Titanic - April 11

8/6/2019 Titanic - April 11

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Back to America in Chains**

And it was like the breath was being stolen from her.

It was easy to push away, to ignore. When the seats were plush and you could recline,

hair eagerly pushing behind your face as the wind made sure it stayed as such, youcould forget that you were leaving. Leaving again, on a ship, somewhere far away; she

knew where she was going. And yet, at length, she did not.

She would rather be somewhere else. Tucked away inside her room where she could

admire paintings, hide the ones she crafted so that her mother wouldn't dub them as

improper. She'd rather slam her fingers onto the piano and make a ruckus without being

told to be quiet, mind your manners.

Did it really matter, though?

The chains would lead her. They twinkled when she stepped outside of the car, the

breeze now picking up. The smell of salt wafted through the air, and was that what was

making her eyes sting? Because she was minding her manners, her eyes didn't sting.

Had to look prim and proper, like a dainty little flower.

With every. Single. Petal. Crushed.

It was no matter. She pushed the brim of her hat away from her face. The locks of hair

fluttered behind her, and she shoved her lower lip upwards and scrutinized the ship

before them. It was large, spacious; it looked grand. Cal had talked about how muchtheir suite cost; something like 870 pounds. It was stupid, to be paying so much to go on

a damn four-day voyage.

Was so fucking stupid. She rolled her shoulders, stuck her nose up.

"It's not as big as the Mauretania. I don't see the big deal."

Because it was stealing her.

Like God's fingertips, her smokestacks thrust against the sky, "touching" it even.

Hard, black, her silouhette eclipsed the horizon--suddenly "obtainable", suddenly

within sprinting distance. She could seize the skyline; he had no trouble believing

that. It was people like "them", after all, that had made this possible. People with

the "resources" and intellect to cross the Atlantic in just four days.He stepped from

the car and tipped back the brim of his bowler hat, beholding the ocean liner with

satisfaction. It blocked out even the sun, projecting onto the world instead, in

dynamic, white lettering, "TITANIC".His smile fell at the voice that issued from his


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side.

"It's not as big as the Mauretania. I don't see the big deal."

Oh, she was wearing that insufferable look again. He had noticed it in her reflection

on the drive here, the way her bottom lip protruded , the way her nose lifted

theatrically, as though she were merely sending a dish back to the kitchen, insteadof a first class ocean liner.

Temperamental thing. She was as stunning as the ship itself with her brunette hair

tucked primly under her broad, "expensive-looking". But she had worn that sullen

face for days now. He hoped it was something she would grow out of once they

were wed. For now, he could only try to appease her.

"You can be blas about some things, Katherine, but not about Titanic." With his

cane, he gestured grandly to the ship, as though the motion might sweep away her

skepticism and reveal the wonder underneath. "It's over a hundred feet longer than

the Mauretania and far more luxurious."

With a definitive smirk in her direction, he said, "You'll be staying in a first classsuite on the R.M.S. 'Titantic'. How you can be so nonchalant is a mystery to me."

It was not that the sight before her was not awe-inspiring. The way the sky could'vegone on forever with the clouds and how they spiraled. Again and again, strewn likediamonds across a carpet. One that was a fond blue color that did not break likehow the horizon did.

The wind spiraled past her, licking her cheeks and forcing the hair that yearned tobe free of the stupid butterfly clip. Cal was talking, but she sort of didn't hear it.

'You can be blase about some things..but not about Titanic. First class suite..'

And he rambled on, and she was more and more disinterested with what he had tosay. He was kind when he wanted to be, but wasn't very interesting to talk to. Afterall, she was the sheltered little rich girl who knew nothing about anything. But sheknew the feel of a book in her hand, turning crisp pages with eagerness. She knew,and he thought she didn't.

He thought a lot of things. That she loved him without end, that this marriage was agift from the gods and that the voyage was as well.What a load of horse shit.Rolling her shoulders, she ushered herself forward and looked expectantly to him.

"Sure, it's beautiful. Work of art. I hope the stateroom is airy enough, in any case"

Fucking taking her back to America in chains, why didn't he?

Card Game**


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Up the gangplank, the path to heaven, they transcended the ratty driver's caps and

skyward eyes. They transcended, like gods carried on green-dollared chariots, and

not all the souls that milled about Southampton that day would follow. Most were

earthbound, could only skim their eyes lustfully over its streamlined contours,

shimmering with ethereal, watery reflection, and salivate over the prospect of anew beginning.A few miles off, but in plain sight of the revelry, he was anything but

earthbound.

11:07

Not even in this tavern, where the smoke hung low and acrid, washing the walls and

the teeth of every patron yellow. His cigarette, he rolled it carefully in his teeth--not

"too" carefully, that would be overdoing it. The trick was to look fleetingly nervous,

like the fan of cards you clutched in your hands wore individual glares, instead of

hearts and spades and clubs.

He blew a stream of smoke, then inhaled again, so he was just recycling bad air,

really. Peered with guarded interest beneath the blond shocks of hair that skimmed

his brow.The faces around him peered with similar interest, proper distrust.

11:07

To his side, Leuther's poker face was crumbling in places; that was the bad thing--

and good thing--about Leuther. Easy to tell what he was thinking. He caught a

sliver of anxiety in the confidence that usually shone in his companion's green eyes.

So, repositioning the cigarette in his mouth and hoping he was in the good graces of

the universe today, he said, "Moment of truth. Who's going to New York and who's

staying in Southampton?"

He looked to his side. "Leuther?"

A blank stare was all that the cards received. A long, staring one that was so

characteristic of him when he couldn't tear his concentration away from whatever

was claiming him at the moment.

And at the moment, as the smoke swirled about him and he inhaled deeply -- he

wasn't really doing too well with the cards he had on him. Fucking money. Fuck

being poor in these ratty ass suspenders that barely kept his pants up; it drove him

insane. Now all of his coins were on the table and so was his sanity.

Leuther shoved his lower lip under his teeth and stared pointedly at the cards.

He then proceeded to flop them downwards onto the table, grunting. "I guess I'm

staying in fucking Southampton."

Glowering, growling, it was emanating from below his throat. Even as the sun

trickled inwards from the windows and danced like a carousel on the countertop.

Spinning around and around.


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The russian men across from them grinned.

The whistle blew. He puffed smoke out of his mouth in plumes.

"I fold. I guess we're leaving now, Heiderich? My fucking money"

With an uncharacteristic sneer, Leuther let the cards plummet to the scuffed table.

Alfons eyed them with little surprise; a bad hand, just as his face had foretold. "I

guess I'm staying in fucking Southampton," he said.He spared his companion a brief

glance, took a drag from the cigarette, and turned his eyes to the Russians

hunkered across from them. He tapped the ashes into the makeshift tray and

prompted, "Olaf?" The Russian revealed his cards: nothing to be grinning about. It

looked like Leuther would have company in Southampton, at least.

4:26

That left just one more person; Sven, with his thinning hair and his tobacco smirk.He lowered his cards, not too smug but not exactly crestfallen.

"Mm," Alfons made a noise of disappointment in his throat, "...two pair, huh?"

"I fold. I guess we're leaving now, Heiderich?" Leuther spat, still extremely acerbic.

"My fucking money..."

"...Yeah. I think we're going to have to cut out," he agreed. Finally, he could

contain it no longer. A grin burst around the cigarette, and he dumped the cards

onto the table.

Full house.

"--cause we're going to America!"

With trembling hands, Leuther raised the cigarette to his lips -- shaky, shaky,

inhaled and set it down.

An uncharacteristic somberness settled across his face. More like a pouty look, as

when a child didn't get what they wanted. Leuther didn't really want to sharenot

the money, no, no.

He was half considering shoving himself over the table, grabbing the coins into his

arms and leaping out of the bar with Alfons in tow. After all, they were stupid

Russians; what the hell could they do, anyway?

Hunching himself over, he shifted his eyes from side to side and prepared for theinevitable dashing away and cursing of his giddy little partner.

"..Fons?" He started, staring at him. '..we're gonna have to cut out..'

Readied himself to pounce and bolt on out of there--

'Cause we're going to America!'

Leuther switched his gaze to the table, and nearly had a heart attack. Full house.


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"Holy shit! Fons, you beautiful man!" Jolting upwards, he grabbed him by the cheeks

and kissed him on the forehead. The italian way to do it was best. "Si bell'uomo!" He

was laughing, hard, snatching up all of the money on the table. "We're going to

America!"

"No, lads, Titanic is going to America!"A whistle. Leuther stopped. Stared, with saucer-eyes, as the Russian men fought

behind them. He turned his head, flicking black hair, and one lunged -- grabbed him.

"Ee--" and then turned around to slam the other in the face, rambling off

something in Russian.

"--In five minutes!"

"Come on, Heiderich!" Leuther started, picking himself up. "Let's go, let's go!"

All eyes descended. Alfons watched, twirling the cigarette victoriously between his

teeth, as the Russian's exchanged expressions with Leuther."Holy shit," he cried, "Fons, you beautiful man!"

Alfons plucked the cigarette from his mouth, laughed through the cheeks Leuther

had gathered around his lips. "Guess you're not staying in 'fucking' Southampton

after all, huh?"

Someone exited the tavern; the brackish air billowed in, stirring his spine, and he

felt goosebumps rise up to meet the itchy fabric that covered his body.

His companion lifted a joyous cry, "We're going to America!"

12:49

"No, lads, Titanic is going to America," the bartender indicated a shelved clock with

a flick of his thumb, "in five minutes!" Alfons did not even spare the skirmish going

on behind them a glance; instead, he looked to Leuther, whose eyes were bulginglarger than his pockets.

"Shit!" He yanked his bag from the tabletop, nearly scattering cards.

"Come on, Heiderich! Let's go, let's go!"

And as they burst out the door, to scale the gangplank not because they were

"gods" but because the gods had favored them just once, Alfons gave him a

rambunctious shove, "We're the two luckiest sons a'bitches in the world!"

Stateroom, Ballroom, Whatever**

The reflection in the mirror was not her own.

When the brush idly combed through dark brunette tresses, she could see nothingof the sparkle in her eyes that once was. The hair slid about her shoulders, shined inthe light that had never been turned on before then -- and she beheld herself withskepticism.


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This wasn't her. Wasn't at all.

Setting the brush down, she moved her fingers to her hair and combed it a littleharder; she shook her head, allowing the hair to fall this way and that. It didn't haveto be perfect, like everything about this little shitty life of hers. If you could call itone of those. And even with how the hair fell about her, how her eyes flickered and

how the white dress sat upon her, it didn't feel right. The reflection did not movelike she did. It did not think, did not breathe.

She grabbed the butterfly clip from the desk and shoved herself from it, hurriedlypoking the thing into her hair.

Tensely, she abandoned her seat and -- rolling her shoulders -- re-appeared back inthe stateroom. Trudy was doing something, milling about; still hanging up thepaintings that she had insisted on bringing along. They were so gorgeous, with thecolor, the composition. Not so dull.

As she rolled her shoulders some more, she smiled to the maid. "Miss, where would

you like these?""Over there, Trudy, right on that wall.""Are you going out with your mother and Mr. Hockley to the cafe?"A tense shudder, and she grimaced.

"I guess so. Here--" And she moved forward as the sun poured in, flicking itselfagainst the carpet, to help the maid. "No, miss--" "Come on, Trudy, these paintingsaren't gonna hang themselves."

She smiled, and it was not her own.

In the door frame, he watched them. Katherine's face was mainly obscured by

canvases, but he would catch a flicker as she turned--a flicker of her brows, pinched

sullenly, and her mouth drawn into a thin line.He had rather hoped the state room

would impress her at least. Yet she cluttered the ornate molding, the mahogany

fixtures with the amateur paintings of some impoverished artist. He had known rich

women who had preferred a sort of "rustic" quality to their possessions, but never

to the extreme in which Katherine pursued them. Cigarettes protruding from her

mouth.

2:03

He watched them in this way, arm propped against the frame; he watched themcircle around, again and again. Trudy was the name of their maid; Katherine always

found it very necessary to aid her with tasks she could easily accomplish on her

own. He wondered dimly if perhaps she did it to spite him, and he cleared his

throat.

"I don't see why you had to drag all these along with us," he said, "they take up

entirely too much space." Then, striding into the room, he tipped a canvas toward


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himself with a finger and wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Is this what they're calling

art, now?"

Fascination gleaming in her eyes, she hoisted up the painting into the air in front ofher -- beheld it. The canvas was heavy and splattered with acrylic, with shapes thatdidn't make sense and colors that clashed but came together so beautifully. Sheliked the way it looked; chaotic. Excitingly different.

Eyelashes fluttering, she went to prop up the canvas onto the side of the roomwhen a voice drifted in from the promenade deck. It carried easily on the sea air,but it wasn't so pleasant. 'I don't see why you had to drag all these along with us.

They take up entirely too much space."

She lifted her head, felt something stir in her chest. It was something likeannoyance.Or whatever the fuck it was. She really didn't care.

Forcing the sides of her mouth that knitted downward to stop trembling --suppressing a frown fucking sucked -- she shrugged, looking to him pointedly.

"I think it's quite nice, really. Look -- the way the colors mesh. It doesn't make anysense, but it does at the same time." Trailing her fingers over it. Yeah, sounded likeher life.She wished Cal wasn't talking to her. "Does it matter? They were cheap anyway,Cal."

Here, she smiled at him. Suppressing this, suppressing that.

From the doorway, he watched her strategically besmirch the state room.

Sometimes she would turn, canvas held out in front of her like a steering wheel,

and he could see how her eyes were consumed with wonder. Meaningless flicks of

a paintbrush could arrest her attention--yet he bought her the "Titanic", and he

could not be spared even a glance.He plucked a smaller painting from the corner

and glowered at it, trying to find an even remotely interesting detail in the turmoil

of colors and shapes.

11:13

"I think it's quite nice, really," Katherine went on, stroking the painting still clutched

in her hands, "Look--the way the colors mesh. It doesn't make any sense, but it

does at the same time."

"...Picasso," he read aloud from the scrawled signature. "He'll never amount to a

thing." He turned for an instant as a porter entered the room, wheeling his safe on

a cart, and told him to put it in the wardrobe. When he turned back, the maid was


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speaking with Katherine.

11:13

"Doesn't it smell so brand new?" Carefully, she stooped to position a painting

against the wall, then sprung back up with a small smile. "It's like they built it just

for us. Tonight, when I crawl beneath the sheets, I'll be the first--"

"And when I crawl between the sheets tonight," he broke in, eyes locked onKatherine with every bit of intent with which her eyes had beheld the paintings, "I'll

still be the first."

It was hard to ignore Cal while he stood in the doorway -- looking at her, expecting

something. She didn't particularly want to ignore him; in fact, she didn't at all. Not

when he was around, anyway.

As much as it numbed her and made her feel like a worn-down razor blade, he wasgifting her with whatever he could. Perhaps trying to make her happy in the only

way that he knew how, which confused her; happiness -- what the fuck was it? Was

it being content with everything that was given to her?

Shit, shit, she didn't know. So she lost herself in the painting, the way the colors

slapped against each other and complimented and just 'were'.

Wishing she could just be, she perked her head up when Trudy began to speak.

About how the sheets were brand new, about how it felt like it was built just for

them. With the twinkle in her eyes, she couldn't help but smile in her direction.

The sheets had never been slept in.

Ship of dreams.

Set down the painting -- "And when I crawl between the sheets tonight, I'll still be

the first."

A moment to register.

Crimson erupted across her face, and Trudy looked a little alarmed too. "S'cuse me,

Miss," she muttered hurriedly and, after putting the painting she so adored in the

proper position, scurried off. There was a silence when she gazed up at him from

underneath her lashes.

"..Cal," she started, feeling like something was stuck in her mouth. Like the

consistency of pudding.

Coughing, she collected herself, busying her hands with the paintings, again. "..Ah--

the stateroom is so nice. I'm really glad we're here"

Even if she was trapped. Dear jesus.


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Satisfied, he watched the maid hurry through the canvas labyrinth and out the door;

that had been "one" of his intentions, at least. Katherine had this irksome habit of

befriending the hired help, and they tended to linger around for much longer than

required--"especially" Trudy.They were alone after that, and she looked out at him

from beneath her eyelashes; he peered steadily back, thinking she "must" haveknown how coy it made her look. "...Cal," she said. His name dislodged him from

the door way. He paced across the state room--the "nice" state room, she said, and

she was so happy they were here. He did not point out the disparity between her

words and her expression. Instead, he came up from behind and placed his hands

upon her shoulders; she was "his". When he held her like this, he knew it."...The

first and only," he said, "forever."

For as much as she could complain -- could hover about anxiously and waste her

time away staring in a mirror -- there was something about him that arrested herattention when he was around.

She didn't know it was just trying to over-compensate. He was nice enough to her;

that was the only kind of love or whatever the fuck she'd known. Didn't know the

difference, and that was even in the back of her mind when he approached her.

Perhaps that what was so confusing.

A discontented grunt threatened to roll up through her throat, but she pushed it

away.

Like everything else.

So she continued to look at him shyly from under her lashes, and felt her shoulders

roll when he placed his hands upon them. 'The first and only, forever.'

The crimson in her face increased tenfold, and she turned around to duck her head

into his shoulder, to hesitantly sling her arms around him. "Yeah. You will be,"

It was so confusing.

Inside, she was screaming.

I See You**

As the bow gobbled up the skyline, the deck stretched lazily under the shadows of

turning clouds. Rolled its planked, pale-yellow belly over for the murmuring steps of

the rich, for the reckless gallops of the children."Henry," someone called, "don't run

too close to that railing!" Alfons smiled.


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8:50

This ship was divided; first class, third class. The wallpaper on the upper deck was

probably inlaid with gold; he would never know, falling asleep under those

industrial, naked pipes. But out here, out in the air, the ship did not discriminate.

Out here, the wind tousled everyone's hair, unkempt or to the nines, and salted

their lips until they cracked.His lips were chapped. He ran his tongue over them, gave in to the hypnotic

scratchings of the pencil.

Out here, they all saw the same ocean, spanning for miles and miles. Out here,

they were all just people, he guessed.

8:50

"Christ," he muttered and laughed to himself. He let the wind finally snap his

sketchbook shut; the young boy playing with a top had been safely recorded. He

turned his face up to his companion, leaning on the railing nearby; his dark hair

whipped at a face that could turn even some first class heads--and had. Grinning,

he carefully arranged his charcoal pencils back into their case and said, "I think this

ocean air is starting to get to me. I'm getting all philosophical again."

It felt like her head was bleeding.

Not the outside of it; not the flesh that spanned across her skull. It didn't mat thetediously combed-back hair that cascaded down her shoulders with a crimson,sticky substance -- but it filled her brain, up, up, until it could think no more and shehad escaped the bludgeoning.

The bludgeoning had been a result of just the 'talk' in that room. How they looked to

her with such disdain whenever she had the idea to talk -- you know, intelligently.With a brain.

They were concerned with taking that mind away and replacing it with fine chinaand jewelry, to jingle around aimlessly in her head. She didn't like that.So she had excused herself, and now she found herself on the railing.

The wind, again, eagerly pushed past her -- and the ocean went on for miles andmiles. It didn't stop, it simply was; she liked it. How it was so endless, how shecouldn't see the horizon. New York was not budding against the clouds, and shecould escape for a little bit amongst all the shimmering blue.

Shoulders slumping, she leaned farther over the railing. She wanted to takeeverything in.Glancing over, she noticed an artist. With a sketchbook.She watched him, curiously. She had a sketchbook, too. Cal didn't know about it. Soshe placed her chin in her hand.

And the man beside him looked up, to Alfons, unbeknownst to her. She was lookingaway.'I think this ocean air is starting to get to me. I'm getting all philosophical again.'


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With a laugh, Leuther cocked his head to the side, keenly smiling at him. "Think so?I guess on a third class deck, that shit happens," Here, he snatched Alfons'ssketchbook from his hands and held it to his chest.

"You're drawing these beautiful pictures!" He struck a pose. "Of course you'd get allphilosophical. Gonna do that when ya' get to New Yaaaarrrkkk, too?"

His sketchbook sank into his lap, and Alfons leaned back, plunging into his coat

pocket for cigarettes. Only one left. His heart joined his sketchbook on his lap.

Had they cleaned ol' Olaf and Sven out a little faster, he might have had time to

spend their winnings on another pack. No matter, though. He lit it, took a drag,

and let the smoke come back in his face, squinting at the thin, blurred line where

ocean and sky collided. Yesterday morning, he had been chasing the elusive tail of

fortune round and round a poker table in Southampton; now he was on a ship bound

for America, way out on the Atlantic.For him, the transition had been rather like

changing from his day clothes to his pajamas.10:24

"Think so?" Leuther snared his attention again. "I guess on a third class deck, that

shit happens."

"Ah yes," he agreed with a lofty grin, "being tragically impoverished 'does' make the

mind old." Leuther proceeded to snatch up his notebook. Alfons rose to grab it

back. "Hey, come on!" he said. "You spilled beer on it once, remember?"

"You're drawing these beautiful pictures!" he replied and struck a nude, French

model pose.

"You're not allowed to touch it anymore!"

"Of course you'd get all philosophical. Gonna do that when ya'..." Somewhere

during his valiant struggle for his sketchbook, his eyes swept over the first classdeck--then snapped back. His hands fell abruptly to his sides.

10:24

On the upper deck, there was this girl. Her hair was dark, "ebony", like the first,

fresh line of charcoal streaked along white moon paper. She had a round face, soft

jaw that vanished easily into her hair, and her mouth was the pallid color of her

skin, striped with pronounced, curved shadows even so.

But her "eyes". Those struck him most. They were some sort of middle ground--

between the Atlantic, between the sky. She was looking out there for something,

he knew. Nothing physical, nothing like the Statue of Liberty or anything half so

obvious as that.

She looked lost--hauntingly beautiful.

With this far away look in her eyes, she couldn't see anything but the horizon that

dotted blue. How the clouds gathered eagerly towards it, looking like they wanted

to spread on and on forever.


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On and on, never ending. Never having to stop, but merely drifting and letting the

winds rollick them about. They would paint the sky white, they would be framed

pink and orange by the setting sun, but nothing would ever confine them to a little

room with mahogany walls where she was to stay and rot.

Carefully, she dipped her gaze downward from the spectacle in front of her. Hereyes met the artist's again, and he looked far away -- like he was looking at the

clouds, too. So she turned her head and gazed at him for a moment. He wasn't

confined by a dress suit, he wasn't stuffy and penned up somewhere.

She was jealous.

Leuther didn't notice how she looked at her, and he didn't notice when she turned

her head away, either. He only noticed that his friend had stopped his playful banter

and had lost is attention somewhere else.

"Hey, Fons!" He started, smacking him with the sketchbook in hand. "What are

you--"

He paused, looking to the woman who couldn't tear her gaze from the sea. Typical

first-class ladies; they didn't know what it was like to be outside or to not shove

diamonds in their fucking eyes for every sight.

He began to laugh, with the way Alfons was looking at her.

As he did, a man approached her -- after gazing across the gulf between worlds, he

saw this -- grabbed her arm. She shot her head around and jerked her arm away,

looking upset; they argued. He could see the grunt of frustration when she stormed

away, and as he went after her. They disappeared along the promenade, as quickly

as they had came.

"Forget it, Al; you'd as like to have angels fly out of your ass as get next to the likes

of her."

Run Away **

Smoke eddied around Orion. He puffed rings at Taurus. Polaris, however, he left

alone: that was a good star. A reliable star. Stranded in a cottage in Wisconsin,

curled up under a bridge in Paris--the address never mattered. He opened his eyes,

and Polaris opened its eyes and stared right back. Twirled the Big Dipper like a

pearl necklace around its finger--twirled the whole goddamn galaxy. And for all the

cosmic chaos that surrounded it, its greatest job on Earth was to make sure they

never got lost.Alfons took another drag and frowned.

11:44

"She" had looked lost. Achingly beautiful, certainly, but more than anything, lost.

His thoughts drifted endlessly to her, to that face she had worn. The way her eyes


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seemed to be combing through the currents for some nameless object.

He wanted to know what that was.

But, as his companion had so gracefully put it, cherubs would sooner come parading

out his ass. She hailed from a land of caviar and small talk. Had she ever looked

his way earlier that day, her eyes would have penetrated him as though he were

the smoke trickling from the end of this cigarette.Frown relaxing, he cushioned his head with his arm, then settled back down onto

the bench. The smoke reached up to skim the stars but dissipated before it could

ever get high enough.

Their voices.

They had kept going. Kept on going, when the night drifted onwards like a reflection

in a puddle of water did. It shimmied and continued; eluded the true reflection of

what it was. That was what it was like, when she had been seated there, staring ather plate. The meal had looked good enough, but all she could see were the tiny

molecules of parsley that were splitter across it. Little details.

Like their chatter, and how it meant nothing. It meant nothing in the grand scheme

of things, and nobody really cared -- they cared about their jewelry and the way it

glittered on their fingers.

They did not care about how the stars glittered above. She supposed she didn't,

either, when her heels were clack-clacking against the deck. She had gone back to

the stateroom so composed; nodding her head, smiling.

And then she was alone.

And then she started to try and take the fucking corset off, but it wouldn't come off.

And she tried to shove her hair out of that tight, stupid bun, but it wouldn't come

off; she didn't know where Trudy was. She yelled for her -- she yelled, she smashed

the jewelry on the floor and shoved everything off of the table.

So now she was running, and that was the clacking. The tears streamed down her

face, and the voices had halted. The only one that prevailed: get out of the rut. Get

out. Run. Keep going.

She didn't want to be grabbed by the arm anymore, didn't want to be handled like

some fucking priceless jewelry.

She shoved past a couple, choking back a sob. Her destination was the stern, and

she was able to tighten her grip on her dress--hoist it up, run faster. Faster, faster,

until she was slamming into the railing that she had so wanted. The stars burned

brightly overhead, and she dipped her head up to look at it. A plume of smoke rose


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from her lips.

Hoisting herself over the railing carefully, she took a foothold on it and then reached

her arms out.

Let the voices stop. Please, god.So she loosened her fingers.

The deck was no longer host to broad, feathered hats and fashionable canes.

Occasionally, a guard might happen by, and Alfons would have to feign ignorance

to the inevitably suspicious stare. But eventually, the guard would also leave,

carried off on his clean, official footsteps, and then the waves lapping at the ocean

liner was the only sound to fill the silence. And then, they were not. Good Presently,

he heard running. This sound alone was enough to coax his head off his arm and

twist it curiously over his shoulder; at this time of night--and on a luxury liner--where did one have to run?

12:42

Finally, melting from the shadows, "she" came into view. Brief, fleeting light flitted

across her face--her cheeks were greased with tears.

Abruptly, he sat up. Watched her stumble toward the stern, her head dip hesitantly

beneath her shoulders. Swallowing, he flung his legs over the bench.

And just when she began to loosen her fingers--

"Wait," he said, "...you don't want to do this."

In all of the dizziness, she had neglected to see how brightly the stars were burning

above her. It was like someone had taken a heated pin and pierced a black canvas,

again and again, so sunlight would shine through all of the little openings. The

starlight -- sunlight -- whatever it was, it framed her again and again and it framed

the water rustling below her.

Presently, her mind began to slow. Her feet, too, tied up in stupid fucking heels,

wanted out. They slipped a bit under her and, with a hasty breath, she drew them

back in. The propellers rolled below her.It was cold. The water was so far down.

Slip, jump, she closed her eyes --

'Waityou don't want to do this.'

Her head snapped back around, and suddenly she was very aware of the tears


15/51

streaming down her face. The ones that coated her cheeks and made her look like a

complete fucking idiot.

There was the artist, again. The free one that she had seen in a fleeting moment,

the one who had been clutching his sketchbook like nothing else really mattered.

How jealous she'd been of him. Startled, she watched the sea air rustle is own hair;his eyes glittered in the dim light. He didn't look like he gave a damn. But he did,

and he was saying that she didn't want this.

"I--" her voice cracked, and she gripped onto the railing. "--I do. I do, I need to do

this. I need to get out. Please go away,"

She flipped her head back down to the water below them and stared. "Please, go

away,"

Even teetering precariously on the ship's edge, where a single, abrupt wave could

send her off, she looked immaculate. Like a weeping figurehead, perhaps, each curl

that framed her face meticulously sculpted, her damp cheeks painstakingly

smoothed. The Titanic was a beautiful ship, but had she adorned the stern, Alfons

thought the ocean liner might have looked quite a bit more pedestrian in

comparison.She had not been expecting him. Of course she had not. Her luminous

eyes examined him for several long moments, as though she were unsure of what

to do with him. "I--I do. I do. I need to do this," she started, voice breaking, "I need

to get out. Please go away." She turned away then, hair that melded with the sky

flipping over her shoulder. "Please, go away."

12:25Alfons sensed immediately that this was not going to be easy. She "had" been

sifting the skyline for answers that day, and her search must have turned up empty

handed. The only answer she could see now was beckoning from the wine-dark

depths of the Atlantic. Sweat beaded beneath his shirt collar, but he gave away

nothing.

He determined first that he needed to get closer--without moving her farther away

of course. He took a quick drag from his borrowed cigarette--not really inhaling at

all--then lifted it into her line of sight. When he tossed it overboard, he took a few

unnecessarily gigantic steps forward.

Wetting his lips, he gauged her face; saw fear there more than any real sense of

complacency. He could say it then."...You won't jump."

In all of her eagerness to throw herself off of the stern of the ship, she had not

allowed the fear to settle in; she had only rushed to jump, rushed to feel the ice hit

her and that would be that.


16/51

Rush to get away, and she couldn't even comprehend that. With the stars twinkling

above her, she felt fucking stupid. Even more of a reason to jump. With her fingers

so loose, she could just let go. But apparently, he wouldn't let her, because when

she turned her head again -- nervous -- he was still there. Taking a drag from his

cigarette and approaching.

'You won't jump.'

Dumbfounded, she stared after him, unable to form words that felt like goo in her

mouth.

"..What?" She started, re-adjusting her grip on the railing. Her arms trembled, and

her brows knitted downwards. Here was someone, obviously trying to tell her what

to do. Everyone, everyone fucking told her that.

"No--I am! You can't tell me what I'll do! I won't let you!" With a glare, she started

again -- "G-go away! I don't need your help!"

No -- she really didn't.

With every moment she lingered on the railing, Alfons grew increasingly anxious;heels and a long dress did not a good combination make--not on the stern of the

Titanic anyway, and though he kept the muscles beneath his face deceivinglyrelaxed, the ones in his shoulders and legs were taut, preparing him to springshould she slip."...What?" she asked him, expression wavering between disbelief and disgust. Shecrinkled her nose and furrowed her brows, as though he had made some obscene

suggestion.He lifted his brows and said it again, softly but with no trace of hesitance, "Youwon't jump.""No--I am! You can't tell me what to do!" The flames that billowed from her eyescould have powered the ship for a year. "I won't let you! G-go away! I don't needyour help!"Alfons held his ground. "Well, you would have done it already," he said. And now,as he stood looking at her, his thoughts began to build some sort of momentum. Ifshe was going to come back over the railing, it was going to have to be "her" idea.He began to shrug his coat off then, though his eyes never wavered from her."Besides--can't go away. I'm already involved." He tossed his coat onto the bench,then stooped over to work on his shoes. "If you jump, I'll have to go in there afteryou. I can tell you one thing," and here he lifted his eyes, to gauge her expression,"I'm not looking forward to how cold that water is."

Anxiously, she watched him move a little closer -- talked to her like she was a baby.That was what goddamn everyone did; treated her like a precious piece of jewelry


17/51

that had to be handled with the upmost care or it would get scratched up. Ooh, poorthing, you don't know what you're doing, you feel better soon, okay?

Rolling her shoulders, she felt the chill of the air hit her -- hard, harder, and she feltlike she was going to slip when the artist started to say that she would've done italready. Speechless, she simply stared at him.

'Besides, I can't go away. I'm already involved. If you jump, I'll have to go in thereafter you'And here, he started to take off his coat. She re-adjusted her grip on the railing andgazed at him. Unable to speak, but gnawing on her lower lip.

'I can tell you one thing--I'm not looking forward to how cold that water is.'In that moment, she felt herself tense up. Senses began to take a hold far morethan the need to get away was, and she frowned over at him. "How cold? Youcan't jump in after me, you don't even know me.."

"...How cold?" Concern ebbed faintly in her eyes--which quickly narrowed. "You

can't jump in after me. You don't even know me!" He worked his jaw side to side

decisively for a moment, then began to pluck at his shoelaces. "...No," he agreed

after a moment, "but I can't just walk away, right?" He turned to face her fully then,

jamming his Atlantic-raw fingers into his pants pockets. "Even if I am a stranger.

You jump, I jump,"

6:57

This imparted, he studied her again. Fear still turned like propellor-churned water

behind all that irritation; she did not want this. She "thought" she did, perhaps, but

he knew well enough about escaping, and there was always more than one route.

Moving carefully, he inched closer to her and pretended to gaze over the rail. He

whistled and shot his eyes sideways at her. "Kind of a drop. But you'd survive it."

He placed his forearms onto the railing, folded his hands, and looked at her for a

moment. Then, he asked, "Ever been to Wisconsin?"

Her eyes rolled over her shoulder again, and she cautiously watched him as he

inched closer to him. She was enough in her right mind to realize that he was trying

to talk her down -- and she couldn't say that she minded it. But she did, at the same

time; she was tired of people babying her.

Still, she chewed anxiously on her lower lip and re-adjusted her grip on the railing

when he said that if she jumped, he jumped. So she shivered, and the night sky

burned brightly above them, yet he only carefully shot his eyes to her and said that

she'd survive the drop.

"" Speechless, she gazed at him still. 'Ever been to Wisconsin?'

Licking her lips, she tried to form words, but none came out. With every passing


18/51

second, she wanted to cross the railing. "Um.no, I haven't been.'

More nervousness, and she turned herself halfway around. "Why?"

He was distracting her. Slowly, she began to ignore the white, reaching fingers of

the waves; she rolled her eyes, half-lidded with hesitance, over her shoulder at him.

With his arms folded over the railing, Alfons stared quietly back."Um," she said,

wetting her lips, "...no, I haven't been." She rotated her upper body to face him;

hope flared in his chest. "...Why?" "I used to go ice fishing there," he supplied, "me

and my grandpa." He paused for a moment, then said, "You know what ice fishing

is, right? Where you break a hole in the ice, and--well, anyway." He scratched the

back of his head, then quickly recovered. "I fell in once. Wasn't as cold as the

Atlantic but," he returned his eyes to her, "cold enough. You can't move. You can't

'think'. It's like...a hundred knives stabbing you all at once." And here, he simply

gazed at her, gauging her reaction, waiting for it to sink in.8:19

Then, when he felt it was enough, he drew himself up, "Which is why I'm not looking

forward to going in there after you." He tipped his head over the railing, this time to

peer into her face. "...I guess I'm kind of hoping you'll let me off the hook here...and

come back over?"

In all of her musing, in all of the want to toss herself into the ocean and to never re-

surface, she had not acknowledged that 'yes', it would hurt -- very much so -- to

drown in the Atlantic.

And she was, now; she was thinking of it, and she knew it would be far much colder

than the ice bath she had once been subjected to as a child. It was colder than the

stars up above and how they burned blue, perhaps all ice. He just said it, so

nonchalantly. How he had fallen into the river when he was ice fishing with his

grandfather, and it was a hundred knives stabbing him all at once.

She tensed up and nervously moved herself so that she was clutching onto the

railing. Moved her shoes, just so, so that she could get a grip and turn herself about.

Fuck, the more she thought about it, the more she didn't want to be assaulted withknives.

And here was this stranger asking her to come back over, looking so earnest. Like

he truly gave a shit.

That was more than most, and she didn't want him jumping in after her.

Mind a blur, she looked to him; eyes even trembling. "What's even your name?"


19/51

Her fingers tightened around the railing for just a little more purchase; her heels

slowly pivoted so that her toes were no longer hovering over an inch of open air.

She turned to him then, tassels on her dress quivering with her form, and married

her eyes with his. The frigid air caught in his chest, expelled no white cloud. TheAtlantic had breathed some color into her pallid cheeks, as though blowing the last

of life into her to coax her off the ledge. Her mouth was missing make-up but more

beautiful for it. It quivered. Tried to make words.

10:01

"What's even your name?" She wanted to know. It was such an oddly endearing

question, so innocently misdirected. He wanted to take her into his arms and carry

her back over himself.

"...Alfons Heiderich," he said after a moment. It occurred to him that they were

doing introductions on the edge of the stern. He extended a hand to her. Smiled.

"What's yours?"

In all of her preoccupation to hoist herself back over the railing -- to keep from

slipping -- she wasn't even registering half of the things occurring about her. How

the wind licked at her bare arms and coaxed the bumps out; how he looked at her

and couldn't even breathe, she didn't notice. All she could fathom was how she was

clutching onto the railing and how she was asking his name.

Kept her ground to sanity, to something, when he responded. 'Alfons Heiderich.' He

said as a matter-of-fact, and extended his hand. She took his, gingerly, and lookednervously to him with a smile. "..KatherineehElizabeth Drechsler," And here, she

moved her foot forward.

To ground herself, and somewhere in between she slipped, still clutched onto his

hand. The other, the railing.

The name she had just learned was being screamed, now, along with a cacophony

of screams that were simply nothing, and she was dangling over the Atlantic, and

the stars didn't even care.

"Katherine eh," she took his hand, an uncertain smile spreading across her lips,

"Elizabeth Drechsler." "Katherine," he repeated back. Then, with a mischievous

smile, "And you threw in your middle name too. How fancy--"Suddenly, dead air.

Broken by tendrils of wind borne hair."Alfons!!" The tendons, the ligaments, the

chords in his arm were suddenly being stretched to their maximum elasticity.

Dangling at the very bottom of this organic chain was her. Frightened, wide eyes.

The crashing waves suddenly seemed to leap up for her.She cried out for him.He


20/51

was suddenly aware of the way his chest was mashed into the railing. When he got

his breath back, he called down, "I've got you! I've got you--pull yourself up!"

Bracing himself, eyebrows nearly clashing together in the center of his forehead,

he began to pull.

Her legs were dangling, and christfuck before she had felt lost and scared but never

before had she felt this 'petrified'. Suddenly, the wind was blowing hair into her face

and clinging eagerly onto her lips; it was blocking her vision, the vision laden with a

film of tears over them.

But she wasn't going to fall, his face said that anyway; 'I've got you!'

And he sounded like he really meant it. With how he was hunched over, even when

the officers on deck heard her cries -- assumed the worst, assumed something

disgusting, and were racing down to get her too -- the fear in his eyes; he would'vejumped in after her.

Panicking, she grabbed herself onto his other arm. Clutched it for dear life and

managed to hoist herself over the railing, scattering herself onto the deck. She

accidentally pulled him onto her, and she was panting and tears were clouding her

vision. The officers approached and she was half-aware of them.

They barked commands, and fuck, her legs had been dangling. All she could do was

pant.

"What is the meaning of this?!" One of them yelled.

All they saw was how her skirt was hiked up, his shoes, and how she was crying.

"You stand up! You stand up and stand back!"

A cloud of relief orbited his head; nevermind how his brow was dusted with sweat.

Nevermind how the hem of her dress was pushed up past her thigh. Nevermind

how their breaths joined each other overhead, white and shallow, and nevermind

the tears that sheathed her eyes like ice. She was "alive", mainly, and that was allthat mattered.Still, when a brigade of footfalls descended on them, he had the

presence of mind to recoil."You stand up!" one of them, official in his night-colored

uniform, barked at him. "You stand up and stand back!" Already, he knew how this

looked. He got to his knees--from straddling her, Jesus Christ--and did as told,

hands slightly lifted. He offered no words in his defense. A third class man

"assaulting" a first class woman--if he said anything now, it would only come out like

a lie.


21/51

4:59

The handcuffs chomped around his wrists--not an entirely unfamiliar feeling, he had

to admit--and he was just beginning to wonder where they kept prisoners aboard an

ocean liner when he was spun around.

He was accosted by a familiar face--familiar because it had chased Katherine off the

deck and out of sight earlier that day."No one else was to touch her," he growled, "my fiancee. Just what the hell did you

think you were doing?" Alfons's eyes wondered briefly to hers, only to be jarred

back when he was shoved. "Answer me!"

In a dizzy flurry of moments, she was being wrapped up in a blanket. This blanket

smelled new, too, like the one she had slept in last night -- it smelled new, it wasn't

anything but new, and somehow she was going over this fact again and again

because nothing else was catching her attention.

But, in all of her trembling, after she had pulled herself up, she was now registering

'quite' well that they were barking at him. Alfons, his name was; the person who

had pulled her right back over the railing without any qualms. He had told her he

wouldn't let go -- and he didn't. Even though she had been dangling off of the back

of the fucking Titanic.

In all of the commotion, she jumped considerably when they put handcuffs on him.

Handcuffs? Fucking handcuffs; what had he done wrong?

She looked down at herself, and she sort of noticed why."Shit," she muttered-- especially when Cal appeared at her side, shoving him. 'My

fiancee. Just what the hell did you think you were doing?'

"Cal!" She admonished, almost starting to yell. Collected herself, and looked to

Alfons. Follow my lead, she wanted to say -- I'll save you, too.

"He didn't -- he didn't touch me. I was..leaning over..to look at the uhmmm

huh..propellers!" The officers stared at her oddly. "I leaned too far overand..I

slipped! Butah--Mr. Heiderich here, he saved me. He pulled me back."

The officers continued to stare, looked at Alfons. "Is that the truth?"

"Cal!" The pair turned in unison, Cal's fist still firmly embedded in Alfons's collar,

Alfons's mind still firmly embedded in the word "fiancee".Strands of hair had glued

themselves to her cheeks, crimson and pink where the wind had licked too roughly.

Her eyes shared this pigment, bled of her tears, but the fright was noticeably


22/51

lacking. All Alfons saw, as she glanced briefly to him, were two words: "play along".

She went on to explain that nothing had happened; she had merely been leaning

over to observe.

1:07

"...Uhmm...huh..." she trailed off.

Alfons watched perplexed expressions settle on the officer's faces as she struggledto name the object of her attention. As she spun her finger in circles, the rage on

Cal's face returned to a dull, annoyed simmer. Alfons had to wonder if the word was

truly giving her such a hard time--or if not knowing would simply add to the

credibility of "slipping overboard". He lifted his eyebrows in admiration.

"Is that the truth?" asked an officer when she was finished, and Alfons quickly

nodded.

"Yep," he agreed, "that was pretty much the way of it."

1:07

"Well, then, the boy's a hero!" The same officer crowed. "Good for you, son!"

As the handcuffs were worked from his wrists, officers agreeing at intervals that

women and machinery "did not mix", he watched Cal lead her off by the shoulders."Come on, let's get you inside," he said with concern--or some inflection that closely

mimicked it anyway, "that's quite enough excitement for you in one day."

Disappointment tugged in his chest as he watched her go; fortunately, the officer

stopped them."A little something for the boy?" he inquired.When the other man

turned, Alfons half-expected to see contempt boiling on his expression, but it was

surprisingly void. As though he could not bother to work himself up over a

commoner. "Ah, yes--Lovejoy," he said and handed his wallet to him, "I think a

twenty should do it."

To her delight -- was it delight? --the men gathered about her almost immediately

took her story as nothing but the truth. How could such an innocent young woman

lie about that, anyway, in favor of a scrawny little 'third-class' boy? Not a silly

woman. Silly. Yeah, that was what she probably was in their eyesbut it didn't

matter, not one bit. As long as they unlatched the handcuffs from Alfons's wrists,

that was enough for her.

Never mind the fact that they were mumbling how women and machinery didn't

mix, and how the blanket was being drawn protectively about her. It didn't really

matter, at this point.

At least she wasn't dangling her feet over the tumultuous sea.

Rolling her shoulders when Cal stated that they needed to get inside -- quite enough

excitement for her, hell if he knew -- she cast her eyes back at the steerage boy

who was peering over at her with glittering eyes.

And she would've said thank you, but with how Cal was urging her inside, she


23/51

stumbled over her words -- not her feet.

As she grappled with this, wringing her hands, she heard one of the officers mention

'something for the boy'.

She turned he head, scrutinized how Lovejoy took the wallet from Cal's hands and

thumbed out a twenty dollar bill."Mm," She mumbled, couldn't resist cracking a smile. Had to play the game with

him, especially when she rested her head on his shoulder. "Is that the going rate for

the woman you love?"

Cause, of course, he deserved more than that.

Alfons made a link around his wrist with his fingers, rubbing away the incisions. A

white-haired man with a jagged jaw and a rigid face--too hardy-looking to be a mere

servant--rifled through his wallet and produced a twenty. Tentatively, he reachedfor it; under any other circumstances, he would be more than happy to pocket the

money, but accepting payment for saving someone's life was another matter

entirely."Mm," Katherine made a noise in her throat and tipped her head against

Cal's shoulder. He watched this and could not help but feel she was still "playing

along". Like this whole affection business was not a common occurrence--or

perhaps that was only wishful thinking on his end.

"Is that the going rate for the woman you love?" she asked him.

2:30

Cal lifted his eyebrows, an amused sort of smirk teasing his lip's edges. "Kate is

displeased," he noted, sounding remotely unsurprised. "Very well, then. Heinrich,

you said your name was?"Alfons straightened, at attention once more, and smiled warmly, "'Heiderich',

actually. Alfons Heiderich."

"Would you care to join us for dinner tomorrow evening?" Thin smile. "If your

schedule is not too terribly chaotic that is."

"Oh, no. I'll be there." Again, he watched the two exit. The bodyguard--Lovejoy, he

thought his name was--started off after them, then stopped abruptly when he

whistled, "Hey. Have you got a smoke?"

2:30

The look on the other man's face told him just how much he wished he did not.

When Alfons had lit it from the borrowed match--it was well-deserved, he thought,

after pulling a woman back onboard--Lovejoy began to speak."You know, it's funny," he said with a tilted smile, "the young lady went so quickly

overboard, and you still had time to unbutton your coat and undo your shoelaces."

And as he stood twirling the cigarette between his teeth, watching them depart, he

could shake the feeling of leaking vital information.


24/51

La Coeur de la Mer **

She had almost slipped into the open arms of the Atlantic, and the chill was still

seizing her.

It was there, rippling, holding on tightly to her goosebump-flitted arms. When shehad changed into a far more comfortable dress, she was still cold. Still freezing, still

afraid that she was dipping off the edge of the Titanic.

Christ, she hoped she wasn't. So she busied herself with gazing into the mirror,

watching her reflection stare on back. The lights in the room shone in her eyes,

amplified them a thousand times and caused them to glitter. Just like Alfons's were

-- and she was happy that he'd accepted the dinner invitation.

Whatever she'd seen of him, she liked him. He'd been concerned.

But Cal had been, too. She could see it -- rather, feel it -- in the way he protectivelydrew his arm around her and held her tight all the way back to the stateroom. He

confused her, badly, just like everything else.

At least she wasn't screaming inside. Not at the moment. Right now, she was

probably more half-asleep than anything.

Poised in the door frame, he watched her once again. The flannel blanket and her

dining dress had been replaced by a gown, and the stray hairs that clung to hercheeks were tucked behind her ears. The vanity did not face him; even so, he could

see her reflection in the mirror, see her reflection staring into her face. She did this

often. Not out of vanity, as he had so often observed in other women, but

something else.He inched into the room, relying on his reflection to announce his

presence."I know you've been melancholy," he started, rubbing the ball of his

thumb into her shoulder, "and I don't pretend to know why." But God, for all the

tragedy lurking in the matte shadows of her face, she was still so captivating. The

wind had left a pleasant, fading blush upon her cheeks, and her eyes were

aquariums filled with sunburst fish. Physically, he was frozen for a few moments,

and then he procured from his pocket the box.

1:03"I wondered if this might not lighten your mood,"

Slowly, he draped it around her neck. It was the nighttime Atlantic, chiseled into a

jewel that swung around her collarbone, refracting the light and never quite rivaling

her eyes. When he shut the clasp behind her neck, he was thankful to brush the

warm skin for even a few seconds.


25/51

As she sat, the door creaked. Her chair would've creaked, too, if she had needed to

turn around in the glittering room she was seated in; but she had the presence ofmind to raise her head, just a bit, to where she could recognize the figure flitting

across the room in her reflection. The reflection that she'd peered into, again and

again. And it stayed the same, but it changed, too.

'I know you've been melancholy, and I don't pretend to know why.'

He noticed, then; she hadn't known this, and felt that stupid fucking second wave of

guilt rush over her for wanting to jump. But she had been screaming, and no one

even looked up -- one head did, and she guess his did, just halfway.

She kept herself quiet, watching him, lips slightly parted. It wasn't awe, it was just

quiet -- how it stole over the room, even when he gazed at her and lifted a box fromhis pocket.

And, then, the Atlantic was glittering across her neck.

'I wondered if this might not lighten your mood.'

It was large, heavy, but fucking stunning. With the way the light reflected across it,

a thousand times over and over and flung itself against the walls. It was like it was

breathing, like the ocean itself. With all of the flitting fish sputtering on about it.

"My god, Cal" She started, reaching to touch it. She tilted her eyes up to look to

him."It's beautiful," Her mouth formed words, maybe, but they didn't really come out.

"My God Cal," The rapture that had been absent from her gaze that morning as they

beheld the Titanic suddenly returned with a vengeance. She broke eye contact with

her own reflection to acknowledge him, to tell him it was beautiful, and he beamed.

She would not bat an eyelash at the world's greatest ocean liner, but he had

bought her the sea to wear around her neck, and finally, she was astonished."Fifty-

six carats," he informed her, "and it was once worn by Louis the Sixteenth. They

call it Le Couer de la Mer, the Heart of the Ocean." The jewel lay heavily against herthroat, casting its hard, dark shadow against the smooth flesh. It twitched as she

swallowed, and he was prompted to trace his fingers across it. In her reflection, he

joined her.

1:39

"It's for royalty. And we 'are' royalty,"

He watched her marvel over her treasure for a moment more, watched the jewel

looked comparatively less beautiful against her flesh, and then he sank down onto


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his elbow to look at her.

"There's nothing I couldn't give you. Nothing I would deny you if you wouldn't deny

me," he said, "...open your heart to me, Katherine."

There was nothing to say, but there was. Yet, she was effectively silenced when he

mentioned that it was fifty-six caratsand it was worn by Louis the Sixteenth.

Called the Le Couer de la Mer. Here she was, a piece of history draped across her

neck by a man who was not -- but very well could've been. And she understood that

maybe he was just trying to buy her. but maybe he wasn't.

'It's for royalty. And we 'are' royalty.'

Cautiously, she trailed her eyes to him when he dipped onto the ground and

lamented about how there was nothing he couldn't give her. Nothing he would deny

her -- open her heart, why didn't you.

"..You noticed I was upset.." she started, moving her hand from the diamond

adorning her neck. In all of its shimmering beauty, she was afraid to even touch it.

She turned her head to him, looking at how he presented the diamond like it would

matter so much. "you don't have to buy me."

"...You noticed I was upset," His fingers lingered at her neck, his mouth pulled taut

with questions. She was not marveling at the heart that overlaid her own anymore

but at the fact her abjection had not gone unobserved. Not the treasure but thethought concealed "behind" the treasure was luxuriated in. Le Coeur de la Mer

dangled just under her chin, and she was just thankful someone had noticed her."...I

did," he finally said when he could properly operate his jaw again. He had little else

to offer her, however, in the way of words.Finally, she turned to peer at him; the

force of her eyes had been dilapidated in her reflection, grayed with glass. But now

he had pulled her out. She was "acknowledging" him."...You don't have to buy me,"

she said to him.The words became easier to access again. He slid her hand from

the vanity, lifted it to his lips, and brushed them against her flesh, eyes never

leaving her. "...Then let me in, Katherine," he said against the warmth of her

knuckles, "I notice more than you would believe."

Steerage **

Somehow, she had managed to squirm out of the iron grip of jewelry-laden and sun-


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splattered upper class deck.

She wasn't sure how she had gotten away, with how her white dress glimmered in

the sun and garnered so much attention. It did, to her, of course; not to anyone

else, they just ignored it. They were too caught up in their idle chatter; her mother

spoke to a bunch of women she didn't care to know and Cal was off socializing withsome of his riffraff. Subsequently, she'd managed to get away.

All she could think about that day was the artist's hands and how they'd grabbed

her, pulled her back up from the Atlantic. How his lips had coaxed her from the

stern of a ship, slipping, falling, yet falling back onto solid ground because he had

raised his head. How pleasant he'd been, and how he'd smiled so radiantly at her.

Fuck, she couldn't get him off her mind, never mind the fact that she had a fiancee.

Whatever it meant, she didn't care.

So she'd cautiously let herself through the gate.And people stared.

She didn't want to cause a commotion -- christ -- and she was suddenly overcome

with an intense anxiety. She didn't like it, being the object of attention. She didn't

like these fucking glittery clothes that showed off too much. When she walked past

the people, how they looked at her; the girls that danced in laced-up boots and

flowing skirts, in muted colors. It was beautiful, and she wasn't allowed down here,

but she was.

Eyes fluttering about, she noticed men playing on the piano. Unbeknownst to her, it

was Leuther, who had a norwegian girl close in his arms and was talking, gigglingwith her. "Speak English? Speak"

And then he looked at her, too. The room was silent.

Alfons was sitting on a chair, with a little girl, scribbling in something.

Her face lit up when she saw him. "Mr. Heideri--umAlfons?"

Drawing was a decidedly fascinating activity to children, before their grease pens

and wax crayons lost their luster, and they learned that the only way to be an artistwas starving. On a street curb, in the gutter, on the third class deck, he was no

stranger to the curious shadow of a tiny head cast across the page. "What are you

drawing?" they always wanted to know. And generally he would try to explain,

until their interest faltered, and they went over to inspect an insect or pluck an

apple while the grocer's back was turned.Cora was different. She had asked him no

questions, had not requested that he draw her. She had ebbed uncertainly in his

peripheral for a few minutes, until he had finally lifted his eyes and smiled.


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4:21

Her dark, tightly-spun head of spirals had bobbed under his arm, vying for a better

look, and he had sat there patiently, continuing to draw, not even flinching when

she mashed his thigh with a scrabbling hand. She watched him like this for a few

minutes, before working the pencil from his fingers. Right next to his sketch--of

Leuther and the Norwegian girl--she began to doodle, and he just smiled against hisupturned hand and told himself he would try again later.

A bunny, a lamb, a dolphin--she told him she had seen one of those earlier that

day--gamboled across the page. She drew a Santa-esque captain, and the Titanic

skimmed along triangular waters and puffed great, fluffy clouds into the sky.

When he got his pencil back, he quickly sketched the woman from last night--

Katherine Drechsler. With every stroke, he recalled the contours of her face more

vividly.

"It's her," Cora announced, and he had stopped drawing to gaze at her. She said,

"Mommy said she is a princess."

At that, his smile broadened.

4:21

It was about this time that an eerie hush fell over the room, and both the child and

Alfons lifted their heads to see the woman on the page, drawn to life.

"Mr. Heideri," she started, corrected herself, "Alfons?"

"Um..." Quickly, he snapped the sketch book shut, then bent close to mutter into

the little girl's curl-covered ear. "We'll draw more later, okay?" He rose to a stand

then, feeling the cabin spin deliriously around him. "Hello again,"

In all of the quiet that stirred around them, she was engrossed in the artist thatstood up and greeted her so warmly after murmuring something to the girl besidehim. The attention was unnecessary, she didn't like it at all, so she buried herthoughts in the boy in front of her.

Talking with him was completely called for, and it had been completely worthsnaking down through the gates of the third class with saucer eyes cast her way.

They weren't like china, though, and she liked that; they weren't made out ofprecious jewelry, but rather, made from laughter. The people down here, afterlooking at her -- and god, it was quiet.

She could hear the mumbles about her. Either about how gorgeous her dress was,how pretty that young lady is, or what the hell are the first class swine doing downhere with the likes of us? They mixed, and swirled together, but she merely smiledat the little girl beside Alfons, and then right back to him.

"Can I talk to you on the promenade deck? I'd like to -- if you're not too busy," Andshe said this much more gently than Cal had, and she'd meant it, too.


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Fate was fickle. He knew this--and accepted it--better than anyone. Fortune might

gust favorably in one direction, then send you surging right back to the shore. So

soon after the pivotal poker match, he supposed he was expecting Lady Luck to

turn her smile on someone else for a while. Yet here was this beautiful girl--

beautiful, "first-class" girl--breaking from dining by violin and skirting indulgentservants to visit him.

"Can I talk to you on the promenade deck?" she inquired. "I'd like to--if you're not

too busy."

"No, no," he said and turned to give the small girl a smile. "I can come back later.

After you." Sweeping his sketchbook under one arm, he gestured with the other for

her to lead the way. They left the crowded room in a hushed uproar, and as he

passed Leuther, he lifted his eyebrows with a smile.

On Deck **

She'd been walking for what seemed like hours, and yet she wasn't tired.

Not even the way her heels clacked against the deck, how the breeze from the

ocean pushed at her and urged her to collapse onto one of the chairs. No, she

couldn't feel tired, not when she was in the presence of this artist that she'd gotten

to known better in two hours than she knew most of the people that slipped in and

out of the room she was confined in. It was startling.

Never before had she spilled her guts to someone like that; never before had she

laughed so hard, or told someone so much. And she'd just met him, the wonderful

man who'd pulled her back over. Far away from the Atlantic.

And she liked being with him, she did. There wasn't any pressure to act polite and

reserved and 'god' she really did like it.

How was it possible that he knew more about her than her fiancee` did?

So, here they were, going around the deck for the thousandth time, and she smiled

warily at him.

"Getting tired yet?"

Sketchbook papers waving like tattered sails, the sun warm on the patchy shoulders

of his shirt, Alfons followed her around and around the promenade deck. Matching

her step-for-step, he would glance at her occasionally while she politely conversed


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with some oil tycoon or watched the hem of her dress sweep around her shoes; the

great wide sky was a backdrop, she the center piece. The ocean lovingly swept

flyaway strands behind her ears, and her lips folded back against a glimmering

smile. For all his traveling, Alfons was not sure he had ever seen such a beautiful

person. But he was by no means feigning interest in her words; she talked about

her morning, the infuriating things her mother had said, the contemptuous drawl inthe dining hall. He listened and raised his eyebrows when appropriate, putting in a

word here and there. The rate at which he was learning about her was exceedingly

fast, he realized, but part of him was excited--honored, even, to be let in on her

secrets. He had the feeling, anyway, that few others had heard quite as much as he

had.

9:30

"...Getting tired yet?" she asked at one point, her smile cautious, as though she was

worried she had said too much.

Instantly, he shook his head, "No way. Let's do a few more laps around this ship,

you and me." He smiled, readjusted the pad of paper beneath his arm, and then

looked to her again. "I could understand if 'you' are, though. Having to walk all theway down to the bowels of the Titanic like that." A note of hesitant jocularity hung

in his voice; so she was engaged? That was fine. He still did not want to frighten

her off with his misplaced humor, though...

Relief flooded over her when he only smiled at her after she'd asked if he was tired,

saying he wanted to do a few more laps around the ship. She hadn't scared him off

when she had decided to run her mouth, again and again, like a fucking sound loopgoing on endlessly. But at the same time, it wasn't endless -- it was different things.

It was complaining, it was her childhood, it was her feelings and thoughts that most

people didn't know at all.

So he was happy to be around her, and adjusted whatever he had underneath his

arm again.

'Having to walk all the way down to the bowels of the Titanic..'

And here, 'he' smiled eagerly, so she couldn't push away a laugh. Not all for his

want to crack a joke."But it was nice down there, everyone was together," She commented, trailing off

the deck and over to the railing. She wasn't hanging over it; simply leaning, and god

she was glad she hadn't jumped.

"You know..thank you for listening to me," She started, tilting her eyes back up to

his. "It's just so fucking frustrating. I know what you're thinking..poor little rich girl,

what does she have to worry about? But it's everyone, and you heard it, and god,"


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She stretched out her hand to look down at the diamond twinkling on her finger.

It clasped around it, cold and uncaring. She didn't know what to make of Cal, but

dear god she knew she couldn't spend the rest of her life with him. "I just want to

'go'," She started, "Wherever life takes me. But look at this thing,"

And here, she flashed it at him. "Trapped, and I hate it."

"But it was nice down there," she insisted, eyes wide and endearing, "everyone was together."

He tailed her to the railing, to watch the shadow cut through the ocean and the light just over

that. He did not watch her closely or anything like that; he knew she had never had any

intentions of jumping, not even from the beginning."You know...thank you for listening to me."

Alfons lifted his eyes--not out of disbelief, exactly, but a wary sort of curiosity. "It's just so fucking

frustrating. I know what you're thinking," she went on, "poor little rich girl. What does she have to

worry about?" He drew himself up from the railing and shook his head a second time. "No. I'mthinking 'what must have happened to this girl to make her think there was no way out?'"

"But it's everyone, and you heard it, and God," she turned away from him again and extended

her hand. Not in a vain way, like she might be admiring her nails, but her eyes were markedly

dismal at the sun-engorged twinkling coming from her finger.

"God!" he exclaimed, reaching out to grip her hand--to touch it more than to really get a better

look at the ring. "Look at that thing! You would have sunk right to the bottom!"

"Trapped, and I hate it." "If this is your engagement ring, I'd suggest you don't ride anymore

ships after you're married."

When he released her hand, he gazed at her, silent, a question beading on the tip of his tongue.

Finally, dismissing all propriety, he asked it, "Do you love him?"

She ranted, and she could feel herself going on and on. Like she was spinning in circles, yet he

still remained so interested in what she had to say. Same old, and apparently her plight wasn't

one that he didn't understand; 'what must've happened to this girl to make her think there was

no way out?'

Looking at him, she scrutinized him -- the ruffled hair, the earnest expression crossing his face.The shirt that looked too flimsy against the sea air, and the suspenders that clung to his frame;

some would think he didn't understand anything.

And yet he did,well. Very, very well.

When she reached out her hand, he exclaimed that she would've gone right to the bottom -- she

laughed, shaking her head. "I know, it's atrocious, and--"

She hesitated after he'd released her hand, and he was watching 'her' now.


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'Do you love him?'

Blank expression, and the bones in her hands cracked. Twitched. Something like that.

"that's hardly a proper question! It doesn't matter," Huffing, she puffed her hair from her face.

"You can't ask that,"

"...That's hardly a proper question!"

Alfons lifted his eyebrows. After the barrage released on their morning walk, he hardly

expected her to resist the question. He just thumbed his bottom lip and marveled over

how quickly she could weave between imprisoned and "proper".

"It doesn't matter," she added and cleared the hair from her face with an indelicate

breath, "you can't ask that."

"It's a simple question," he insisted, tucking his tongue into his cheek. "Do you love the

guy or not?"

By now, the answer was staring them in the face, like a licorice-colored smoke stack

dividing the sky. She did not want to say yes. Part of him was sad for this; it was

obvious their eventual marriage had been arranged, probably for financial reasons, and

she had little say in the matter. But part of him remembered the way she had leaned

her head on her fiance's shoulder the night before with a dim sort of satisfaction.

Still, he wanted to hear it for himself, and he leaned against the railing expectantly.

"Well?"

Aggravation had settled over her -- it was sharp, vying, and she resisted the urge to

glare at him.

But she couldn't bring herself to. Not at those gleaming blue eyes that wanted to know

-- wanted to know because she was kidding herself into thinking he gave a shit. Wasn't

out of curiosity; it was because he was concerned. Roped into this, and he saw it; he

saw every little flicker of her eyes and nervous quake in her breath.

She couldn't bring herself to answer, either. She settled herself when he leaned

expectantly against the railing -- do you love the guy or not? Do you love him when he

draws a necklace around your neck and you try to, or what the fuck is it?

"You need to --"

Tensing, she reached out to grab the sketchbook in his hands.

"Agh!" Ad hominem argument, direct attention away, and she sat down on the deck

chairs adjacent to him. "What even is this stupid thing anyway?" With gritting teeth, she

hated how he made her angry and yet so damn happy at the same time. Intrigued.

She flipped through the pages and felt her shoulders fall.

Drawings. Hundreds of them. Detail, beauty from the page.


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"Oh..wow.."

She looked up to him, then, squinting her eyes in the sunlight. "I do like artists,"

By the twitch in her neck, he could tell the words were churning in her throat, and her

mouth writhed incomprehensibly around them. It was as good as any "no", and hecould not say he blamed her. He could not forget the possessive, vulturine way her

fiance's arm had lead her away.

Still, it was not his place to point out such matters--let alone question them, he

supposed. So when she snatched the sketchbook from under his arm, he resisted little.

"What even is this stupid thing anyway?"

He lifted his eyebrows at the awkward phrasing; someone was a little flustered. He

answered, "My drawings."

And then knitted his hands together and took a seat beside her, strategically positioning

himself so that he was close but not "too" close. The ocean air gathered her perfume

into its arms and waved it teasingly in his face.

"Oh...wow," she breathed. She glanced up from an older sketch--one he had done in

London, men hoisting a ladder--and squinted through the sun at him. "I do like artists."

Smiling crookedly, he rubbed the back of his neck and replied, "They didn't think much

of them in Old Pair-ee."

Flip, flip through the weathered pages, and it was like he was telling her 'his' life story,

too.

Oh, he'd told her quite a bit about himself -- but these drawings, the marks on the

paper, revealed tidbits she would've never heard before. She could see when he had

been frustrated, happy, upset, whatever; the marks were different. Every time amongstthe faded yellow.

Amazement settled over her, and she moved her fingers across the page when he said

that they didn't think much of them in 'Ol' Pair-ee'. Here, he was able to illicit a soft

smile. Soft like the pages.

"My god, Alfons, these are beautiful," Another flip; to a picture of a child cradled in a

hand. Again, she trailed through the pictures, came across naked figures strewn onto

the page. Picture-perfect, gorgeous, but she could feel the crimson rise to her face a

little bit. "O-oh--" She started, swallowing. But they were exquisite.

"You know, I draw too. But..never drew this kind of stuff"

Same model again, and she narrowed her eyes. Smiled as she inched closer to him.

Taking his hand to rustle it with that same smile. "You like this woman, huh? You used

her several times." A pause. Coy. "I think you had a love affair with her,"


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In Paris, the pages had gone quite untouched--except by him, of course. Sometimes,

after she had draped the artwork of her body with a robe, the model might thumb

through his other sketches, though she would never care much where her cigarette

ashes drifted.

Katherine, however, deliberated over the pages. He watched her fingers admire the

grain of the paper, study it, caress slowly. Her eyes were narrowed--against the sunbut he thought maybe concentration too. Her eyes skimmed up every line--every

curve, every hatch mark. The jagged, the sweeping, the half-hearted. He felt she had

not opened up his sketch book but his chest cavity.

Finally, she had reached the nude sketches.

"O-oh," she said, and Alfons scratched his upper lip and tried not to let her see him

gauging her reaction. She went on, "You know, I draw too. But...never drew this kind

of stuff...don't have the nerve."

"Well, that's the good thing about Paris," he said and gave another lopsided smile, "lots

of girls willing to take their clothes off."

When she reached the series of drawings of a particular woman, the embarrassment

began to disperse. Instead, her smile began to mirror his own. She noted that he must

have liked her--he had used her several times. In all their rather intimate exchange, it

was the first time Alfons had rushed to his own defense.

"It's just--she had beautiful hands. See?"

"I think you had a love affair with her."

"No! Just with her hands! She was a one-legged prostitute...look,"

Another flip of the page, and she found she was not only immersed in the lines but in

his voice, too. It was like a moving picture, maybe -- he narrated it, even when he wasreadily explaining that 'no', there had been no love affair, she just had beautiful hands.

He tripped over himself to correct her, making sure she knew she was a one legged

prostitute, it seemed; here she balked and tried to suppress a lag -- and she was sort of

relieved. That he hadn't.

She caught herself and looked back to him.

"You're gifted, Alfons. You see people," Quietly, she ducked her head to look more at

the pictures, flipping again and again. Came to one of the more recent pages. "Saw

me more than anyone has,"

She paused, blinked. From the page, figures gazed up at her -- one in particular

reminded her of the figure in fleeting glances at the mirror.

Mesmerized, she allowed her eyes to roam the page, the features of the faces. "Who is

this?"

Pointed unwittingly to herself, recognizing and not recognizing.


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Aside from a small gag, she recovered rapidly, and she lifted her gaze. Alfons moved

his head, just enough to obscure the sun; he wanted her eyes opened wide. Looking at

him.

"You're gifted, Alfons," she said, "you see people."

He took the sketchbook into his lap and closed it deftly, just as an upperclassgentleman sauntered by. His smile, however, never fled. "I see you."

"...Saw me more than anyone has," she appended. Alfons had a feeling it had not

been meant for his ears, and so he did not reply. He just ducked his head and felt his

smile broaden.

"Who is this?"

When he looked up, he fully expected to see some stranger on the page. Some person

he had connected briefly with, in the square, in a tavern. Instead, he saw the crude

sketch of her. Immediately, he realized her lips should have been fuller, her nose more

upturned.

He hesitated for a few moments, then shut the sketch book over the page.

"A very beautiful woman."

Spit Like A Man**

So they day had gone by, and she'd barely noticed.

She wasn't watching a clock in a far corner of a room, ticking while glasses of china

clinked against each other. Not overwhelmed by a chatter that she could make no

sense of, nor of how the sunlight just barely and maddeningly trickled into the room.

She'd always wanted more.

And there she was, carefree, laughing on the deck as

Titanic - April 11

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