The RMS Titanic. The unsinkable ship. The unsinkable ship that sank in the early hours of April fifteen, nineteen-twelve.
I still feel the rattling in my bones that consumed my thoughts at the time we sideswiped that cursed iceberg.
I still see the panic on so many unrecognisable yet simultaneously unforgettable faces. Including the faces of those who perished. And seeing the rush of women desperately trying to get their children to a lifeboat, while knowing they were sending off life-boats half full, even less.
I still feel it in my stomach. The sinking sensation. The one that I felt when I leapt from the deck, clutching dearly onto a debris piece of furniture, praying it would keep me afloat.
I still feel the same numbness that consumed the entirety of my body when I was engulfed by the freezing Atlantic waters.
I desperately called for James, praying he made it onto a lifeboat, or onto any device capable of floating. Though I knew deep down, he didn't. I knew he'd still be working to keep her afloat. I could feel it in my heart.
Over one and a half thousand souls perished in those waters. I shouldn't have survived. I didn't want to. Not without James.
YOU ARE READING
The Ship of Dreams
Ficción históricaThis was an English Extension1 assessment task (yr 11): An appropriation of three main texts- James Cameron's 'Titanic' BBC radio's 'letters from the titanic' And of course, the facts of the historical event. Lucille and James embark on what-should...
