This Could Be The End of Everything

The Palm Court Restaurant was once light and airy, with opulent, trellised decor, wicker cane furniture, and large floor-to-ceiling windows looking out to the vast, peaceful sea. Now, though, that sea was black, glassy, and restless. It tilted. It was frightening. It felt cruel when it had once felt soothing. The strongest vessel, now emptying her entire contents into the freezing, unforgiving, bitter Atlantic Ocean, left them to fend for themselves.

Thomas Andrews had stood eerily still in the First Class Smoking Room and, with deeply caring eyes, had wished Rose onwards with good luck. He had been left with an emptiness of guilt and shame as he watched them scramble onwards. Jack had urged her to leave him standing there, and in return, she had been given his life jacket. She clutched to the shoulder of ir, her entire body trembling, and it was as though she had not realised the true gravity of everything until now in this very moment.

"Not the better half." Cal's smug voice echoed in her ears, and her stomach lurched, bile rising into her throat, and her eyes stung with unshed emotion. She was cold, so very cold, she could feel it seeping into her bones. Cal's woollen overcoat was sodden from almost drowning below decks and nearly being shot by both Cal and Lovejoy. The latter, when Cal hurried back up the staircase like a drowned rat when the water rose too high, his ammo ran out, leaving his lackey to attempt to finish the job. It was almost laughable; the scene highlights Cal's true cowardity. As Jack was the victor, his agile and nimble physique, paired with the reflexes of a young pugnacious lad who had lost his mother and father far too young, had overpowered the older, greying ex-Pinkerton.

They were only just finding their way back up towards the decks now. The coat that Cal had thrust upon her was burdensome, yet she was still propelled onwards from some unknown source of strength; perhaps this was the fire Jack was talking about. This power inside her was the one she had failed even to recognise until this very day, and now it had somehow started to burn brightly.

Glancing about, it was apparent that the other passengers were either stupefied by what was happening or absolutely hysterical. Her only anchor to reality was Jack's tight grip upon her hand, stringing her through the dense crowd as they reached the other side of the once luxurious cafe, which was now in utter turmoil.

She could hear the band off somewhere playing a faded Nearer My God To Thee; the lonely, haunting notes chilled her to the very core. Instantly, she pulled at Jack's wrist, fingers brushing against his broken restraints and scrapes from what she assumed were from his attempts to free himself before she discovered him, causing him to turn. Immediately, his blue eyes filled with concern that she could have wept for days.

''Rose?''

''Jack.'' Rose's voice faltered after that. A lump rose in her throat, making it difficult to speak. She could barely breathe through the panic that was escalating within and around her.

''Rose,'' Jack's voice wavered as he repeated her name, unable to stop his tremors as he pulled at Rose's coat sleeve, ''you were so damned stupid, know that?'' Echoing words that he repeated at the bottom of the Grand Staircase rushed out softly. Both of them knew. They were sure they could not live without the other, not now.

His breathing grew erratic as his adrenaline refused to die down. Given the chance, he could have dragged Lovejoy below decks, dragging Rose throughout the entire ship. He would have done anything. Anything to save their lives and escape this Hell.

Was there any blame to be laid? He felt like tearing into someone, but his own body seemed to fail him, pulling and aching as he dragged them both. With chattering teeth, he focused on Rose and searched her eyes within the darkness with a new quietness that had fallen over them.

Palm Court was dark, with only outward lights from the deck casting an eerie glow of doom. He led her to the window, towards the light looming out ahead. It was like a different plain of existence, without much panic or warning of what was happening—or what had happened—just metres below their feet.