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A Century Underwater

When death isn't the end

By Shelby LarsenPublished 2 years ago 5 min read
12
Photo by Karl Callwood on Unsplash

Water, cold, fear.

Pain, pressure, paralysis.

Shadows, darkness, disbelief.

Screaming, crying, surrendering.

Defeat.

Fragmented memories of her drowning remained: terror upon realizing her inescapable death, pain throughout her body as the floor disappeared from beneath her. The chill and pressure took her, and her trembling body conceded to the numbness.

Minutes felt like an eternity, delving deeper and deeper into the vast ocean. While she heard the soft thud of the ship striking the ocean floor, the tremors that resounded did not reach her. She knew the water surrounding her was glacial, but, now disconnected from her body, the freezing temperatures no longer infected her. Only the idea of cold survived, and that too was fading.

In the early days, she was mostly confused. Where was she? How did she get here? How much time had passed? She thought she was dreaming, but eventually fear took over. She searched desperately for a familiar face. While she had boarded alone, she had come to know other women in the lower levels. There were faces amidst the shipwreck, but she recognized no one. All too similar, the phantoms’ transparency and dead eyes made it impossible to stare for long.

The disfigured bodies of passengers littered the wreckage, but she pointedly ignored them - petrified to find her own face staring back at her. She would try to call out for help, but only the sounds of the deep sea resonated. Despite her efforts, no one acknowledged her existence - not the other faces or the few sea creatures that traveled through. Whether it was the water, the cold, or death, to cause her quiescence, she was uncertain.

Many years slipped by before fear left her, at least she assumed years had passed. Grief set in next; however, knowing that her friends and family had not accompanied her to their deaths brought her a small comfort. She imagined what her loved ones thought, said, and did when they heard the news. Surely there were tears, probably anger. Her father hadn't wanted her to go in the first place - a young woman traveling so far alone. He would have inevitably hidden his grief behind his rage. Mother would have held her head high but cried herself to sleep every night. Her sister would have grieved openly and often - never one to hide her feelings.

She tried desperately to hang on to her memories. Her past life, her loved ones, even her few days aboard the boat, but her memory waned, and soon the underwater ruins were all she knew.

She held tightly to one item, her father's pocket watch. The yellowing face had stopped at 2:28, but the silver chain endured the water and pressure, intact and lustrous. While her recollections about the gift were gone, she knew it was hers, and an echo of love remained.

She explored the wreckage. With the collapse of many of the lower levels, she toured areas of the ship she otherwise never would have been able: remnants of the grand staircase and reading and writing room, as well as the previously “men only” smoking room - or what was left. She admired different belongings: coins, china, watches, garments, and luggage. Possessions of those aboard - first through third class - settled into their new classless home.

The boat slowly deteriorated. Erosion, corrosion, along with sea organisms she didn't even have names for, aided in the decay. Woods devoured, metals rusted, corpses decomposed, valuables engulfed by the seabed. For many decades though, several items made of leathers, ceramics, and other durable materials remained untouched and beautiful. She imagined a life where she could have worn fashionable shoes, eaten off of the exorbitant dishes, dined under intricate chandeliers. As the ocean overwhelmed expensive and rare treasures, she was reminded that money couldn’t save anyone from the celestial deep.

The ship itself was not the only thing deteriorating. Over time, she noticed fewer and fewer faces. The ones that sat in chairs, laid in beds, stood in corners, all staring off into the distance, dissipated into nothing. She imagined that someday, she too would completely disappear, just as her memories had.

All the days were the same - save the coming and going of aquatic life. Coral spread through the hull, the vessel encased by reef and rust, fish living and dying among the debris.

Then the machines came. By this time, decades, centuries, even millennia could have elapsed and she wouldn't have known. The machines were scary originally, but she quickly realized they were just there to explore.

After the first device, defilers followed. Suddenly, ornate jewelry, leather shoes, decorative lamps, lavish dishes, and additional items she'd admired every day were disappearing. Even her pocket watch, which she’d held as the currents had taken her, vanished. Ultimately, she forgot about her once treasured item, and the impression of love evaporated as well.

People and their metal contraptions came and went. Initially, she tried to interact with them, but soon she realized that they didn't care about her, and they didn't care about preserving her home either. A defenseless host, she could do nothing to stop the unwanted guests from destroying the once eerie but beautiful scene.

Thousands of items were stolen as she watched helplessly. Machines occasionally landed on the ship, causing further damage. One day she watched in horror as a machine collided with the hull, exposing the interior of the Captain's cabin, and leaving fragments of metal litter behind.

She found herself exploring less and less, as the boat continued to crumble around her. Tears blended with the saltwater as she cried for the first time in over 100 years. She had forgotten pain for many decades, and it afflicted her with such malice she couldn't cope.

After her heartbreak of the ransacked and demolished Titanic, the only home she remembered, she allowed the sea to finally claim her.

Water.

Paralysis.

Darkness.

Surrender.

Defeat.

Horror
12

About the Creator

Shelby Larsen

Warning: I love messing with your favorite fairy tales.

I've loved writing most of my life. In college I made it my passion, but once I reached the "real" world, I stopped. I'm here to find my creativity and get back to my passion.

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Outstanding

Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

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