The Stowaway

Like anchors, my feet weighed me down. They weren't moving. My brain screamed, but nothing. Kick your feet! Why aren't you kicking your feet? Nothing happened. My body wasn't listening to my brain as I slipped deeper and deeper into the cold abyss of the ocean. What happened?

Confusion was all I could feel, confusion and cold, as the freezing waters sent pins and needles burning through my body. Hot...no, it can't be. The sensation felt like being on fire, having my entire body seared. The darkness consumed me. It wrapped around me, a companion blanket to the cold harshness of the icy waters.

I felt my fingers as they started to cramp. They were heavy like anvils at the end of my hands. Struggling, I tried to pull them toward me without knowing why. Kick, dammit, kick your feet. I was yelling at myself, an internal monologue trying to wake me up, to get me to react to the inevitable doom that awaited me below. What the hell happened?

The lights were dimming. I could barely see them. What was I seeing? Hundreds of legs in the water above me.

I tried to reach for them, each being long past my grasp. The cold made every movement hurt more and more. My body felt on fire. Soon, death would come for me.

I felt her icy grip on my soul as she pulled me deeper and deeper into the abyss. I remembered the things in my life that defined me. There was so much more to do. It had been so long since I worked. I was on that ship, going to return to work, to my calling. Now, would I ever be able to work again?

I'm losing it. My limbs are failing. It's like the devil himself pulling me to the pit. I'm not surprised. I've known for many years, that if there were an afterlife, I was going to end up in hell.

One more run was all that I wanted. I liked New York the last time I visited. New York has such tasty morsels. I rather enjoyed the American cuisine. New Yorkers are more appealing than the English. They're well-groomed. They're more down-to-earth types.

New York had no shortage of people. There were plenty of patients that needed the skills of a doctor. Rent was cheaper than back home. It was a great idea to return to the big city.

The ship. I suddenly remembered why I was in the water. The ship hit an iceberg. It was sinking into the abyss, right alongside me. It was called the "Ship of Dreams." Fancy that, it turned into a nightmare.

It was the 10th of April, 1912. I hadn't been to America in over a decade. Finding myself with a ticket after a trip to Paris, I thought it would be good to get away from all of Europe for some time. I could set up shop and begin my work.

It was easy enough to get to Southhampton and make my way aboard. Thanks to the plans of a young lady of the night, one who had no doubt picked the pockets of this Mr. Winstrom, I was on board the Titanic as Emmerson Winstrom the III. It was a poncy name, I'll grant, but I needed to travel incognito.

She was a sweet young lass. I spotted her walking along the docks as I left a magnificent cafe. I'd had many drinks and indulged in the fine French cuisine. Passing for just another tourist on the prowl for a working girl was easy.

Once I was on board, I needed to behave myself. I stayed in my stateroom until dinner time. Admittedly, Emmerson Winstrom's identity afforded me certain privileges. As a 1st class passenger, I had dinner at the table of Captain Edward John Smith. He was a humble man and a worthy seaman. Or so I believed.

We made our final port call at Queenstown, Ireland. Then we headed out to sea and freedom. I walked on the deck, enjoying the ocean air. The sight of young lovers made me thirsty. I admittedly had to fight the urges welling from deep in my soul. That lasted until the night of the 13th.

Walking back to my stateroom, I found a beautiful young stowaway. She was quite fetching, even for a scavenger. I startled her as I approached my room. One of the passengers pushed a cart from the galley into the hall, and she was hungry and scavenging for food after hiding for two days.

I put my hands up in front of me, motioning for her not to run. Ah, the fear in her eyes. It was intoxicating. I could smell that big, stinky fear from the opposite side of the corridor. I reveled in it as it washed over me.

"Go on," I whispered, motioning with my hands. "Eat."

As I walked closer, she continued picking at the leftover shrimp on the plate. The swine had barely touched their dinner.

"I'm Emmerson," I told her, wanting her to be comfortable as I approached. "You know it would be safer to finish that on deck."

It was all I needed to get her to follow me. Safety is an illusion. Yet, it's proven to be a comforting illusion. Presenting an illusion to one like this little lady got her to follow me like a desperate puppy.

Once on deck, as I suspected, there were no other passengers out moving. It was a might chilly. We found a place to hide away in case anyone did come along.

"My dear," I asked her, "are you a stowaway?"

She nodded. It was a nervous nod that I had to reassure wouldn't get her turned over to the captain. That was not my plan for her. I sat and watched her finish off the shrimp plate.

"How can I repay you, sir," she said, crumbs still on her fingers. She put her hand on my chest, expecting me to want to enjoy the comforts of such a young lady.

I peaked around the deck. When I saw there were no other passengers, I covered her mouth. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a nice eight-inch blade. Thrusting it into her stomach, I dragged her over to the railing.

The smell of her blood mixed with the salty night air. It was such a rush. I held her there, staring into her eyes. Watching as her trembling slowed, the light dimmed as darkness fell upon her. Yet, I wanted more. I moved the knife across her abdomen, turning it at her belly button.

Leaning in, I tasted her. I licked her right cheek from the bottom up to her temple. She wore the taste of death upon her, and its delicious decadence was not something I should have enjoyed so much.

As I kissed my little one on the lips, I pushed her over the railing, my knife sliding out of her abdomen as she fell. Her body hit the waters with a look of shock still etched on her soft, young features. I licked the blood from my knife, enjoying the coppery taste before tucking it into my jacket. Walking back to my stateroom, I enjoyed remembering one of my favorite songs. The tune escaped my whistling lips.

Is it she that pulls me, her icy grasp coming from the beyond? My lungs feel on fire. My efforts to kick have come, I fear, too late. It would be Karma if it were she that pulled me to the abyss. Fight, damn you. Fight if you want to live.

From below, I see the boats. They bob around in clusters, oblivious to the abomination of blue light in front of me. The ones that made it to a lifeboat will not see the hand of judgment as it comes for me.

April 15th, 1912, is the day I'm likely to die. I know that my legacy will live on long after I am gone. My body of work will speak for me. As I start to tire, water slipping into my lungs, I remember them all. It's been 24 years since I last worked, and one more run was all I asked.

Ah...sweet Mary. In my suffering, you are the one that I remember the most. It was such a hot summer, and August of 88 drove me to finally act out. Buck's Row was such a perfect place for you. If not for you, I might never have acted.

And Annie. I knew that nobody would miss you. Nobody ever misses you nomadic types. You were such an inoffensive soul. You barely felt my blade from the drink you enjoyed so very much.

Picking up Liz wasn't hard. She was rather a lonely sort. Only going to work and then trying to find a life in which she could be happy. If not for the thirst, I might have liked knowing you a bit longer. Do you remember my last words? I do. They echo in my mind as I see you.

"You would say anything but your prayers."

Sweet Catherine. Such a lovely girl. Your affinity for drink rivaled only your bad acting. How many men did I save you from disgracing yourself with? You and Liz made for a busy night.

Young Mary, beautiful and full of life you were. Perhaps it is you, pulling me to the depths of hell. As the youngest, I robbed you of the most.

The light in front of me dims and I wonder, does God forgive, or is god wrathful, vengeful, and spiteful? I fear that I shall soon find out. I've been submerged for what feels like an eternity. As I fade, so does the sight of those eyes in the abyss, reveling in my demise. Something tugs at my jacket, as I fall into the death sleep.

A man's face is what I see when I open my eyes. How? How am I alive? I cough up still icy cold water, my lungs burning as I expel the sea's salty hand of death. Looking around, there's a commotion everywhere. We're on a ship.

"Where am I?" I ask the officer leaning over me.

"You're aboard the Carpathia. We responded to the S.O.S." the young officer informs me.

I'm not dead. I fully felt that the face I saw in the waters as I clung to hope was the face of death. Somehow, I survived. Others needed tending to and I didn't need this boy sailor to hover. I was somehow breathing on my own and despite the awful chill, starting to feel my arms and legs. I noticed that they were still bringing people aboard.

"Let me help you," I told the sailor, holding out my hand to him.

After a few hours, and with a fully loaded ship, the Carpathia made way to New York. I was one of 705 survivors of that failed journey. It was something that I would come to call the journey of the dammed. For it is what we were. Each survivor making it to New York was a tangible miracle.

Still, I stuck to myself until making it to the harbor. The brits had a real problem on their hands as they were responsible for providing safe travel. As horrible as history will remember me, the people that didn't stock enough lifeboats, and have a plan to evacuate safely, were responsible for far more death than there was at my hand.

Once in New York, I entered the states for the second time, but as Emmerson Winstrom. New York is a big city, and I soon disappeared into the crowds. After waiting more than two decades to pick up where I left off, I finally arrived in a safer place to work.

After finding an office, and setting things up, I began seeing patients during the day. At night I treated different ailments, gave penicillin to the working girls, and treated patients in hospitals as a volunteer. It would not be long before I felt the thirst beckoning to me.

It was then that I found a local tavern frequented by working girls. There were so many of them that beggars could be choosers. I sat, with my only friend, staring at a woman with flaxen hair and a taught bosom more on display than I'd ever seen in public. As she started to leave, I told my chum, Harold, that I had to leave.

"What about the interview you promised, Emmerson."

"Old chap, why don't you call me by my nickname," I told him, smiling back over my shoulder as I walked the length of the bar.

"What's that?"

"Jack," I told him, walking out. "The Ripper," I whispered, feeling around in my pocket for my favorite blade.