TOMORROW'S APRIL
Chapter Two
Reflections of Jack Dawson
"Here we go, B 34..." Jack Dawson murmured
softly to himself, trying desperately to balance the two thin wooden crates in
his hands. He struggled to reach the key that lay inside his back pocket, but
finally retrieved it, aiming it toward the lock. Right before he turned it, he
felt a jolt from behind. A rather large man had backed himself against Jack's
crates- causing them to press into his legs. Jack winced and pushed back,
startling the other man.
"Oh, my goodness...sir, I'm sorry!"
The man backed away apologetically, bowing slightly towards Jack. He was an
older man, with a large mustache, and tan wool suit. He began walking again,
giving Jack one last glance over his shoulder, nodding.
"Sure...whew..." Jack whispered
sarcastically to himself, then sighed before pushing the door wide open. He
skidded inside, and dropped the contents of his arms to the floor, not really
caring where they ended up. His blond hair fell in his eyes as he leaned back,
shutting the door closed with his left foot.
He froze for a moment, surveying the contents
of his room.
"Whoa." Jack mumbled. He'd taken a
first class cabin, but only because second class had been full. And although
the thought of being in this section of the ship at first sickened him, the
advantages had begun to pile up quickly. Here, there would be no noisy
roommates out into all hours of the night, no disturbances. And Jack certainly
didn't need any disturbances on this voyage- he needed to be alone, with his
thoughts. How ironic this was- after all that had transpired- here was Jack
Dawson, in a first class cabin aboard the Saxonia. Of course, he was thankful
to even be able to afford this now. And he owed that to the selling of his
paintings in Paris-
Across the room was a large cherry wood
dresser, and atop that, fresh flowers. There was a round table, also of dark
wood, with two large wicker chairs beside it. And of course, the white ivory
sink- clean and sparkling, with a mirror and cabinet directly above it. The
paneling on the walls was in itself rather dark also, and although the room was
spacious, comfortable, and painstakingly well decorated, it seemed rather
depressing. So dark.
Well, at least it matches the way I feel,
Jack thought to himself, just noticing that his two suitcases had already been
deposited by the steward into the nearby corner. With his feet, Jack wearily
pushed his two crates, carrying his remaining paintings, right next to them.
The bed was close to the door, and Jack stepped forward, skidding toward it. He
fell face forward into the fresh white sheets-
"Humph." Jack sputtered and made a
face, turning himself over into a comfortable position, reaching up tiredly to
undo his tie. He threw it across the room, not even bothering to watch where it
landed, and closed his eyes, wishing with all his might that the painful headache
he'd had all day would go away. This day had not been a good one for Jack
Dawson. Not that he expected it to be. It was April 10th- and another
heart-rending anniversary was on its way. He couldn't believe he was actually
sailing today- of all days- but he'd been unable to secure tickets for any
other ship. When he'd stood on the dock this afternoon- everything seemed to
hit at once. Like a thousand knives stabbing him all over his body...
Eight years since the poker game that had
changed his life forever. Eight years since he'd fallen in love with Rose
Dewitt Bukater. Eight years since he'd lost her. It was almost unbelievable-
that he had even made it through this length of time- alone and emotionally
scarred. Seeing the massive ship that he was now inside of- triggered the
memories like never before, and he found himself wondering- if the pain would
ever lessen, would ever heal completely. He had thought it was better. Somehow,
he'd convinced himself that he had moved on, gone on. But in reality- his mind
and soul still belonged to her-to Rose, to Titanic, and he guessed it always
would. Boarding the Saxonia had proven that-
The entire trip to Paris had been a disaster-
You should have seen that one coming,
Dawson...he thought to himself, grabbing the pillow at the head of the bed and
placing it over his face. The voyage over had been his first water excursion
since Titanic, and this in itself should have spelled trouble. He'd spent that
whole trip in the second class pub- drowning his sorrows in anything he could
get his hands on. He'd learned his lesson though- Drinking had not helped at
all. It had only succeeded in making him a fool. Paris hadn't been the same
place he left nine years before- nor did it hold the same magic. What had once
been his refuge, was now his constant reminder- of what he'd once been; what
he'd once strived for. The whole vacation was spent at a small gallery owned by
a friend of his boss, back in New York. Trying to negotiate with the stubborn
owner had proved quite frustrating, although, in the end, he'd purchased nearly
half of what Jack had brought over. On top of all of this, a sort of stomach
bug had taken over his system last week, and just would not go away-
Even the small pub on the Southampton dock,
which he'd visited on the spur of the moment this morning, wasn't the same. The
place where he'd won the ticket- that fateful ticket. Even it was run down now-
not at all the respectable spot it had once been-
And now here he was- heading back to a place
that held nothing for him- nothing but the shell of the person Jack Dawson used
to be. Yes, his art had been successful, and yes, he had a steady job at a
gallery downtown. But he'd lost passion, his drive, for the art he had once
adored. His paintings lacked feeling- everyone had told him that sometime
within the past eight years, and he didn't have the slightest idea of how to
revive it. The only sketches that interested him were those he'd draw of Rose
from memory- every moment they'd shared, was on a piece of paper, hanging in
his apartment- covering wall after wall. Her fiery red hair, her magical eyes-
all captured on the tip of his pencil. But when he tried to apply that love to
any other object- it was lost somewhere- gone. Sure, he'd come a long way from
the person she had known- financially, especially- but he'd changed, and wasn't
sure when the real Jack Dawson would return.
He'd lost Rose in the water- the current had
pulled their hands apart. He could feel the cold to this day- the streak of
pain that shot across his arm, as he reached for her, searched for her blindly.
When he'd resurfaced, she was gone, and all that was left was the frantic
screaming of the 1500 other souls in the water. Unwillingly, he'd been pulled
into a lifeboat- unconscious and delirious, screaming her name, he'd been told.
In such bad shape, that they'd put him in an empty cabin aboard the Carpathia-
away from the crowds. When he'd awoken, he had several people check the lists-
for Rose Dewitt Bukater- but she had not been on them. Unable to speak, unable
to move, unable to even react, he'd been taken in by one of the doctors aboard,
and nursed back to health by this kind man. Without Dr. Jacobs, Jack was sure
he would not be alive right now, and even though there were times that he
wished he had died that week- he was thankful. When the paper had pronounced
Rose deceased, the only thing that had kept him going were the kind and caring
discussions the two men would share. It was Dr. Jacobs who pressured Jack to
get out of bed- to live again. It was he who located Jack the job at the
gallery, after glancing some of the sketches of Rose he'd immediately started
after his physical recovery. And it was the sincere old doctor who convinced
Jack of one important thing- that Rose would always be with him, go with him.
His own personal adage of "making it count" echoed in his ears, and
from that time on, he'd attempted desperately to live for both of them- mostly
for Rose. But his spark, his energy for life- was gone, and he was convinced that
it had died along with her. He had never known what made him fall in love with
Rose-all he knew was that living without her now, was a daily chore. There were
the nights he'd wake up, drenched in sweat, or freezing- having relived those
last few moments in a nightmare. But then there were the days- when he was
convinced he could feel her- in the wind, in everything he touched-
Dawson, Dawson...why do you do this to
yourself? He folded his arms across his chest, removing the pillow from his
eyes, and searched the ceiling for some sort of response. Would this go on
forever- this self torture, this blame?
His stomach tossed and turned several times,
and he sat up slowly, glancing around the elaborate room once more. So
different from the third class bunk he'd shared with Fabrizio...oh how he'd
gladly go back to that life- if it meant that Rose was still alive- that his
life would still hold meaning.
"I'd better go get something to eat. No
use laying around here feeling sorry for myself." Jack murmured this to
himself, then stood up tiredly, being careful not to trip again.
He checked to make sure he had his key, then
opened the door, discovering that the crowd in the halls had calmed down
considerably. Only a few families remained- still searching for their cabins,
he guessed. Jack locked his door, tossing the key into his pocket. He ambled
down the hallway, not even bothering to swat the hair hanging in his eyes. He
still felt so out of place here, even guilty. As if he were invading their
world- even though he had the right to be here; the money. He worried if this
was a betrayal- to what he had once stood for. And most of all- a betrayal to
Rose, to all that they had talked about, planned for.
There was no way Jack was going to eat in the
first class dining room- he drew the line there. He felt no urge to break out dinner
wear- nor did he even want to deal with the inane small talk that was
inevitable. He felt more drawn to the second class dining hall- which was just
down the elevator, according to the sign before him. And so he headed there.
Besides- Jack was apprehensive about entering the first class dining room-
scared to relive the dinner with Rose, the walk down the staircase, arm in arm.
The dancing afterward...
Jack, stop...he ordered himself, stepping
unto the elevator. He nodded to the young steward.
"C deck, please."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Rose opened the door to her room cautiously,
reaching up to wipe away the last of her tears. She poked her head out, darting
her eyes down the hall. Slowly, she stepped out, clutching her purse, and
locked the room behind her. She'd put her red hair up in a tight bun, too tired
to bother washing it just yet, and had decided to take her mind off of
everything, and find something to eat. She hadn't eaten all day, and food often
provided a comfort nothing else could. Rose was thoroughly surprised that she
wasn't fat yet- considering how many times she resorted to sweets in the last
few years- to ease her pain. She also felt a need to avoid the return of her
obnoxious roommates-
She started down the hall, nodding politely
to several people, and searched for signs leading to the dining room- it was
just about dinner time. Ahead of her, she could just make out a form at the end
of the next hallway. A head- a blond head.
Stop Rose...she warned herself, peeling her
eyes from the man's back.
You've got to be brave.
And with this, she began to walk faster,
moving to fight back the hot tears in her eyes-