artiste had felt.

Because it was a link to Titanic and to her Jack, a link to her heart she had left in the ocean.

*****

Jack’s body had healed. He shivered still, but nothing more. Hypothermia symptoms were gone. His color was coming back.

But his soul was another story. He could not, would not, fix the horrible hole that lay within him for fear that he would also lose the grieving that he now relied on more than the air he breathed.

He could walk fine, but he had lost the swagger that used to accompany his steps, because that was gone with his pride and dignity and heart. He was empty inside, and it ached so bad that again and again he had abrupt fantasies of suicide, but he knew he would never kill himself. He promised his Rose that he would never kill himself.

Whenever he thought of that word, promise, he couldn’t quite understand its meaning. He tried to put the demons in his mind at rest but he could not. He knew Rose had not lied to him, not intentionally, and that she had tried so hard...which in turn left him with the fact that it was his fault. All his fault. And he hated himself for it.

Like Time turns green leaves to red and brown, he could feel his pain becoming darker and darker, more secretive, gorging at the little strength he had left. Just for his love, he knew he had to get through each day, but it was impossible to want to.

On a gray and rainy Thursday, he sat on the edge of his bed, his clothes completely dried out but stiff, and he did not notice. Faces and voices were swirling through his head like the sea that had claimed a royal Goddess.

"I can see the Statue of Liberty already–very small, of course!"

With a cry that came out as a groan he buried his head in his hands, trying to beat that memory out of him. He wasn’t stupid. He had checked the survivor list. Neither Fabri nor Tommy had made it.

It was something that he was sure would haunt him past his death, the falls of his friends.

Fabrizio had so deserved to get to America–his sweat had gone into every penny he could bet for that ticket. To him it had been like a Savior, allowing him to leave his life behind and start anew in the Land of Dreams. But for Jack it had been a place of terrible recollections, of a boy being forced to turn into a man before he even understood why.

He could not make himself say, "Fabrizio di Rossi is dead." It simply would not come out of his lips. But he knew. Even in such deep denial such as this, he knew.

He stood up from the wrinkled infirmary sheets and strode over to the window, head down, eyes not seeing exactly where he was going. He pressed his forehead against the panes of glass made foggy by the evening mist. Through the damp, cold air he could see shapes of buildings, towering buildings he had not seen in years. He had caught the ship to France in this very pier, but that didn’t really make an impression on him.

Charlotte walked in and shut the door to close the stream of coolness, gray circles around her eyes from lack of sleep. She had been up almost since the Titanic lifeboats had reached the Carpathia, attempting to care for all the sick and wounded and frozen. But it was a tremendous job, and Jack saw she couldn’t do it.

"You’re steerage, right?" she asked, exhausted written in every letter that escaped her mouth.

He turned away from her and stared at something only he could see now, two giggling lovers spinning round and round in bitterly icy air, but their cheeks so pink with passion that the thought they could ever not be warm was unthinkable. And then a finger so soft and probing was pressed against his kiss bruised lips and she murmured, "When the ship docks, I’m getting off with you."

Classes raced through his head and all he could see for a moment was how beautiful she was, how proper and dignified, definitely first class material. "This is crazy," he returned, grinning, knowing just how insane it all was.

"I know," she laughed gloriously, like a golden ribbon unwinding, "It doesn’t make any sense!" Seriously, she added, "That’s why I trust it." He could feel her fingers weaving in and out of his tousled hair and he looked deep into her eyes, seeing nothing but honesty and desire for him, pure, unadulterated love. His mouth softly met hers and the kiss intensified, their ardor roaring as loudly as the sea crashing on the hull.

But then the memory was gone, and he remembered that she was too, and somehow he had been chosen to carry on the burden of living in yesterdays.

Still not meeting Charlotte’s gaze, he nodded, giving an almost inaudible, "Yeah."

He felt the nurse’s presence as she moved closer to him, and he realized that maybe she wanted to take away his hurt. She was standing right next to him when she murmured, "You can talk about it, you know."

But he didn’t want to talk about it. It was all too horrific to ever share.

Yet something inside of him made him say, "I loved her. Dammit, I still love her. I guess I’ll always love her." He tried to stop the rush of tears, but in vain. Helplessly, he felt them fall down his cheeks and he knew that he had to keep going. "It was all my fault that I couldn’t save her. She trusted me, and she trusted me more than I had ever been trusted in my life." In a voice husky with pain he finished, "And I can’t live without her."

That was it. He wouldn’t go on. It was impossible. In his mind’s eye she was still there, dancing, her feet off the ground, her red curls bouncing against her neckline, her body pressed against his and Irish music tearing reckless abandon through them, lacing them together.

Of course, there was no more music, no more song. Just deathly silence.

Charlotte looked at him in a way that let him know she had in no way expected him to have lost someone. She didn’t know how to deal with sorrow as deep as his, so she turned to attend to other patients, because for once in her life she realized medicine couldn’t help him at all.

After awhile, as he thought about loss and suffering, she finally muttered, "Third class gets off last. Since you’re recovering from an illness I think you should wait and get off after them."

He didn’t say anything, didn’t object or approve.

"Are you sure you don’t need to be hospitalized?"

He whirled around to face her, his blue eyes aflame with icy anger. "You don’t get it!" he yelled, knowing he was disturbing everyone and hoping to God they heard. "You don’t understand, do you? Nothing can help me! I can’t move on and I can’t get better! She’s keeping everything that matters about me with her, in the Atlantic, and I can’t get it back! Hell, I don’t want it back, I want her, and nothing, nothing, can ever take the sharpness of that terrible desire out of me!"

She was shocked at his outburst and she shrunk away from him into the deck, not speaking a word.

An elderly woman in the cot next to his rasped, "We’re all just this mass of hopeless, dazed humanity that will never heal, aren’t we?"

He bit his lip and nodded, tears dripping to the floor.

*****

In the last herd of steerage passengers to leave the Carpathia, Rose walked down the gangway, deeper into the chilling rain. The crowd of reporters had died down but some remained still, cameras flashing and mouths questioning. Hateful daggers of emotion were thrown from Rose’s blue and green eyes, hating them for wanting to know the anguish she was in, hating them for wanting the suspense of the disaster, hating them for taking the story even though they could never understand it. She kept her own tale locked inside of her, too selfish and to abhorring to ever let it out.

When her feet first touched the hard wood of the dock, she didn’t feel a thing. It was not, as she had hoped, a balm to her torture. But ebbing tides climbed back, and she realized that it was not supposed to be this way. Jack was supposed to be right here, clutching her hand, his fingers exploring her hair, his smile reassuring her when nothing else would. But he was not here.

A man in a thick black coat, carrying a pad of paper and a pencil, saw the confusion and ache in her face and leaped next to her, eagerness flashing on his features, when he almost giddily asked, "Were you on Titanic?"

She wanted to shake her head, because it would be easier that way, but denying everything that had happened to her was like betraying the one her life was now. So she nodded, her gaze on the ground, tears of ice forming in her eyes.

The reporter seemed to think he reached a gold mine. "What was it like? Were all the men cowardly or just a few? Did they all run? Why did it sink?"

Suddenly her face flew up and, even though she was shorter than her questioner, she felt towering. How dare he even suggest that the souls lost on Titanic were cowards? Such bravery and courage had no word in the English language that would sufficiently honor their deeds. She felt as though he had stabbed the ghosts of her past and future.

"You can go to hell," she breathed venomously, wanting to add on but her fury so deep she could not. He was not worthy enough to even ask about the catastrophe and failure that had forever changed her life.

Without waiting for his reaction, she whipped around and stormed off, her immeasurable rage making her see red and not pay attention to where she walked. Not that it mattered.

"Jack," she moaned, almost silently, wanting him more than she felt she ever had. However, nothing had changed and she was alone again. No one answered except the part of her soul that was haunting her, that had taken her love and transfigured him into a horrible monster that made it impossible for her to ever live again.

When she was thinking, she realized that she was so cold, so wet, and so helpless that she might very well die. She had not kept her promise to Jack and survived the wrath of the Atlantic Ocean to die from rain.

There was a deserted bench in sight. She groped for it, stiff fingers curling around the peeling paint on the metal. Somehow she managed to sit down and finally stretch out. Her eyelids were heavy and she knew that sleep was her only way to get out of her nightmare that breathed life. When, if, morning ever came, she would have to figure out a way to survive.

Of course, as she huddled to try to keep out the cold she knew was plaguing her for life, she never expected the sun to rise again.

*****

A clock chimed midnight somewhere in the twisting corridors that lay beyond the infirmary. The hospital ward had been emptied out, with most of its occupants leaving on stretchers bound for the nearest medical building.

Jack was the only one left as sheets were torn from mattresses and thrown in piles to be washed. Charlotte had still not approached him since he had yelled at her, and he didn’t really care.

He knew it was time to leave this wretched place, the sea, but hardly felt himself open the thin wooden door on walk out on deck. The rain sprinkled on his skin and he was reminded of a verse his mother had often hummed about her own parents.

There’s holes in the floor of heaven,
And her tears are pouring down
That’s how we know she’s watching
Wishing she could be here now.

He lifted his face to the sky, washing his entire body in Rose’s tears, letting them envelop him like a blanket. The city was not dark because of numerous lamps, but to him he was in black night, stars strewn across a black sky, bodies strewn across a black sea, loneliness strewn across a black soul that was finally, finally finding white again.

His heavy, ragged boots thudded on the otherwise empty deck as he made his way to the deserted gangway. He hadn’t the slightest idea where he was going, but he knew he was going somewhere.

As he disembarked the ship, he gathered all his pain and love to take with him, so he would never, ever forget the miracles and tragedies that had happened on this blessed and cursed ocean.

A few poor spirits slept in the doorways of crumbling houses that were standing only on skeletons and would fall within the year. Others joined prostitutes in the streets, and still others sat next to their collection of goods to sell for food.

He had met their kind before, countless numbers of others whom life had not seen fit to consecrate. But he was amazed each time he saw another human that had not undergone the anguish he was facing now.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and walked on, not realizing that he was in America again, in his homeland, because it didn’t matter anymore.

Eventually he reached a bench and he knew he needed to rest, but another person had taken it for their own comfort. He saw the petite frame sleeping, fitfully turning and tossing, and something inside of him sparked, but he ignored it. Pity and sympathy was a thing of the past.

Not having the energy to press on anymore, he moved a few paces away and sank against the wall of a building, allowing his eyes to close and face the horrors that lurked beyond their shut lids.

*****

A muffled cry jerked Jack out of a pathetic sleep that hadn’t been working for him anyway. He highly doubted that he’d ever sleep well again.

Dawn was a pink and yellow smudge on the horizon, lighting the crinkled edges of the ocean that went as far as he could see, for him, in either direction, behind his life or in front of it. His muscles were stiff with being in such an uncomfortable position. Tears were dried on his cheeks from his sobbing while he dreamt. His heart felt like a stone in his ribcage.

There were already newspaper criers on the corners. "Titanic sinks! Great loss of life! Get the story here!"

He gritted his teeth to keep from screaming in hate at the rest of the world that didn’t get what had happened. No one but him could understand why his Rose was no longer his Rose, but a Rose in another place.

The person on the bench cried out again. Obviously, they were being tortured in the realm of dreams. Before he could stop himself, that old emotion of caring welled up inside him again and he stood, groaning at the fatigue in his legs, and walked over to the human he was sure was hidden beneath the heavy black jacket.

Time suddenly moved in slow pace, he would remember later. Each heartbeat seemed to take a minute to complete. For at the crowning of that coat was hair.

It wasn’t any hair. It wasn’t normal waves of brown of straight strands of blonde. No, it was wild, untamed, beautiful curls of red. Pure, tangled red. Red as blood. Only one woman he knew had curls like that, curls that had a mind of their own, curls he had woven his calloused fingers through, curls he had buried his nose in and taken in the scent of sweet rose water.

If he had a knife, he thought he might have used it and actually killed himself even though he had promised not to. He was going crazy, out of his mind, insane.

But he had to know.

His breath was coming in strangled gasps and his lips bled from the imprint his teeth were making. His hands shook more than they had in the sea as he reached out to peel down the topcoat.

Groping fingertips found the collar. He attempted to ready himself for disappointment, but knew it was hopeless for him to even try. As the girl cried out again, he jumped but did not let his hold weaken from the fabric. He started to pull it down.

For a moment, all he could see was that hair. Then her arm came into view, a smooth, pale arm, gleaming like alabaster in the waxing sunlight, flesh deepened with a pinkish color from the warmth of her position.

He dropped to his knees and moaned in utter torment. This was by far the worst moment since he had woken on the Carpathia. He was seeing people that no longer existed. He lifted his eyes up, half expecting to see Fabrizio and Tommy standing next to him, but was greeted only by the waves of passerby on their way to work.

In a jerking movement, before he was ready, he yanked to coat completely off and threw it on the floor. And fell back.

He knew that dress. Its folds of pale blues and lavenders and roses accented the body beneath it so beautifully, the magnificent form he knew by memory. His heart beat so hard he could feel each individual rib bone puncturing it. It couldn’t be, and he knew it. But he had to wonder why his heart would lie to him like this. He could feel the familiar pumping inside of him that he knew to be love. And it hurt, bad.

Trembling, he moved the girl’s hair to see her face.

God damn it all to hell!

As he looked into that face, his insides turned and his mouth buzzed and his eyes rained. He had never seen her sleep before. Soft eyelids were lightly pressed against her bottom eyelashes. Red, ripe lips called to him, parted slightly, gentle, gasping breaths leaving in between them. A divine angel that he had thought he would never see again was lying in the middle of New York City, dirty and tattered, on a bench, looking as though life had wasted her. And he had done that! He had! His celestial Being was as lovely as ever, a reminder that the world was not ruined. He knew he was dreaming, but he couldn’t force himself to wake up. Pale sunlight framed her majestic face, crowning her high cheekbones and accented her frame like mist from heaven. He couldn’t breathe, could barely blink, only stared, because he knew it wasn’t real and it was terrible. He wanted to touch her face but he was too scared.

She stirred.

And he nearly fell over. She stirred. It was a sign of life. A sign that evil could not triumph over love after all. A sign that a single petal on a rose was still enough to bloom a flower.

Satan’s knife was lodged within him as the tears caught up and overflowed from his eyes. He felt the bitter anguish that one could only feel for their soulmate, and it was killing him. Both worlds, Heaven and Hell, were crashing together to make Earth and he knew he would wake up form this dream, and he would be alone. It was enough to overwhelm him and he sank to the floor, pressing his forehead against the cold metal of the bench, and murmured, "Oh my God, Rose, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry..."

The sobs jerked out of him like someone yanking thread from a frayed piece of fabric. He couldn’t stop crying, because he would never see this amazing Person again, and he hated himself for it. Once this nightmare and blessing vision was gone, he would be against that wall, sore and aching, a man whom had lost everything that made him worthy enough to be called a man.

Passion overfilled him for a moment, and he reached out a tremulous hand towards her. This break of reality felt so...real. He looked at her with eyes that gleamed, a soft smile that spoke of utter and complete adoration. With gentle fingertips he caressed this Ghost’s cheek.

It felt like it had before, except colder. Her skin beckoned to him just as much, her color was just as fair, but she felt clammy. Touching her again, in a dream even, was almost too much for him and he fought valiantly to stay silent. A dove inside of her was released into him through his fingernails and burst like a flame into his spirit he cried out.

Everything he had been so sure of scrambled in his mind and he was confused as to whether he had died or she had, whether she was sleeping and he was watching he as a ghost or he was in the realms of night.

Rose could feel someone staring at her, and she knew immediately who it was. The evil presence that hadn’t left her since the early morning hours of April 15, the Jack that the Devil had transformed into a horrific monster in her mind.

As his wrenching sob ended, her eyes suddenly bolted open.

He wanted to weep even harder.

Those eyes were exactly–blue and green seas, as deep and complex as the Atlantic, tones changing every second, jewels dancing in her pupils, watery pathways to her soul. But there was also a terrible and horrible secret, exactly as there had been before, and a chained sadness that she could not escape. He wondered why God was showing him this.

Rose knew that it was his Ghost, and she hated it. She hated that he wouldn’t let her just live, or just be. She hated that it was her fault that he was no longer here. With blank and dull pupils, she focused on him, half expecting him to waver and disappear, but he did not, and the torture continued.

Jack realized one thing was different though. He could see freedom burning in her eyes.

She seemed so puzzled when she saw him and he just stared back at her, feeling their glances lock together and their spirits reunite after they had been torn apart. And then the realization dawned on him.

He was not dreaming. He was really here, his Rose had really survived, they were really in New York City, and fate had given him a second chance.

It hit him so hard, like bullets escaping a rifle, and he couldn’t exactly put two and two together. But when he did, he still couldn’t say anything. He was too lowly compared to her to say anything.

She stared at him, knowing he wasn’t there, knowing he would never really ever be there again, and knowing that for some reason she was being forced to harbor such undeniable pain in her heart for such a long, long time. He was hurting her so very badly, and she knew that he knew it, and she wanted to know why.

He expected her irises to shine with relief and amazement, expected the question, "How...?" Expected soft lips to press to his.

But that’s not what he got.

"...Jack...?" The question was more like she was whispering a forbidden story that lurked within the very reaches of her being. She tried to read past his physical appearance, tried to reach for his soul, but she could not because he was not, he was a part of her mind that would never leave that damned, Godforsaken ocean.

He couldn’t speak for a moment. Her voice was so beautiful. It reminded him of something he couldn’t understand–the very core of his life. He cupped her cheek in his hand and he felt a tear trace his rough palms. Finally, he was able to get out her name. "...R...Rose?"

His mouth was as dry as a desert and for the first time in too long of a time, it felt wonderful to say her name, like he had been born to say it, had been waiting all his twenty years.

She heard him grope inside of himself to say her name, and she wanted to kill this imposter that was in her beloved Jack’s place, taking everything that she had tried so hard to keep, taking the memories and the love she needed to survive.

She didn’t fling her arms around his neck. She didn’t try to kiss him. But what perplexed him most was she didn’t just stare at him. Every inch of his body was radiating with pure, indescribable need to hold her again, to reassure himself that she was tangible, to feel her as he hadn’t felt her in what felt like boundless eternities.

But she pushed him away. He didn’t realize it at first, and in slow motion saw two perfect hands reaching out to him. He was going to take them in his own and pull her to him, but they connected with his chest and sent him stumbling backwards.

Hurt was dripping from every part of her form. She turned to him and seethed, "Leave me alone, Jack! Leave me in peace!" Her eyes gleamed like magnolia leaves in absolute abhorrence for him.

The words crackled like dry dust against his ears. He didn’t comprehend her for a moment. When it did the most consuming rage and suffering torture he had ever felt ate him alive. The devil cackled mercilessly in his heart, spreading the pain to the very tips of his hair to his toes. Everything spun in wild orbits and he nearly fell into the bay. He cursed out loud, not at Rose, but at God, for making everything happen this way, for filling him with a love he could not carry out, for slowly killing him from the inside.

"I’m sorry, I tried!" She was still screaming, looking at him like he was a monster or a murderer. "I tried to save you, but I just couldn’t, it was so cold and then it was too late..." She broke into crazy sobs, burying her untamed scarlet locks in her hands, her delicate shoulders shaking violently. She could still feel his warm, smooth lips lingering on hers and her heart beating so fast she thought she was the wind, racing over the diamond sparkling sea.

Numbly, he grasped what she was saying as he made out the words from between her slender fingers and weeping, "Stop haunting me..."

She thought he wasn’t real. She thought he was dead and she thought that he blamed her for it. She thought that he was back for revenge.

Oh Rose!

He damned himself for making her go through this, for making her feel such complete loneliness, for abandoning her, for leaving her for life to ravage her. He refused to ever let her feel this way again.

He got up, still trembling from the horror he had felt, and stood her up. She felt his hands on her arms and shrieked, "You’re not real, don’t make me feel this! Don’t make me love you!" He crushed her to his chest and she fought hard, so hard that he felt her knock the wind out of him, so hard he could almost see the bruises spreading on his middle. Her nails dug into his back and he felt the skin breaking in half moon shapes and warmth oozing down his spine. She kicked and wept, and he wept with her. His tears wove a path through her blood-colored hair, and faintly he caught the scent of rosewater.

"I’m so sorry, Rose," he murmured again. This time she heard him. Her body suddenly went limp and he felt water soaking his shirt where her face was against him. He pulled her tighter to him and smoothed her curls with one hand, his other arm linked around her waist. "It’s all my fault and it will never, not ever, happen again. I’m here, I’m real."

She bit her lip and looked up at him, not believing, not letting herself give in, and he was shocked all over again at how undeniably lovely she was. But the beauty was being intruded on by all of the anguish that these two hearts had had to suffer. Her lips were inches from his but he didn’t even dream of kissing her ever again. All he wanted was for her to know that he loved her. Loved her with such a passion that it was sweet agony for him.

She felt that curious shivering inside and knew that this demon or angel or whatever he was made to be was reading her soul again. She felt something inside of him break as his eyes searched her own, finding what they dreaded, that the shine on life was gone. The blue captivated her, entrapping her in the ice of her past. He was her past. He had always been her past and was now her future. Slowly he turned over the leaves of the past few days, reading each page of grief and desolation and wretchedness that was written with blood across her insides. She was so confused, and lover’s misery wound through her like a scorching river. She wanted that heady feeling to take her again; she wanted to think that she and Mr. Dawson owned the world and that Time had stopped for them. But, like all things, Time had moved on, leaving them alone. And now his ghost, his memory, and his terrifying hate were all she had left.

However, somehow, doubts were vanishing from her mind no matter how much she tried to keep them. She could not ignore the foreign emotions sweeping through her at the feeling of Jack’s muscled arms entwining around her waist, the absolute safety and satisfaction that wrapped her body like heat from a fire.

The pain and feeling of failure still would not leave and she continued to silently cry as more tears cascaded down his face, because she saw that he had seen a dying Rose.

Maybe...she thought, Maybe he really is here...The very idea was too much for her, and the last thing she remembered was looking into his heavenly face and everything going black.

Jack’s quick reactions set in as he felt the inner parts of Rose crumble and she collapsed in his arms. The clouds of despair that would not leave him suddenly lifted, and for just a moment he caught a ray of the sun as he laid her down on the bench. He sat next to her on the ground, praying furiously for her to believe, hating himself for making her hate, silently screaming at himself for all of her silent screams, feeling love coursing through him as she regained her ability to love.

He tenderly brushed a ruby curl out of her closed emerald eyes and stared at her with such gentleness all times and places ceased to exist except one. The cold, loneliness of the Atlantic continued to haunt him.

Salt water beat an even thicker path down his smooth, boyish cheeks as, for the second time but the first time really believing it, he murmured, "It’ll be all right now. It’ll be all right now."

Chapter Twenty-Four
Stories