Waves of Tomorrow | Titanic

Day 0 (April 9th, 1912)

The cold breeze makes its way through the window. It travels lightly, delicately grazing the surfaces it touches: the papers on the desk flutter, the fan tilts ever so slightly, the bed sheets grow cold. It saunters its way to the smouldering candle which dimly lights the melancholy room, causing a flicker but not an extinction. Finally, it reaches me. I can feel it travelling up my arm; it saunters past my neck before kissing my cheek, ending its act by kindly pushing my hair away from my face. I shudder.

I sit up from the primitive armchair and stroll to the source of my troubles. The window rests slightly propped open, revealing a quaint view of the dark night. The moon brightens the city, revealing tight streets and old buildings, with an ocean flanking the complexes of Southampton. The view, however, is not enough to outweigh the harsh air being blown into the hotel room. I promptly shut the window, thankful it's spring and not winter.

Sighing, I make my way towards the desk, one of the few amenities of the dismal room. I stretch in the chair and check my watch: 23:00. I groan, not wanting to sleep and make the time pass even faster.

I glance over to the desk, seeing the paperwork spread out across the wood. I think if I see the word "Titanic" one more time, I'm going to go insane, I think to myself. I push aside the papers. Reaching my hand into my pocket I pull out a photograph. It's seen better days; the small, browned photo has torn edges and dirt smudges covering a majority of the surface. Standing proud through the distress, a young man stands posed, smiling at the photo's audience.

Charles Brook. He has brown hair and a nice smile. Cleanly dressed, rich, educated, all you could want in a man. My fiancé.

He wrote to me many times since our arrangement was set up six months ago. A couple of letters introducing himself, explaining his hobbies, talking about our future life. I didn't write anything in return.

Being sent to America, married off to some aristocrat without any say in it, any say in my future. I have never even met this man and now I am condemned to bearing his children.

My mother met his parents in Italy during one of her many "excursions," as she'd call them, and insists that the family is "everything and more I could ask for." To that I asked how much money her and father would be making from the agreement; she told me that doesn't matter.

Regardless of whether he is kind and would be a good husband, I will not be treated like property, essentially being sold without my permission. I want to marry on my own terms.

I'm sure my parents anticipated my distaste for the situation. As much as I tried to emancipate myself from the arrangement, I was met with more and more restrictions. No point in running away with no money as a woman.

Little do they know I have been preparing for this voyage since I knew my American fate five months ago. As soon as I hit American soil it'll be bye-bye arranged marriage and hello homelessness on the streets of New York: anything is better than being metaphorically tied to, essentially, a stranger my whole life, no matter how nice he may be. I'll sort something out when I get to America, I always do.

I have yet to tell Rose of my intentions when I get to New York, though she is aware of my ailments and my rather rampant spirit, so I'm sure she has made the proper assumptions already.

It's rather refreshing to have a friend in such a kindred position, engaged to a man when she wishes she was free. Unfortunately for her, she knows her fiancé is a bastard, at least mine has the potential to be alright. Maybe we can run off in New York together, though she might take a bit of convincing.

I've known her for a few years; although she is American, she has resided in England for a while now. Even though I have her beat in age by more than a few years, I've always viewed her as a friend, a younger sister even. She's naïve, unbeknownst to much of the turmoil of the world: I envy her, yet I'm sure she envies me. Being betrothed at 17 to a miscreant is a box I've never personally checked off.

A muffled crash breaks my reminiscent thoughts. I hear voices from the room over, but eventually the silence slowly returns. My parents must be sleeping soon. They came to Southampton with me for a "proper send-off," as they won't see me again until the wedding. My mother was very vocal in her jealousy of me being able to travel not only to America, but in one of the most luxurious cruise liners in the world. She's always been one for novelty.

Luckily, or not so luckily, Rose's mother, Ruth, has been instructed to watch over me for the trip, as well as the ship's designer, Thomas Andrews, who will be on the voyage as well. Not quite sure how my parents made that connection, but alas, I won't dwell on the details. I haven't heard much about him, but I can hope he just leaves me alone to do my own bidding.

I reach over to my satchel on the floor and pull out my sketchbook. I flip to an open page and begin drawing with an abandoned pencil rolling along the desk. I do my best to capture the buildings, the ocean, and of course the moon from outside the window: my last glance of England. I'll miss it.

After finishing my masterpiece, I put the sketchbook back into the bag and throw it onto the bed, my body collapsing face-first beside it. My eyes begin to close, but before I slip into complete darkness, use my last bit of energy to roll over and prop myself up. I lean over to the nightstand and blow the candle out, leaving the room dark, with only a slight glow of moonlight.

I take one last deep breath before retiring my head to one of the stiff pillows. I stare up at the ceiling, studying the texture and roughness of the surface. Something about it is comforting. I shake my head as I wrap the blankets around my body, allowing them to engulf me in arms of warmth. Positioning myself sideways, I grow comfortable and drowsy. Just before the wave of darkness washes over my consciousness, I think about tomorrow. The day I leave England. The day I leave everything I know behind. The day I leave my life. Regardless of what happens when I land in New York, my life will change tomorrow. It'll change forever.