MARY

Clutched tightly in my thin, quivering hand was the worn doll that had accompanied me all throughout my teenage life. One of its black button eyes was missing and a bright red button was sewn in with yellow stitching as a favorable replacement—in my eyes. The one red eye dwarfed the other original and made my dirty and patched doll look homey and welcoming—my treasure. I had lost the button sometime before the car wreck that had killed my parents. I was eight years old—I had kept the doll ever since. It was then that I had been passed down through my family and following a serious of unfortunate events I watched, lonely, as the systematic destruction of my entire family left me an orphan. It was around that time that I had just celebrated my sixteenth birthday, and in all my worldly knowledge, proceeded to take apart the world with my criticisms and disdain. A year later, an old man by the name of Fredrick Lickenstine came to my rescue and saw my as I was, a cold, lost, and implausibly haunted child. He took me into his company and I have stayed with him ever since. It was his company that led me onto the grandest ship of all, the RMS Titanic.

I looked down into the doll’s face and was not surprised when, although I could not see it, the image appeared before my eyes. Years of company had made me grow accustomed to its visage; I was not likely to forget it. It brought me great comfort and stilled the childish tears that dawned on my thick black lashes.

All around me, I could hear the cries of the masses as they swarmed the deck in a frenzy of clawed hands and twisted features; like demons from a child’s nightmares, vainly searching for some means of escape from the destiny of more than half the people of the doomed Titanic. It was several years later that I learned that only seven hundred of the passengers survived, and the tears I had not shed during the event finally found their trails down my cheeks.

In the growing surge of the people behind me, as well as the sinking fear that had engulfed my senses, I was distantly aware of someone calling my name. I yelled in response, my throat stinging with the deep inhale of the cold, thin air. "I’m here!" I cried, pushing through people, their faces meaningless blurs as I searched for my father. I could see Fredrick as I got closer to the back of the ship.

In the three years I had been under Fredrick’s care, he had never asked much of me other than that I learn the proper ways and etiquette of a lady. But in that time he had also stressed the importance of a strong spirit and individuality. From the moment I met him, I knew he was a man born before his time, when women were meant to have opinions and were meant to dress like boys and ride horses. I instantly looked upon him as a father figure as he taught me the ways of true life and philosophy. The way he spoke, each word stressing the importance of what he was trying to get across, made him appear as youthful to me as my own father would have been if he had remained alive.

When I looked upon his face, lit with the gentle glow of the evening stars strewn across a velvet smooth sky, I could see the age etched deeply into his eyes. They looked old, ragged, and haunted, his clothes hanging off of him like worn drapes. I didn’t care how he looked—this man was the only thing dear to me, more then my very life and my doll, Mary. I stumbled towards him, my feet slipping on my long evening gown. The cold air stung at my hand as I reached through the crowd, my fingers desperately feeling out the warmth of his aged hand, spread wide in an arc as they did what my eyes could not do. I felt them, his fingers closed around mine for the briefest of moments, and in that time, sheer bliss filled my soul and my heart rejoiced in that unwavering truth that he lived. That dream shattered as his hand was cruelly ripped away from my grappling fingers. I was thrown backwards by an outpouring of people; I felt my nails connect with flesh and a wetness slithered over my hand and chilled in the frosty air.

I lay on the ground for but a moment, but in that second I saw, through the trampling feet of men and woman alike, the huddled figure of my dear Fredrick. Nothing could keep me from reaching him this time—I crawled, a scream dying on my lips, my left hand still clutching Mary’s thin paw, and saw with horror the dead and unseeing eyes of Fredrick. A sobbing gasp escaped, but no tears came; they would have frozen on my cheeks like the blood that had already died on my beloved father’s lips. I kissed them once, and pulled away as the sound of thunder rumbled through the air.

I had nothing but Mary left.

A loud bang seemed to shatter the very world as a signal flare burst into the sky, trailing smoke and brilliant red light. It was a distress signal; the ship was sinking faster than expected. I stood and swayed on my feet, my maroon-colored gown swirling in the frozen wind. I knew that the breeze was blowing, freezing me where I stood, but I did not feel it even as it stirred my raven hair into my wide and empty eyes.

The silence that followed the realization that the only man I considered my family was now dead seemed to stretch and fill my mind like a balloon. For a moment, time stood still, and there I was, unmoving, near the back of the greatest ship in the world. I could hear the moans of fear as the dying huddled around the ship’s only priest. He held the bible in his hand and continued with the verse, "As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, as you are here with me…" but even that did not fully reach my ears. It was only when the ship began to tilt did I realize I was going to die.

Absolute fury filled me as I thought again, I am going to die. I remember thinking, angry at the world and at the God protecting me, that I wasn’t going to die now. I would not let myself die here in this stinking hell.

I snapped back to reality and felt my feet carrying me to the railing. As I ran I felt the tilting increase as the ship began to sink. With steely determination, I noticed that there were no more lifeboats on this side of the ship, and there would likely be the same amount on the other side as well if I did not hurry. My free hand tightened on the railing and the cold steel froze my hands and sent tremors of cold up my spine to my face, where my cheeks were numb and my teeth chattering.

There’s no way for me to get to a boat safely, I thought quickly. Mary was the only thing I had left. I had to save us both, to preserve Fredrick’s teachings. I made a decision as I saw to my left a lifebelt.

I can jump from the ship as the water is rising and swim as far as possible away from the suction, I hastily surmised. It was one thing to swim in water in Germany during the summer, but it was another to swim in water cold enough to make icebergs. There had to be another way for me to get off the ship safely. I turned from where I stood, Mary still clutched in my hand, her loose arms flapping wildly as I ran. My gown billowed out behind me like the unfurling of an angel’s wings, the sound of my footfall the echo of a stampede of stallions. I raced across the deck, a sliver of blood sliding easily along the planks in the opposite direction of the surge of people.

I remember that it was the feeling of flying. It was like I had actually grown wings and taken flight along the boat, heading for what appeared to be the doom of many. I did not know then that it was because the boat was sinking heavily and the front of the ship was almost completely engulfed in water. I have now had the chance to rethink my decisions. I could have saved two lives that night, instead of losing one, but that thought had not occurred to me.

I stopped, a sudden face catching my eye. My determination fled me as I saw, huddled in a corner, a small girl of only three or so years and her mother, crying together, holding each other tight. I stopped and reach for them without even thinking. I grabbed the child, dragged her from her mother’s arms and screamed at the horrified woman, "Get up, you bloody hag, and do something for yourself! Follow me!" And I ran on, pressing the child’s plump face into my neck, vainly trying to warm the deathly chill along her cherubic features.

We were nearing the water at the front of the ship when a horrible snapping noise filled the starlit night. Suddenly, there was a loud creak as the steel cables securing the smokestacks atop the ship snapped. A moment later, the sound of it landing in the sea filtered in with the sound of many screams.

As we neared the captain’s cabin, I ran through the open hallway and through the frosted glass saw the captain standing at the steering wheel, his white cap on his head. I gave him his honored regards and also felt the bile rise to my throat as I thought, The captain always goes down with his ship.

The woman behind me gave a scream of fright suddenly, and I realized I had stopped. The boat rocked once and suddenly dipped down. I lost my balance, and with a yelp, rolled along the deck and hooked my arm around a pole. I saw the woman fall, as well; the world seemed to teeter off balance as she rose on her tiptoes, and for a moment, she looked graceful enough to be a performing ballerina at some of the older shows I had seen with Fredrick. Then she screamed, flailed her arms, flipped over, and cracked her head on the deck with a sickening thwack.

I let out a scream as her body toppled into the water that was consuming the dock in front of me—her body landed lifelessly in the unforgiving onslaught of the waves and was swept out into the open sea, her blonde hair loose from its peasant’s bun. Under my coat, the child wailed, having witnessed the death of its mother. Dirty, sooty tears quivered in her eyes and dropped onto my arm unheeded. I felt the resolve build through me once more, adrenaline fueling my veins as I recalled Fredrick’s words. "In all life, there are trials and tribulations. If one person cannot go through life with a brave face and vanquish their foes, there is no hope for them in the other world." Remembering this gave me a burst of strength I had not known since the day I had crawled from the wreckage of my parent’s car.

I tried to hoist myself up, but I could do nothing as both my hands were occupied. The only thing sustaining me and the child was my arm, which was hooked on a white bar from a railing. I looked down into the face of the nameless baby in my arms, and realized I could not save her mother, but I could save her if I truly wanted to.

It wasn’t selfless, nor was it courageous. I let go of the only link I had to the world and felt the water touch the tip of my toes as it reached up its ghostly arms to take from my empty hand Mary, my treasure, the only real proof that I existed as anything other then a foster child. I know that I must have called out to the doll, yelled its name longingly as I mourned its loss for a moment.

I watched it go without a tear as it disappeared under the roaring foam like it had never been there at all. Its absence weighed heavily on my heart, yet regardless, I felt the pulling of the water on my feet and the urgency filled me again. I hoisted my body up from the railing with my free arm, felt my muscles jerking under my skin. I cried out in pain, but felt the cold railing pressing against the softness of my stomach as I landed on it with an oof. The child in my arms gave a squeal, and I saw with gratitude betraying my facial expression that there was one boat still on deck, several people cramming onto it, one single man trying helplessly to allow the women and children first.

I let the wind push me towards it. I stopped just short of the last remaining boat. As the water began to rise, flowing over my shoes and stinging me with cold, I thrust the child into the arms of a woman boarding the ship. I gave a great sigh, happy that I had saved the child, although I had lost her mother, and felt the ship sink lower again. This time I slid, my long, sopping wet dress dragging me down to the floor where I began to slide. I screamed, but it silenced as I felt a painful jerk on my arm.

A searing pain unlike anything I had ever experienced rocketed up my arm like lightning. A hand reached out towards mine and clamped onto my wrist, the tanned fingers cruelly wrestling with the waves as they rushed forward to draw me into the deep abyss beneath the sea. I screamed again, this time, a very real fear overcoming my heart and freezing me in a way that no wave or physical thing could. It was the fear of nothingness, of not being remembered, with no name to claim; I would not have even existed in the paperwork. I caught through my terror the glare of brilliant green eyes against the darkness of night. I felt the water rush up my dress, paralyzing my legs and stealing my breath with the tiny stabbing of a million knives over my taut flesh.

Together, the boatman and I were swept out to sea.

I can’t remember much of what happened in the water. All I knew was that there were a million others around me, screaming, kicking, pulling, biting…I can’t remember faces no matter how hard I try to recall them; only the fear of the dying remains clear. I know that the hand which had reached for mine I was unfamiliar with, but by the end of the night, it had become as well-known to me as the doll I had lost to the sea.

My memories are unclear and unsettling. I remember at one point, while being dragged by the boatman, we had to cling to the body of a dead men, and his frozen flesh and eyes still haunt me to this day in my dreams. I was nineteen years old when the Titanic sank. Later on in my years, after I married the man who saved my life, I learned that we had been in the water for over six hours before we were rescued. Alex, my husband, tells me again and again how he had seen me save the child and had wanted in turn to save me, a little slip of a girl with more guts than a man, and how he did not stop swimming, dragging me along with him, the weariness to thick to think through, until a lifeboat had come back for any survivors. He did not let go of my hand even then, until the Carpathia arose in the distance.

I remember that well.

I lost my father on that voyage, the only man to ever treat me kindly since the death of my birth father. I read in the newspaper one evening, a week before I wrote this monologue, about a young lady, a survivor of the great disaster of the RMS Titanic. I recognized the photo instantly. It was the girl whom I had saved; I could never forget that dirty face which had witnessed what I, too, had witnessed in my earlier years. Beneath her picture was her name—Mary.

The End.

Stories