Titanic: The End of His Creation (1/1)
Jun. 11th, 2007 09:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
knitwitficsFandom: Titanic (Historical)
Characters: Thomas Andrews
Rating: PG
Summary: Some of the thoughts that may have been going through Thomas Andrews' head at 2:15am on April 15, 1912.
Warnings: Angst
Originally written: November 24, 2005
Characters: Thomas Andrews
Rating: PG
Summary: Some of the thoughts that may have been going through Thomas Andrews' head at 2:15am on April 15, 1912.
Warnings: Angst
Originally written: November 24, 2005
He can feel each creak and groan as well as hear it, feel the shudder of the floor under his feet as the bow dips lower and the stresses pile up on the ship's frame. She wasn't built to take this, wasn't built to take the pressure of water pushing down on her bow, her stern unsupported by the water. No wonder she's groaning as if in pain; she was never built for this.
He of all people should know that.
The strains of music float over the sound of frightened voices outside, the sound of feet pattering along the deck. The boats must be all gone now, but he can still hear people running up and down the deck, as if they're looking for a lifeboat, just one, one that they'd somehow missed, one that they could climb into and be saved. As if they were looking for the lifeboats he'd planned for, all 16 of them, but that had been removed so that there would be more room on the deck. More room for deck chairs, more room for passengers to walk.
There's ample room now for all the passengers to walk, all three classes, now that the boats are likely all gone.
The tilt in the floor increases, and he can feel a shudder moving through the mantel. The mantel he'd designed, in this room he'd designed, in this ship he'd designed. Every carving, every paint colour, every piece of cartpeting and furniture, every steel beam and plate, every rivet. He'd over seen it all. Just five days ago he'd walked through this room, bustling around making certain that everything was perfect. Shifting chairs, sometimes even just by a few inches, so that they were perfectly placed. Tinkering with a fan in a stateroom that wasn't working. Every object, every detail just so. Just as he wanted it. Just as he'd planned.
Details, all details, and somehow the big picture had never hit him, the mammoth flaws he'd never seen. Move a chair an inch but don't question the height of the bukheads; not high enough, in the end. Jot down a note that there are too many screws in the stateroom coathooks--think of all the weight that could save! But don't think of a double hull, don't think of all the lives that could save.
He'd watched the placement of the steel girders and ribs, but hadn't seen his daughter's first steps; watched the movement of the engines in that first trial run, but stayed late at the office and missed the chance to dance with his wife more than once. He'd become absorbed in the details, but never noticed the big picture; seen the birth of an inanimate object, and missed so many chances to see his family around him.
He loved them so much, thought he saw them enough, but now all that time seems like so little, like no time at all, and he'd give anything for just one more minute. To give Helen just one last kiss, to hear Elizabeth--"Elba"--call him "Dada", hear her laugh one more time. She's not yet two, it's likely she won't even remember him later, just a figure in old photographs, someone her mother doesn't like to talk about often.
If I had just one more minute...
He glances at the mantel clock, reflexively pulling out his pocket watch and checking the time--a minute too slow. He has to fix it. This has to be perfect; it's the one thing he can fix, even if everything else is falling down around him. If he could only go back, make the bulkheads go one deck higher--just one--add a double hull, keep the extra lifeboats; do something that would have prevented this. Something that would have kept everyone on the ship safe, instead of being responsible for the deaths of more than half the people on board.
The floor takes a sudden tip lower toward the bow, and he loses his footing, skidding along the carpet, tumbling, bumping into furniture as the lights go out and the world around him snaps to darkness though he can still hear the groaning of the ship, the sound of dishware shattering, people screaming.
Memories flash through his mind--Think of the opportunity for the company, Thomas, building the three largest, most luxurious ships in the world!--placing the gold band on Helen's hand on their wedding day--spreading out the blueprints on his desk, every line just where it should be--Halley's comet soaring over the skeleton of two ships as he wraps his arms around his pregnant wife from behind--walking beside the wall of steel as the hull plates are being riveted on, laughing as a red-hot rivet narrowly misses his head--the sound of Elizabeth's first cries--the vibration under his feet as the engines begin turning for the first time during the sea trials--On paper she belongs to me, but in the eyes of God, she belongs to Thomas Andrews--She most certainly can sink; and she will! It is a mathematical certainty--
He hits something hard and flat--a wall--the air knocked out of his lungs with a wheeze that's barely audible over the cacophany of destruction around him.
I'm sorry, Helen, I'm sorry, Elba., I never wanted to leave you. I love you.
God, forgive me.
A sudden impact and pain in his head; then silence, deep and heavy as the sea.
He of all people should know that.
The strains of music float over the sound of frightened voices outside, the sound of feet pattering along the deck. The boats must be all gone now, but he can still hear people running up and down the deck, as if they're looking for a lifeboat, just one, one that they'd somehow missed, one that they could climb into and be saved. As if they were looking for the lifeboats he'd planned for, all 16 of them, but that had been removed so that there would be more room on the deck. More room for deck chairs, more room for passengers to walk.
There's ample room now for all the passengers to walk, all three classes, now that the boats are likely all gone.
The tilt in the floor increases, and he can feel a shudder moving through the mantel. The mantel he'd designed, in this room he'd designed, in this ship he'd designed. Every carving, every paint colour, every piece of cartpeting and furniture, every steel beam and plate, every rivet. He'd over seen it all. Just five days ago he'd walked through this room, bustling around making certain that everything was perfect. Shifting chairs, sometimes even just by a few inches, so that they were perfectly placed. Tinkering with a fan in a stateroom that wasn't working. Every object, every detail just so. Just as he wanted it. Just as he'd planned.
Details, all details, and somehow the big picture had never hit him, the mammoth flaws he'd never seen. Move a chair an inch but don't question the height of the bukheads; not high enough, in the end. Jot down a note that there are too many screws in the stateroom coathooks--think of all the weight that could save! But don't think of a double hull, don't think of all the lives that could save.
He'd watched the placement of the steel girders and ribs, but hadn't seen his daughter's first steps; watched the movement of the engines in that first trial run, but stayed late at the office and missed the chance to dance with his wife more than once. He'd become absorbed in the details, but never noticed the big picture; seen the birth of an inanimate object, and missed so many chances to see his family around him.
He loved them so much, thought he saw them enough, but now all that time seems like so little, like no time at all, and he'd give anything for just one more minute. To give Helen just one last kiss, to hear Elizabeth--"Elba"--call him "Dada", hear her laugh one more time. She's not yet two, it's likely she won't even remember him later, just a figure in old photographs, someone her mother doesn't like to talk about often.
If I had just one more minute...
He glances at the mantel clock, reflexively pulling out his pocket watch and checking the time--a minute too slow. He has to fix it. This has to be perfect; it's the one thing he can fix, even if everything else is falling down around him. If he could only go back, make the bulkheads go one deck higher--just one--add a double hull, keep the extra lifeboats; do something that would have prevented this. Something that would have kept everyone on the ship safe, instead of being responsible for the deaths of more than half the people on board.
The floor takes a sudden tip lower toward the bow, and he loses his footing, skidding along the carpet, tumbling, bumping into furniture as the lights go out and the world around him snaps to darkness though he can still hear the groaning of the ship, the sound of dishware shattering, people screaming.
Memories flash through his mind--Think of the opportunity for the company, Thomas, building the three largest, most luxurious ships in the world!--placing the gold band on Helen's hand on their wedding day--spreading out the blueprints on his desk, every line just where it should be--Halley's comet soaring over the skeleton of two ships as he wraps his arms around his pregnant wife from behind--walking beside the wall of steel as the hull plates are being riveted on, laughing as a red-hot rivet narrowly misses his head--the sound of Elizabeth's first cries--the vibration under his feet as the engines begin turning for the first time during the sea trials--On paper she belongs to me, but in the eyes of God, she belongs to Thomas Andrews--She most certainly can sink; and she will! It is a mathematical certainty--
He hits something hard and flat--a wall--the air knocked out of his lungs with a wheeze that's barely audible over the cacophany of destruction around him.
I'm sorry, Helen, I'm sorry, Elba., I never wanted to leave you. I love you.
God, forgive me.
A sudden impact and pain in his head; then silence, deep and heavy as the sea.
