Written by Decalage
Based on some situations originated by James Cameron.
Come Josephine in my flying
machine,
Going up she goes! Up she goes!
Balance yourself like a bird on a beam,
In the air she goes! There she goes!
Up, up, a little bit higher...
Oh, my!
The moon is on fire!
Come, Josephine in my flying machine,
Going up, all on, good-bye!
He was beautiful, statuesque as
the icy depths pulled him in, his eyes closed in slumber. His hand—his frozen
hand—clutched so tightly onto my own, his palm against my palm, a perfect fit.
His grip was so strong it was a wonder that I ever managed to let go—that he
allowed me to let go, because he was possessive, even in death.
There was a light, a distorted
sound to go with it. An odd groaning pitch, like hell’s iron jaws opening up to
swallow me into the fiery pits. Only this time, I realized what I had been too
naïve to understand before. Hell had no fiery pits—only frigid water and polar
icecaps. In hell, people froze; they didn’t burn. Lips bled sapphire as faces
turned pallid, the crimson blood running through veins returning to indigo. Not
red, but blue. Once angels and now monsters, porcelain in their own right.
I could scarcely make any sense
of the whole ordeal, and it wasn’t until the pathetic whimper of a frosted-over
whistle split through the air that I really comprehended what I’d just done,
who I’d just lost. As such, I barely felt the wool blanket that one man wrapped
around my numb form. I couldn’t even cry—the tears had long since frozen over
the ducts. I had only one name on my lips, and it was Jack, though I was unable
to so much as utter it. Hope was like a lifeboat—only able to sustain so many
people. Unfortunately, I once again found myself to be one of those drifters,
the ones who jumped off at the last moment.
Like on the Titanic, when I had
jumped off the lifeboat with dreams of Jack filling my mind like cancer,
multiplying by the second at an insane rate.
Dreams that we had never had the
chance to live. The Carpathia left me to pick up the frayed bits and pieces of
my soul that had been strewn along the way, but there was one piece I never
quite found. My heart had a hole in it, a gaping hole that seemed as though it
would never heal. The blanket wrapped around me was itchy, like hair. Like a
thousand knives stabbing me all over my body—
But at the moment, it was the
only thing I could cling to, the physical representation of a promise made.
Monday, April fifteenth was a
nightmare. It was the day that I had let go of the person I had loved more than
life itself, only to promise him that I would go on. It was a strange kind of
suffering, knowing that you had to live, if only to carry on another’s memory.
I could’ve asked Jack to promise me, but I think that even then I would’ve been
kidding myself. I wasn’t able to bring myself to make him promise me he’d
survive. Jack Dawson was a man of his word, and it would’ve been an insult to
his name had he made that promise, only to break it.
Come Josephine in my flying
machine…going up she goes, up she goes…
The End.
