Unseen

To whomever finds this note.

I can take it no longer. No matter how I try, what I’ve seen can’t be unseen, and the weight of it has triumphed. By my own hand, you will find my lifeless body nearby – by rope, by bullet, I know not how I will do it, I only know that it will be done.

Five years ago, I was stationed as a lookout on the SS Californian. It was a chilly night in April, nearing the coast of Newfoundland, when I saw it. Flares, lighting up the sky, off the port side. I brought the binoculars to my eyes, and what I saw chilled me deeper to the bone than the breeze. A ship, rendered in two, bobbing in the water and sinking slowly. Only later would I learn it was the Titanic. I could see lifeboats, not nearly full enough, moving away from the scene as quickly as they could. I could see people jumping off the boat, some holding hands, some by themselves. I could see the clothing of the upper class and the rags of the lower, none of which would keep the icy cold of the waters from gripping the wearer.

It was unbelievable to me, like I had fallen asleep and was seeing a tangible, vivid nightmare. Lord, I wish it had been, with every fiber of my being. I stared, transfixed and overwhelmed by the unimaginable horror I was seeing. After what seemed an eternity to me, I gathered myself, came down from my lookout station and ran to the captain.

I remember stumbling over my first words, trying to explain the tragedy happening so closely by. “Captain, please,” I begged, “you must see this.” He followed me to the port side of the deck, where I handed him the binoculars. “We have to turn around, captain,” I stammered, “we can save them, we can do something…” “No, we will not be doing that,” the captain said tersely, “we can not afford to turn away from our route, or we may find ourselves sinking next. Another ship will be by in time.”

I was stunned. Never did I fathom an answer that didn’t include a call to immediate action. “Captain, sir, there’s women and children,” I screamed. The captain wavered slightly, as if he was questioning his inaction, but instead sharply quipped, “You will mind your tone, sailor. You may not like my decision, but it is mine to make, and yours to carry out.”

Never before had I felt such overwhelming sorrow and rage. I looked at the tragic scene again, seeing the mighty ship inching ever closer to being engulfed by the sea, taking countless souls with it. Without a thought, I ran up to the captain, grabbed him by the shoulder, turned him around and struck him. “You heartless bastard!” I yelled at him, my face red with fury. Two crew members ran over, pulling me aside. The captain stood up, rubbed his jaw, and walked away.

For the duration of the trip, I was kept in my quarters, replaying the scene over and over in my mind. When we docked, the news of the Titanic’s sinking was everywhere, on the lips of everyone. No one would notice that I was relieved of my duties, my claims of being close enough to the tragedy that hundreds could have been saved dismissed outright.

Since then, I have been haunted daily, unable to hold a job and reduced to weeping on the regular. Alcohol has only numbed my sorrow, and the devil mocks my failure at every turn.

I wish I could say that writing the truth down has been cathartic, that it has turned my intent away from damnation, but it doesn’t bring relief. Nothing brings relief, and with that the Titanic will take another soul, my soul, to the depths, and I pray that you shall never feel even a tenth of my grief in your own time.

Goodbye.