In the bleak December, on a silent evening where no sunlight could pierce through the dense clouds, the sea was as still as glass and snow was falling flake upon flake into its dark flows. A huge ship cut through the icy waters of the Atlantic, her bow proudly standing against the frosty wind. Her majestic, slender black hull and her four gigantic funnels painted in scarlet red gave her the proudest allures amongst all ships on the Ocean. With twenty-six knots in speed and nearly eight hundred feet in length, she was the fastest and the most luxurious of the steamers at sea, making the crossing between Liverpool and New York in less than five days, an exploit which had earned her the title of "Greyhound of the Sea." Presently she was steaming westbound, leaving Queenstown and the coast of Ireland behind her. Amidst the myriads of snowflakes tumbling down from the sky, the coastline was now barely visible as it slowly disappeared at the horizon.
It was one of the coldest days of the year, and almost all the passengers onboard were hiding in the comfort of their cabins, or chattering by the fires of the sumptuous saloons, or dancing to the sound of violin and bagpipes. Christmas was no more than a few days away. Out on the deck, a frail silhouette appeared in the wind and walked towards the stern of the vessel. It was a young girl of fourteen, maybe fifteen years old, she was wrapped in clothing made from the plainest fabric which could be afforded by the working class. Though liveable, it was definitely not coldproof.
The young girl stood at the stern of the ship, her hands gripping the freezing metal of the railing as with eyes filled with emotions of an indescribable intensity, she contemplated the slowly fading Irish coast. Presently she drew from under her coat and scarf a glass bottle containing a piece of paper. In the silence and the solitude of the Atlantic, two pearls of tear rolled down along her cheeks and dripped into the dark Ocean below. She raised the bottle to her lips, kissed it and, after glancing one last time toward the coastline, which had now became almost completely invisible, she tossed it overboard and left. The glass bottle drifted away in the waves, carrying to the sea the cry of a soul deeply wounded by the world:
"December 22, 1910. Onboard the R.M.S. Lusitania.
Goodbye all."
YOU ARE READING
Stars On The Atlantic
Short StoryA girl with a broken past searching for a place she can call home and a boy with a shattered dream who still holds its sharp debris firmly in his hands cross paths unexpectedly on one of the world's most prestigious ocean liners sailing towards an u...
