The Last Romantics

The Table Is About To Tilt

As time wore on, no names were yet announced. The day passed with the news of the sinking upon everyone's list, the disaster making headlines for three days straight before at last some silly little murder took its place as the subject of the popular gossip. When at long last the details of the sinking all seemed to be wrapping up, save for the complete list of the confirmed dead, what news they could gather appeared in nothing more than a small column, hidden away in the mess of yesterday's new on the back of the forth page. Now that the actual news had been more or less confirmed, detailing the sinking, the storm, and the lack of rescue, the conspiracy theories began to erupt. Some said that it was an attack by the Germans, others suggested that perhaps another cargo ship had rammed into it with the purpose of stifling any competition on their way to the Philippines. The way that the ship had sunk was not necessarily my concern; in fact I could not have cared less about which one of the Norse sea gods might have had a vengeance against the particular cargo. All I cared about was the news of the survivors. These rumors flew not through the paper, but my word of mouth. All of the sudden survivor stories began popping up in every nautical bar I could think to visit, detailing a lifeboat pulling into Italy, Turkey, Algeria, even in places as close as France! What time I did not spend hiding within my room I spent searching for answers, going to the docks and nearly terrorizing any one I could find for information regarding possible survivors. Each day I heard a different story, each day they seemed to come up with something new, always just slightly more outrageous. I left the sailors alone now, deciding that the last story I was going to hear was the one detailing a man riding out of the waves on a dolphin. If there was hope, perhaps I would let it come to me. If John was alive he would be returning, any day now returning! I would wait, I suppose, for my job was particularly limited here on the sad side of London. All the while I read the newspapers, my eyes not daring to linger to the familiar poetry section, the section which might have saved my John Watson if not for my own carelessness! Was it really I who had determined such a fate for him, was it really my fault for having neglected his notebook and doomed him to board that ship? Well the blame could span so many ways, I could be mad at myself for losing his poem, I could be mad at Mary for not securing him a job with her father, I could even be mad at Poseidon for his apparent 'wrath against the spice trade'. But whoever I placed the guilt on did not seem to do much difference, for I was continually fighting off feelings of despair, of self hatred...and none of it was doing any difference. No matter who I ground my teeth for, no matter who I vowed to beat, well John still didn't show. Whosever fault it was...well perhaps it was a blame that was shared. It would be no use, wallowing in my misery without a solid goal in mind. I must set my sights onto the more positive side; I needed to focus not on why John was on that ship, rather how he could have gotten off of it. As the days passed I found it more and more unbelievable that such a man could have sunken with the wreckage. I didn't believe that the hands of fate, the very hands that had brought us together in the first place, would allow him to float ever downwards into the darkness. Was there not a purpose in our lives; was there not some destiny that had not yet been fulfilled? No, no John was supposed to be something far more meaningful than a name on the list of casualties. He was destined to be a poet, destined to fame! He was supposed to love me until our dying days, not leave me to wallow in my loneliness until at last death took my by the hand. There were factors at play, more powerful beings than I could ever fathom...there must be. No one would curse John Watson to the depths; no divine being could ever be so cruel. John had always claimed that his fate was linked to the sea, though I believed wholeheartedly that he was instead linked to me. I would not let that churning body of water take away from me the only man I had ever loved...I would not let our story end here. And what power did I have in it, what difference did my own optimism make? Well...perhaps no difference at all. Though I felt as though I would need some purpose, if not to take the stance of a grieving widow. I was connected in all of this, and it was my mindset alone that would set me apart. I had to be the hero in this story, or else it would never be worth telling. I had to take action, dare our little fairytale end there, and end in tragedy.