Falling Rose Petals

Prologue: Not Alone Anymore

Disclaimer: I do not own Titanic. All rights to the characters goes to James Cameron. I only own the plot.

Prologue: 1901

Not Alone Anymore

A monarch butterfly fluttered around a neatly-pinned mass of red curls protruding from the head of a very young, very beautiful girl. Lying in the grass, you would think she was an angel fallen from heaven instead of a human being. Her looks were practically immortal, and the girl was only nearing seven years of age.

"Mr. Butterfly, do you think that there's more in this world than society?" the little girl asked the monarch, which was flapping its wings and flying around her slumped figure (something her mother would have scolded her for if she had been there with her). It finally landed on a long piece of grass, which drooped because of the butterfly's weight. It took off again, flew around the innocent girl once more, then fluttered away into the flaming red sun. This guiltless act made the child sigh.

She slowly raised herself up and sat in the long, green field with her legs crossed, caring less about the stains on her light pink, frilly skirt. Pulling out a small handful of weed, she stared at it with her soft but intense blue-green eyes with the lengthy lashes. "Why did he have to leave? Now I'm all alone," the girl whispered, talking to herself silently. For her, loneliness—due to stubborn rebellion—was her life since birth.

That's when she heard a rustle. Her head jerked up, and her dark red curls that once fell in her face were brushed aside by the peaceful breeze. Her large, round eyes focused on the mountainous region in the background where the sun was setting, making the large mounds of dirt and grass look purplish in color, like the sky. The Pennsylvanian landscape was hilly and dashed with meadows, something she liked very much.

But if she liked Philadelphia or not didn’t matter, for she saw, just in time, a flash of blue peeking out of the tall grasses near her.

This girl was an honest one. She never lied; that is, never had the need to. She was raised by her good-mannered, bossy mother, who knew when she was being dishonest. It was as though she had her own lying detector. Pushing aside that fact, this porcelain doll was honestly scared. She knew that, for her own safety, she had to say something. A warning, perhaps. Or a scream.

"I-I know you're there," she said in her shaky, defensive voice. "So there's no point in hiding."

There was another rustle in the distance and a small boy appeared. He was tall, ragged, and roughened. She saw tears in his eyes, glazed by pain. Her observant eyes scanned him up and down, her mind—intelligent and thoughtful for her age—processing what she assumed to be this boy’s life.

This poor boy, she thought. Practically traumatized, but much older than me. Possibly a couple years. Taking a deep breath, she stood. His blue eyes widened.

"Who are you?" the female youth, no longer scared, but curious, asked as she took an intimidating step forward. "You look as though you've seen a ghost! Pale as a sheet."

The boy's voice shook as he spoke. He decided to be brief. "M-my name is Jack Dawson, and my parents just died."

The redhead froze and saddened. This poor, poor boy! Penniless, most likely, and now he's lost his parents! What will happen to him?

"O-oh!" she exclaimed instead of voicing what she thought. "I'm so sorry! I had no idea! It's just–"

"It's okay," the boy named Jack said. "You don't need to feel bad for me."

"Well, of course I'm going to pity you a little. I mean…you're an orphan! Penniless with nowhere to go, I'm assuming…" Her voice faded off, and she looked down at her white patent shoes and knee-high socks, slightly embarrassed.