Written by Trinity
Based on some situations originated by James Cameron.

The waters were cold, mind-numbing. She felt the wood beneath her rock in the gentle motion of the sea. Above her, the stars glittered, pinpricks of diamonds in the absolute black of night, and she counted them as she lay slowly freezing. She had long since lost feeling in her feet and her sodden, ice-hung clothing pressed down on her, making it difficult to breathe.

"Come, Josephine, in my flying machine...it's up we go, up we go..."

Someone was singing softly in the darkness. She thought absently, 'That's the song that Jack sings.'

The notes drifted around her eerily, half whispered, and she couldn't tell where they were coming from.

Without warning, a light hit her in the eyes and she blinked dumbly. As if through a tunnel, a shout echoed across the silent ocean. At first she could only hear sounds, but gradually they resolved themselves into words "Is anybody alive out there?"

'Alive', she mused. 'Am I alive? Who am I?' Stiffly, she managed to wrestle her dysfunctional body around to face--

A corpse--

Rose sat straight up in bed, screaming.

*****

Philadelphia, PA. 26th May 1912

The Philadelphia Inquirer reported:

LOCAL MILLIONAIRE TO WED ON SATURDAY

A society wedding has been planned for the marriage of two of Philadelphia's most prominent families. Dashing steel heir Caledon Hockley will take the lovely Miss Rose DeWitt Bukater to wife this coming Saturday. The bride will be wearing a beautiful white satin gown with a fetching lace overlay, and a veil of chiffon gathered into a beautiful diamond tiara rumored to be quite expensive--a gift from the happy groom-to-be. It is also rumored that Miss DeWitt Bukater will be adorned with the legendary "Le Coeur de la Mer"--a fabulous blue diamond once owned by the kings of Europe. No doubt the diamond will lend that last exquisite touch to the bride's ensemble. The happy couple plan to venture to Europe for an extended honeymoon.

Rose tossed the newspaper aside bitterly. Happy couple, indeed! This was a marriage of convenience--nothing more, nothing less. The Hockleys needed a well-bred wife to carry on their line, and the DeWitt Bukaters needed the Hockleys' fortune. Truly well matched, as Ruth would say.

She sighed, looking longingly out the window. Ever since her last rebellion, Cal Hockley, so-called "dashing millionaire", had consigned her to her rooms, lest society take note of what its current celebrity debutante was up to. Which was, in this case, simply self-expression.

Rose loved art. Moreover, she loved to haunt what some would call the seedier parts of town, including the parks where new artists worked laboriously to sell their dearly created art. Unfortunately, neither Society nor Cal were wont to approve of such forays. This last time she had been caught eluding her assigned chaperon to head for her one refuge.

Stupid, really. She had been so bent on tracking down one of her "new finds"--an artist whose work was exquisite, but anonymous, her only clues being the initials "JD" hidden in a corner of the work--that she had neglected to watch for followers. That idiot manservant Lovejoy had smoothly ushered her back to the house before she even left the block.

At this moment, her reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Trudy wheeling in the breakfast cart. The little maid briskly whisked a few stray books off of Rose's sitting room table and set down an egg cup, a small bowl of fruit, a roll, and a cup of coffee.

"There, now, miss. Eat up!" she admonished before bustling off to make up the bedroom.

Rose smiled wanly and gamely cracked open her egg. She ate mechanically, her mind wondering over diverse, futile ways to escape her house arrest.

"Trudy?" she called.

"Yes, miss?" A head appeared around the doorway.

"Is today a market day?"

Trudy bobbed her head. "Yes, Miss Rose. Cook and Gertie leave in about fifteen minutes--should be gone most of the morning."

"Thank you." Trudy returned to her cleaning. Rose began to smile as a plan formed in her head. Gertie was about her height and coloring, and she was somewhat adventurous...she might comply with Rose's wishes...

As Trudy was wheeling the cart out, her duties completed, Rose stopped her and said, "Please send Gertie up--I want to add some items to her list. No, don't bother Cook-- as Trudy began to protest, "she's busy enough with the wedding approaching. Just send Gertie. Oh, and I have a bit of a headache this morning. Could you please tell Mother that I'm staying in my rooms until lunch?"

"Yes, Miss," Trudy bobbed, but with a suspicious twinkle in her eye. She had an inkling as to Rose's intentions, but wisely kept them to herself. It was deplorable, the way they treated Rose, and if Trudy could play a silent part in helping to cheer up Rose, then she was all for it.

A few moments later, a smart tap announced Gertie's arrival. Rose opened the door and hurried her inside. Five minutes later, the serving girl emerged and trod lightly down the back stairs to meet Cook. As usual, Cook paid no attention whatsoever to the younger girl, instead focusing her attentions on Mr. Phillips, the stable man. The older couple lagged behind, trading flirtatious banter while the maid walked some ways ahead.

At the corner Cook stopped to bid farewell to Mr. Phillips, and the housemaid walked a few steps more, rounding a corner. There, she stopped and passed a five-dollar bill to the real Gertie. Quickly she returned the other girl's pinafore, thanked her, and hurried off in a new direction. Cook called for Gertie, and the girl obligingly returned.

"Gertie, stay with me! We have lots of things to buy, and I can't have you wandering!" Cook snapped. Gertie tossed her head but apologized, and the two resumed their course, Cook none the wiser for the switch.

Five blocks away, Rose headed toward Wembley Park, hoping that the young woman who had sold her the mysterious JD's sketch had been correct as to his location. Rounding a corner, she barreled ahead as fast as she could without breaking into a run. She only had a couple of hours before she had to switch back with Gertie to get into the house--hours that she could not waste.

The park sloped gently below her, and she decided to start from one end and work her way through. She slowed, took a deep breath, and began a calculated saunter through the artists scattered along the path. The first two she ruled out solely on gender. The seller had said JD was a man--youngish, perhaps twenty to twenty-three years old. What else? Rose thought. Ah--'light brown hair, tall, kind of gangly.' An interesting mental picture, at any rate.

As she meandered down the walk, she surreptitiously measured each young male artist she came upon, stopping periodically to examine their work. So far, nothing. There were painters, sketchers, sculptors--but none with the same simple style and grace that had drawn her to "JD."

A paper brushed past her, blown in a gust of air. She caught it in reflex, then took a closer look at it. Rendered in charcoal with elegant strokes was a woman's hand clasped around a bouquet of wildflowers. Immediately she recognized the handiwork and began to scan the area for its creator--and there he was, jogging up to her, chasing after the errant drawing.

"Did you lose this?" Rose asked, holding it out to him.

"Thanks," he replied, taking it back, but not before Rose had noted the initials JD in a corner. "The wind's sure acting strange. It just gusted out of nowhere and took this little bit with it."

He tucked the paper into a battered leather folder, and stuck out his hand. "Jack Dawson."

"Rose De--" Wait! She quickly replaced her name with Gertie's. "Durly. I've been looking for you," she added somewhat breathlessly, to her surprise.

He looked a little blank, so she rushed on. "Oh! I don't mean in a bad way--your drawings! They're wonderful! I've been trying to track you down, and now here you are, and here I am, and--well. I'll stop talking now," she finished lamely. To her delight, he threw back his head and laughed. "That has to be the most unique introduction I've ever had the pleasure of hearing, Miss Durly."

"Rose," she interrupted. "Please call me Rose."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Rose," he said, and bent over her hand, doing a silly impersonation of a 'proper' gentleman. He looked up, grinning, and caught her eye.

An unexpectedly intense looked passed between them, and they both froze, startled. Unbidden, Rose suddenly heard a voice humming "Come, Josephine, in my flying machine..." somewhere--then realized it came from Jack.

She looked unnerved, and they pulled apart. He stopped humming, looking confused.

"Now where did that come from?" Then he seemed to see her for the first time. "If you don't mind my asking--have we met before?"

Rose stared at him. There was something so familiar--but she couldn't place him, it was too vague. "I--no, I don't think so, but--pardon my familiarity, Mr. Dawson, but I do feel as though we've met before. The song--I've been having dreams about it for some time--it startled me--"

Jack studied her carefully. "I'm sorry--I've only heard it once or twice. Can't imagine why I was humming it."

There was a brief, almost awkward pause, and suddenly they couldn't quite meet each other's eyes. The bird song in the trees above was very loud, which startled Rose; she hadn't heard anything before except the sound of Jack's voice.

Jack cleared his throat. "Well, if there's anything else I can do for you...?"

Hastily, she answered, "Do you have any more sketches with you? I'd love to see them."

He nodded and led her down the path to a rickety park bench, where he opened the folder and drew out several sheets of drawing paper. She received them carefully, trying not to crease or bend them in any way, entranced by the hypnotic lines.

On the first page, a woman's hand was drawn in three poses--extended, cupped, and just relaxed. In each position, the sweeping lines of charcoal perfectly captured the grace and strength inherent in the hand.

"These are wonderful," Rose breathed, and switched to the next print. In it, a man (presumably her father) held a young girl high in the air. The man's back was to the viewer, but the child was grinning straight out of the paper. Her infectious smile flew off the page, and Rose found herself chuckling in delight. In the background, she could make out what appeared to be a ship's rail, and pointed to it.

"Did you draw this from life?" she asked. He nodded. "Which ship was it?"

Jack thought for a moment--he could have sworn it was--but that wasn't possible, was it? Hadn't he heard that the R.M.S. Titanic sank barely a month ago? And yet, he had a recollection of the ship, seeing the name on her prow--a little confused, he answered, "It's an ocean liner I won passage on." At her uncomprehending look, he went on, "Believe it or not, I won the ticket in a poker game on the dock only five minutes before she left Southampton. I just got to Philadelphia a few weeks ago--I can't believe I don't remember which ship!" Rose pursed her lips and returned her attention to the drawing in her lap. "Well, it's a good thing you weren't on the Titanic, or chances are we wouldn't be sitting here today."

Her words echoed strangely between them, and for a brief moment Jack thought he heard distant cries and a strange ripping, groaning shriek.

Rose's head shot up suddenly, her face white and drawn.

"Did--did you hear something?" she asked shakily.

Jack edged away from her a bit, his eyes wide. "A screeching sound? But deeper?"

"Yes--and people screaming...did you hear that, too?"

Jack stood up. "How did you know? How can you hear what I hear? That's insane!"

And yet, at that moment, they both clearly heard someone shout "Women and children first, please! Women and children only!"

Rose gazed blankly into thin air, absorbed in a living, nightmarish memory that was hers, and wasn't. She heard someone humming quietly nearby, "Come, Josephine, in my flying machine..."

Dazed, she murmured, "Only Jack sings that song."

A heavy thump brought her attention around to the man sitting next to her. Head in his hands, he was muttering something to himself over and over, as if in litany. "Wha--what's happening?" She spoke through lips that were strangely stiff and lethargic.

Jack raised his head slowly. "Rose, do you ever have dreams? Nightmares? About a ship sinking?"

Shocked, she nodded numbly. He continued. "About floating on a piece of wood in the middle of an ocean, surrounded by frozen corpses?" Again, she shook her head.

"For about a month, now, right?"

"Yes."

"Come Josephine, in my flying machine..." he sang softly. Rose clutched one hand to her chest, finding it suddenly hard to breathe. Her clothes changed from feeling light and airy--normal--to stiff and unyielding.

Without warning, the spring air plummeted from a pleasant warmth to bitter, freezing cold. Rose looked around wildly--the sky was falling--the sun had disappeared, and it was night: never ending, frightening, horrifying.

"Jack! I remember, Jack! Jack!" She forced the words out through frozen lips. Four days on Titanic. Four days in which she had experienced her first love, her first hate, and now...

She seemed to moving, rocking gently in bitter air. Instead of standing, she realized she was lying on her back looking up at beacons of light piecing a deep, dark blackness. What was happening to her? A sudden ugly suspicion precipitated in her mind, and she wondered if she had entered the final stages of madness...

A sudden shout close by broke through her tangled thoughts. "IS THERE ANYONE ALIVE OUT THERE?"

Frantically, Rose called, in barely a whisper, "Jack! Jack, there's a boat! Jack!" Hearing no reply, Rose heaved herself onto her stomach to face him whose hand was still clutched woodenly into her own. Cold. So very cold. She rubbed the blue fingers, searching desperately for a hint of life. His eyes were closed.

"Jack? There's a boat--" No breath froze in the air in front if his mouth. Rose stared at his lifeless face, disbelieving. 'NO!' her mind howled. 'I refuse to accept this! You are not dead! I am going to count to three and rub your hand, and you are going to wake up and we are going to get to that boat.'

But three counts passed, and he didn't wake up--and she suddenly gave up. 'No. No. Jack, what do I do?'

The lifeboat was beginning to pull slowly away. Her last chance at life, any life. No more dreams, no more hallucinations.

Rose gazed into the face of the man who would never be, and finally let go of his hand, watching as his form disappeared silently down into the sea.

'Come Josephine, in my flying machine...' Someone was singing again. Rose thought she heard a soft voice say, "Never let go."

Never let go.

I must get to that boat.

She remembered a whistle nearby...Chief Officer Wilde blowing a whistle nearby. Across from her. She slipped into the icy water and painfully struggled to the dead man's bobbing form. Flailing, she managed to grasp his whistle and began to blow.

They had to pry it out of her nerveless fingers.

*****

On board the Carpathia, a solitary figure roamed among the third class survivors. Others noted her haunted look and left her alone. Some heard the strains of a popular tune trailing behind her as she walked. When the ship docked, she melted into the crowd and vanished. Many years later, when her face adorned movie posters all over the world, someone would nudge a friend and say, "She was one of us--a survivor. Only ever sang one song as long as she was on Carpathia. An old tune. Always gives me deja vu when I hear it."

The End.

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