Written by FordTruckGirl4TA
Based on some situations originated by James Cameron.
Sometimes he wondered if the
shipyard was the noisiest place he’d ever been.
Constantly, there was equipment
clanking, welders sparking and popping, the sharp ka-chunk of rivets being
buried in the sheet metal. And above it all, men shouted at the top of their
lungs to be heard. It took getting used to, and it took him years to master the
trick—but he’d learned to shut the noise out, to block it almost entirely. It
was something that all seamen learned to do, said his uncle. It took time, but
so did everything if you wanted to do a sound--pun intended--job.
Perhaps that was why now the only
noise he heard was the gentle tick, tick, tick of the clock on the mantle. In
the background, far away, three thousand dishes were shattering, furniture was
overturning, and funnels were collapsing. Tick, tick, tick. His heart pounded
deep within him, matching the steady rhythm of the second hand.
He looked up at the mantle, which
would be above his head if he gave it ten more minutes. His hands grasped the
now-warm marble, knuckles white, and when he let go, he watched color flow back
into his skin. His hands shook, but he forced himself to look at the clock.
2:09, it read.
Somewhere his old self kicked
into gear; he drew his heavy pocket watch out to check the time. 2:08, it read.
Another thing I’ve to remind them of, he thought. Get the clocks set
right. And then he remembered that they would never know.
Slowly, almost lovingly, he
reached up to the mantle clock and opened the glass plate. With reverent,
trembling fingers he moved the minute hand back one degree. Don’t go getting
ahead of me, now, he thought. We need all the time we can get, you and
I.
A brandy glass slipped off the
mantle and shattered on the hearth, the red liquid slipping down the floor like
blood. He didn’t even flinch, rather slowly moved his hand to his pocket and
withdrew the black notebook he’d carried around with him since the start of the
journey.
His throat felt tight as he
briefly perused the pages. Hat hooks, he thought, and read in
wonderment. If mere hat hooks could be my only concern right now…
He snapped the book closed,
holding it tightly in his fist for a moment before dropping slowly to his
hamstrings in front of the weak fire in the grate.
He watched the notebook
burn—watched the pages curl and blacken, opened his ears to the crackling of
the pages and cover. He watched the final touches to his life’s work burn to
ashes, and only when the remaining clump fell through the logs did he stand
again. His eyes bored into the marble work—which was cold now, freezing as
death—and he closed his eyes over tears. But even that couldn’t stop the flow,
which was steady and warm like a summer rain.
He felt numb, and stunned, and
suddenly hated it, and for the first time since he entered the smoking room, he
really listened to what was happening within his ship. He heard the furniture
breaking as it smashed into the walls, heard water deep within charging up the
corridors, heard doors being ripped from their hinges. He heard his life’s work
falling to pieces around him, and was relieved that he could be there for her
in her final moments, and vice versa. But it was her final moments, and she
couldn’t last much longer.
Neither could he.
The man who’d shown the most
courage all night finally covered his face with his hands and wept like a small
child, shaking and alone, comforted only by the thought that in minutes he
would be dead, and the burden of a broken dream would be lifted from his
shoulders forever.
The End.
