TRAPPED IN THE PAST
Chapter Seven

September 1912

There is something about a sunset that transcends all time or purpose. In its array of brilliant designs you find yourself asking the questions that you need to ask yourself in order to further your development. Something about the way the colors blend together just so reminds us of our true, natural selves. We connect within our spirit once again. For a few moments, we stop being the one everyone else wants us to be, and truly feel alive. Nothing less, nothing more. We are alive. And in this moment of life, everything becomes much clearer.

So why was I having such a hard time finding the answers to my burning questions? And why did I feel dead?

Sitting on the front steps of Katherine's house, I peered with curious eyes towards the west and at the beautiful sunset before me. There were so many different shades of orange and purple, making all the world appear handsome at a time when I was sure it was not. A soft, subtle breeze floated by me, lifting my hair and whispering inaudible secrets into my ear. Bees, birds, and the occasional butterfly, a personal favorite, fluttered by on their way to some other corner of the yard, or, perhaps to a new territory altogether. The sweet smell of late summer filled my nostrils. I could feel the peace and answers I sought looming in front of me, but they were behind a haze that I could not penetrate enough to make them understood.

Something was beginning to change. I could sense it in my blood. Perhaps it was simply that summer was winding down and fall would soon be arriving on our doorstep. Or maybe it was the fact that I knew, subconsciously, what was wrong with me. I couldn't admit it, but in the deep recesses of my brain I knew what was ailing me. In any case, change was imminent.

And perhaps, it was because I was starting to give up.

I hated myself, I realized, as I continued to stare off into the distant horizon. I hated who I had become and what I had done to myself. I hated the way I treated other people, hated the way I looked, hated the way I couldn't sleep, even hated Katherine for letting me get to this point. She could see something I didn't, and it was irritating that she wouldn't tell me. Perhaps she was right that I needed to figure this out for myself. But for the moment, that wasn't working, and I hated who I was. Indeed, I was a few months away from turning eighteen, an adult, and I couldn't even take care of myself. I had given up everything for nothing, or so I thought. What had I become? A sorry, helpless little girl living on charity, afraid of everything and unable to reason like a normal person.

What was I thinking? Was I agreeing with my mother or Cal in a sense, that women couldn't be intellectual, that they were not meant to be self-sufficient or have hearts? Were we all meant to be sheep, following a crowd, unable to think for ourselves?

Of course not. I knew that. But was it something more that irked me, relating to these thoughts. I was stronger, bigger, smarter than all of that. Was I not the same Rose who had stood up in the middle of my English class when I was twelve and asked why we were not allowed to read The Awakening? Was I not the same girl who had hidden and kept all of my father's books on utopian societies and social equality for women when my mother threatened to have them destroyed after his death? I had survived more loss than I could bear, both from death and unfair situations, and had lived through one of the most tragic and ironic disasters thus far known to man. I was not weak in any sense. Nor was I meek, quiet, or about to sit back and watch life pass before my eyes.

But something had changed. More and more, I began to feel the familiar pull of suicide tug on my tired body. I had already been suicidal twice in my short life, so the symptoms and feelings were nothing new to me. That night on the Titanic was not the first time I had attempted to kill myself; that had been months before when I swallowed a large amount of aspirin, hoping it would do something, but all it did was make me ill for almost a week. The feelings attributed to those attempts were nothing compared to what I felt now. This time it ached in parts of my body and soul I didn't even know I had. No longer a simple plan to escape the restraints of society, I needed redemption from…something. I wasn't quite sure what. But I wanted to be free again. I wanted that feeling I had in Jack's arms that last night. I wanted every little bit of suffering and pain to go away.

What did I have to live for? Most of my world thought I was dead. The only person who would possibly miss me now was Katherine. I would be with my father again, and I wouldn't have to worry about a damn thing. And best of all, all the sleepless nights and struggles with people and the public would be eradicated. No more depression, no more resentment at waking up each morning to find the world unchanged. It would all be over.

But I was scared. I was scared of waking up in some cold, dark room, without my father, without any sense of direction…my own personal limbo. Was it not true that those who committed suicide went to hell? I had been taught this from the very beginning of my religious education. Would I end up in the bowels of some dark underworld simply because I could no longer bear the heavy burden pressing upon my shoulders?

I closed my eyes for a brief moment, trying to see the darkness. If you concentrate hard enough, you can almost see the black in front of you. But it mostly requires a lot of imagination and a little faith.

Did I have faith anymore? My entire world had collapsed in front of me, dragging everything and everyone I loved down with it. What could I believe in anymore? I had hardly believed in God before. Now, any notion of Him seemed ludicrous. What sort of merciful father took innocent lives away when there were so many others who truly deserved to be taken off this earth? I had no assurance in society, and what little faith I had in the protection of others had vanished. It was man's invention that had failed.

Maybe the problem was that it all seemed like a dream to me, even when I had been exposed to the realities of life beyond Titanic. The final hours aboard that ship were hazy, confused, even a bizarre form of torture when I thought of them. Like a movie, I simply watched as it played out in front of me. I felt like I had not been a part, that I had simply witnessed a great tragedy. I did not cry. I did not feel much of anything. I was dead inside.

And worst of all, I felt disconnected from the one person whom I had felt instantly attached to. Jack Dawson was just another player in the great Titanic play, and I had somehow benefited from his performance. Yet something about his person still drew me to his memory. I hated to think of him, hated to imagine the possibilities of what could have been. And I hated not being able to connect with him again, to feel some sort of emotion for what had happened.

Was he really gone? Did he really die that cold April night…for me? The woman he had known for less then a week and had shared one meal with? Had he simply disappeared, just like that? Or was he really there somewhere, alive and well, and I had imagined his disappearance beneath the ocean?

Perhaps this is why I did not cry.

My thoughts began to scare me, and I immediately cut them off. I knew what was real and what was not, right? There was no more to be pondered.

Listlessly, I rose from my position on the porch, focusing once again on the horizon before me. Now the sky was a light blue, a few stray pink and purple clouds reminding from the sunset’s masterpiece. Night was finally falling upon my tired body.

I could hear Katherine tinkering around inside the house, trying to, no doubt, rearrange the bookshelves to make room from some additions she had received from the university. I didn't want to see her right now. I didn't want to face her latent wrath or whatever else might be lurking beneath her calm, collected demeanor.

I needed something, something beyond just a cigarette or drink. And so, without a word, I left. I simply walked down the front steps, down the walkway, and stepped out onto the sidewalk with no purpose or direction. I was a big girl. I could take care of myself if I really needed to.

Maybe.

The sidewalk led me to the end of the block. I paused there, next to the street sign, weighing my options. I could turn around and go back, back to Katherine, back to my little hole in the world, back to safety. I could turn right and go toward town, toward the big city, with all its possibilities. Or I could go straight. I didn't quite know what was straight. It looked like more houses. More people I didn't want to associate with. I hated happy, full families.

I turned right.

Eventually, I ended up in front of the theater I had visited a few weeks earlier. A single light shone through the glass double doors, calling to me with some unspoken beacon. I sat down on the cold stone steps and waited for a good half hour, watching as darkness fell over Chicago. I was not scared, not tired, just…numb. I couldn't feel anything around me but the cold. And even the sounds of normalcy faded into one relentless blur.

Subconsciously, I was hoping it was Danny. The poor boy was good company, if nothing else, and I felt guilty over how I had treated him.

It must have been fate when the light shut off suddenly. and then I saw Danny come through the double doors. His collar was pulled up, shielding his neck, and his head was bent. I could see his flaming red hair peeking out underneath his gray cap. He was wearing the same jacket he had had on when we had taken that walk.

"Danny?" I whispered hoarsely, hoping he would not pass me by, as I rose from my seat.

He looked up, his eyes flashing with concern. "Rose!" he exclaimed, his demeanor changing to surprise. "What are you doing here? We've missed you."

"I just…I--" Sighing, I took a few steps toward him. "I was just out for a walk and ended up here."

Danny smiled. "How you been?"

"Um…all right. Not great," I answered, avoiding his gaze. "H-how about you?"

Shrugging, he nodded in a funny way. "I've been okay. Not great," he mocked, breaking into another smile.

What was I doing? I didn't want his vodka anymore. Alcohol wasn't going to help the situation. Was it…company? Or something more? I stared at the man, studying him intently. He wasn't unattractive, but he wasn't anything to sing about, either. There was something about him that attracted me, however. It wasn't any sort of physical thing, simply…something. Perhaps it was because he did not judge me, or that I felt strangely safe around him. Or maybe I was finally coming out of my shell.

No, the last could not be it. When I actually stopped to think, I realized what a big risk even being here was. And if I let myself go too much, that same fear of being discovered or told upon returned. Though I hated my life, I was scared to even think about returning to the old.

It was best not to think at all.

"So, ya wanna come grab a bite to eat with me?"

His voice reverberated through my head, and I found myself actually toying with the idea. Perhaps a meal would not be the end of the world; if I forgot about what I was actually doing, I might enjoy it. Then again, this was definitely outside the safe little bubble I had been living in for the past few months. Again, too much thinking.

"Um…" I hesitated, unsure of how to answer. His face looked so hopeful, so excited, and I didn't want to let him down by declining his invitation.

"Or, I could cook for you…if you're worried about it looking like a date or something. I mean, it would just be one friend cooking for another." He stumbled through the words quickly.

"Oh, Danny, I don't know," I immediately protested.

"Please," he begged softly.

"I--"

The next thing I knew, he had moved even closer to me and taken me by the arm. With a swift motion, his lips were grazing across mine in a soft yet imploring kiss. I could do nothing except stand in place, stunned into my position. When I did not protest, Danny must have seen it as an invitation, because once again his lips found mine, and he was kissing me, longer, harder this time. I found myself starting to return the favor, if only to convince myself that it was really happening. Everything I had been worrying about began to dissipate as I lost myself in what Danny had to offer. I needed him perhaps more than he wanted me. I needed to feel alive, needed a physical connection with someone.

"All right," I breathed hoarsely when he finally released me. "I'll…I'll go with you."

*****

I never saw Danny's kitchen, or most of his tiny apartment, for that matter. I soon found myself on his bed, however, with his body atop mine and our limbs intertwined. I tried very hard to keep myself from thinking too much about what I was doing, and simply tried to use pleasure as an escape. But it didn't work too well.

We had sex until late that evening. I use the term sex deliberately; what we did was not making love. I had made love before. I knew what it was and what it was not. Lovemaking was an entirely different experience. It made you arch your back, your knees shook, your entire body perspired, and there were times when you didn't know what was his and what was yours. You would thrash and scream and moan, and afterward, sometimes all you wanted to do was cry because you were so happy. But sex…sex was just skin and sticky sweat, and it left you feeling almost irritated, rather than happy. And it was so impersonal; I had simply lain there while Danny moved around and did what he needed to do. He hardly kissed me, hardly did anything other than the basics, and it was over in a quick little while. For this, I was glad. And instead of basking in the afterglow, I just wanted to get the hell out of there.

But Danny wanted to cuddle and hold me afterward, and I let him for a while as I faced the other way and smoked a cigarette he had given me. It was dark, but with the small amount of light that shone through his window, I could see around just fine. His bedroom was a typical bachelor pad; not much graced the walls, and not only the room, but the entire apartment smelled vaguely of cheese. I wondered how many other girls he had brought up here lately, how many of them had lain where I was now.

"I've thought about you so much these last couple of weeks," Danny was confessing softly. "I couldn't get you out of my head."

"Hmm," I responded dimly, exhaling some smoke as I did so. I was beginning to feel unsafe again, like I was trapped. I needed to get back to my room, Katherine's house. I needed familiarity, or something was going to happen. I could feel it in my bones.

"I didn't think I would see you ever again," he continued, despite my apathy.

Without acknowledging him, I pushed his roaming hands away and slipped away from his body. The room was cold as I rose from the bed and made my way across the floor to the window. Outside, the lights of Chicago shone brilliantly, but I could not bring myself to see their beauty. I felt disgusted with myself and disappointed that the sex had not helped to clear my head or make me feel better. After making love to Jack, I had never felt more alive or more certain of who I was and what I wanted. But the physical connection I thought I had needed was not so. And now I just felt dirty and more confused.

I took another puff of the cigarette, holding it between my lips just a tad longer than usual. God, these things must be bad for you. But I didn't care. I liked the feeling of familiarity they gave me. However, after a few minutes, it ran out, as all cigarettes are bound to do, and so I snuffed it out on the windowsill, leaving the remains there.

"You're so amazing, Rose," Danny continued. I could hear him shuffling about in the bed, making the sheets rustle and the mattress squeak. When I turned around to look at him, he was sitting up, leaning his head on his hand and staring at me.

"Can I ask you something?" he asked suddenly, as if he had just remembered something.

"Yes, of course," I mumbled softly, turning my gaze back to the window.

"How did you get the last name Dawson? I mean, is it your birth surname, or did you marry someone with it? Cuz it ain't Irish."

Neither am I, I thought. Poor Danny, thinking he had a nice little Irish girl that he could introduce to his parents and they would be proud of.

"I married someone with the last name," I lied, not bothering to turn towards him. The words rolled off my tongue in a sort of a numb jumble of letters placed together.

"What happened?"

"He's back in New York. I'm here…" It was sort of true, in a twisted way.

Danny was quiet for a minute, and I could hear him flop down on the bed again, sighing loudly. "You didn't tell me you were married," he mumbled sadly after a minute.

"It's not important. He's not really around much anyway." At least that much was true.

"What's his name?"

"Jack Dawson," I replied, closing my eyes for a moment and letting the name wash over me. It had been so long since I had spoken his name aloud. It almost made him alive again, and lying about it made me feel better. If I could fool Danny, maybe I could fool myself. I felt better imagining that Jack was alive and back in New York instead of…

But what was I doing? This wasn't right.

And I was not prepared for what happened next.

"I knew a kid named Jack Dawson. Came through Quincy on his way out west."

I spun around so fast that I was sure there would be a fire beneath me if I looked down. "What?" I squeaked, my voice an octave higher than normal. Surely he could not be talking about the same Jack. It had to be a fairly common name.

"Sure. He stayed with my aunt and uncle for a few weeks, did some work for them, and then split. Nice kid. Little young--I think he was fifteen or sixteen--but nice kid."

"What did he look like?" I found myself asking.

Danny sat up in bed again and gave me a tiny grin. "Tall, lanky, funny mop of blonde hair that he could never keep out of his face. But he had these blue eyes. They made you want to listen to him, or just be around him. And they made you trust him. Most honest person I've met, and he helped me build the best damn squirrel trap I ever had. I've always wondered what happened to him."

I stood staring at Danny for a long time, forgetting about my cigarette. Oh. My. God. I felt something inside me stir, way down in the pit of my stomach. I couldn't bring myself to tell Danny. God, I couldn't even tell myself.

"He…ah…that sounds…ah…like…my Jack," I whispered softly. "Yeah, he's alive and well. I talk to him every night over the telephone. I think he's going to be coming to Chicago fairly soon. In fact…" I paused and surveyed the room, looking for my clothes. "He should be calling any time now, so I’d best be gone." I started frantically picking up any article of fabric I could find, trying to discern between my things and Danny's. I quickly managed to get dressed well enough, and then started for the door without another word to my bed partner. It was time to go.

He jumped up and blocked my exit, throwing himself against the door. "Don't go. We don't have to mention this to Jack," he protested. "Rose, please." He moved towards me, in an attempt to persuade me to stay in various intimate ways. Staying crossed through my mind for one brief moment…but, no. I couldn't.

I pushed him out of the way, threw open the door, and left him standing in the doorframe, a hurt and confused look across his face. I needed to get out of there before I did something else that was stupid and thoughtless. My heart began to race and my body sweated as I ran down the stairs. A hundred different images and phrases came suddenly into my head, scaring me as I began to see things I had tried to forget. They were no longer distorted or faint. Now, they were bold and frightening. Smells, sights, even sounds I had forgotten about invaded my mind. What was happening to me?

My shoes clicked loudly against the sidewalk as I walked. I quickly made my way away from Danny's apartment complex. Lying to him had almost convinced me that I was, in fact, beyond help. God, I wanted to get away from all this, away from myself. I hated myself. I hated me. I had never hated myself more. I wanted to be free again.

I screamed out loud and broke into a sprint. I had finally snapped. This was it. I had to get away from something. There was something inside of me that was building up and up, and I felt like it was going to explode if I didn't do something. I wanted no more. I wanted freedom. And for the second time that day, my mind turned toward suicide; my escape, my refuge, my ticket back to sanity. At the time, it seemed like the only option.

What had driven me here? Why was I suddenly right back where I had been that chilly night in April, when, like now, I had cracked? Then, it felt different, though. An outward force had its hold on me. Now it was something deeper, something much more personal. I could feel it.

After what seemed like an entirety, I ended up down near the Chicago River, confused as to how to get home. In my misery, I had gotten turned around and had ended up further from Katherine's than I had been at Danny's apartment.

A stone bridge loomed before me, illuminated by a lone streetlight casting its glow solitarily upon the structure. I remember being very cold, colder than I had been for the past few months, which is really saying something. And quiet, deathly quiet. Everyone was probably at home with their families, I remember thinking, which was an odd thought. I should be there.

But I walked forward anyway, and as I approached the bridge, I felt my heart began to pump harder inside my chest. The rest of the world melted away, and then my feet were on that stone, my shoes once again clicking loudly.

There was a rather high ledge, and I drew near it with reverence. One little hop, and I could jump into that freezing cold water, hit my head on something on the bottom, and never be heard from again. Or maybe I would drown like Ophelia, simply hold myself underwater until I died.

Regardless of what would happen, I climbed up on the ledge, with some difficulty, and then stood atop it, peering down at the black water. My mind had completely lost all sense of morality. I felt disgusted, but also a bit relieved; maybe this would solve all my problems. As I leaned over more, I thought of nothing except that April night. It was almost the same, with the cold, the water, the feeling of despair. The wind was blowing through my hair, my breath irregular, just as it had been. And then, without thinking, I heard a familiar voice and whipped around, in my mind expecting to see him.

But there was only emptiness and the faint sound of wind.

He would not be there.

That was the moment it hit me. He wouldn't be there.

Because I…had killed him.

I killed him.

I had sat up on that board and let him freeze in that icy water. I had lain around and watched him turn different shades of blue. I had started him in on this whole business in the first place; if I had not been trying to commit suicide that night, he might still be alive. And if we were truly meant to be together, we would have met under different conditions.

Oh, my God.

I felt myself suddenly get very weak, and then started shaking violently. This was like a panic attack, except worse. This time I couldn't shut off the images or hide whatever was making me uncomfortable. It reached me in places of my body that I didn't know I had. It started to hurt in every single inch of my soul. And I could feel myself about to lose it.

Dammit, Rose, do something, I remember telling myself.

But there was nothing I could do now.

I had opened a door that could never be closed again.

Chapter Eight
Stories