The Sinking Beauty
The dreaming war veteran watched his sizzling limbs fly off as soon as he stepped on the hand-drawn X. The pretty little Londoner was already lulled to her land of Alice. Mr. Straight-as-a-gun-barrel had taken to polishing his proud Smith & Wesson. Exhausted Willie swept the floors at such late hours with his Japanese brand of silent-protest against a deck-load of burden. Amélie’s left eye trickled as she recalled how she became an outcast after her denial of an aristocratic life partner. The jug of whiskey inside Jack started creeping the bejesus out of Rose.
Nobody could deny the tremors they felt as each shared a second of frothy horror at the thought of unholiest of the unholies. Intuition conspired an unritualistic mass awakening before it realized its limitations and settled down.
And then the war veteran cursed his war-tarred imagination. The pretty little Londoner crept into the burrow to find herself in the burrow that had a little flicker at the end. Mr. Straight-as-a-gun-barrel pointed his Smith & Wesson at the oval mirror, smiling, fantasizing a won roulette, la Russian way. Exhausted Willie rushed to the railing to trace the suddenness of the tremors. Amélie’s left eye pursed hard to squeeze out tears before she was handed a fugitive dinner napkin. And the jug of whiskey got a glassful of company as up above, the cords continued to reverberate the clot of mismatched lustful thoughts.
Willie was no sinner. He was an earnest rightful man who did not fall prey to any of the tantalizing cardinal sins. He had grown up in the suburbs of Wales before migrating to Southampton and joining the crew. He had lived a scrupulous, charitable life and did not indulge in depravity.
Willie, hence, stood transfixed at the sight the moon offered at frequent intervals.
Willie had no knack for crystals or teacups. He did not foresee, nor did he daresay he could foretell. But beneath his dense auburn crop of hair lay acumen with a penchant of blooming under pressure. Willie would not tell me thus but I could read the next two hours forty minutes in his eyes as they, in turn, saw a boat sailing away from his ship.
The shell-shocked war veteran would die unrecognized as he travelled an absconding war-disillusioned. The pretty little Londoner would go further down her burrow and implore the Dormouse not to be so rude. Mr. Straight-as-a-gun-barrel would threaten to kill and then act on his threat before descending down the icy darkness. Amélie would scream her lungs out when they trample over her bony frame. And Jack would surrender himself completely to the ruthlessness of fate before his nihilistic ego would spout a death-reflex – “Oh God.”
No, Willie wouldn’t disagree with me. But nor will he say it. He will just take it down with him, staring transfixed, as the speck of the boat would grow distant, disappearing after a quick moony peek-a-boo.
Meanwhile, the captain would stare back at Willie and desperately cling on to sanity, scraping his memory for a shanty. Way haul away, we’ll haul away Joe, he would moan. They would all take turns – the captain, the architect, the able seamen, the lookouts. The learned ones would recall stories of Stead, the devout of them would pray for forgiveness, the introspective would chide themselves for the wretchedness of their act and the retrospective would wonder if this was how it was supposed to end. They would all take turns weeping, increasing the sea level one drop at a time, increasing the temperature one warmth at a time.
They would think and they would pray. They would engage in the soul-crushing debate of the right to survival. And they would sail on; mourning for the ship that could not live to its epithet.
That day would then on be remembered as 15th April of 1912.
Notes:
This one is about a part fantasy Titanic incident in which at the end, captain and his crew instead of launching the exercise of saving as many people as possible, realize the futility of the rescue mission beforehand and decide to flee themselves. Parts that indicate this:
- The speck that Willie stares at: Of the rescue boats being hauled away filled with the crew members themselves.
- Crew members indulging in a debate of right to survival.
and so on.
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