Residuum
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| This amazing cover for Residuum was created by JC Clarke at The Graphics Shed |
Prologue
“The water
was so cold, little crystals of ice immediately formed atop anything and
everything that crested the surface. The sensations below weren’t any better,
however. It was as if a thousand tiny pins were plunged into my flesh all at
the same time. Even through my leather shoes, my coat. It didn’t matter; so I
took them off. The entire Atlantic Ocean was already pulling me down. I didn’t
need anything else hastening my journey to the abyss.”
The man in
the brown leather chair cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. “And
then what do you remember next?”
There was a
long pause of consideration as thoughts fought to both spring to the surface
and hide deep in the recesses of his mind. At last, a sentence was formulated.
“I didn’t have a lot of time to decide what to do. There’d been plenty of
chances, mind you, to climb into one of the lifeboats. I’d declined. Even
though I’d been below deck and had seen what it was like down there, had seen
the water crawling up the walls, lapping up the staircase, one concrete step at
a time, I suppose even then it was difficult to wrap my mind around what was
actually happening. But I was determined not to take the seat of another,
particularly a mother or child. And though I had given great consideration to
what I might do when I inevitably found myself in the Atlantic, my plan wasn’t
as developed as I would’ve liked.”
“You say
you had a plan though?”
“Not
really. I suppose I’d like to think I had one, that I would come up with
something spectacular at the last moment to save myself. That’s what I’d
reassured everyone else, all those who beckoned me aboard the lifeboats with
them. In retrospect, it wouldn’t have mattered if I had climbed aboard a
lifeboat. No one else filled those seats. Hundreds of empty seats. Did you see
that? In the papers?”
He glanced
up from his notes. “I did. I read it later, after the reports were filed.”
“Right. So,
here I was trying to be… heroic or chivalrous, I suppose. It turned out my
efforts were wasted, and I ended up dying because of it. Momentarily, anyhow.”
He remembered what it had been like to slip away and then come crashing back to
his own existence and pushed those thoughts aside, returning to his previous
thought. “I believe there’s another word one might use to describe my actions
in turning down a perfectly good lifeboat.”
He
scratched his balding head beside a thin line of light brown hair. “And what
word might that be?”
“Foolish.”
There was a
“hmmm” sound in response, which was neither an agreement or a disagreement. “So
once you were in the water, what happened then? Do you remember exactly?”
The words
were having difficulty placing themselves in the correct order again. It took a
moment of forced introspection. “I had intended to find something that would
float. I assumed, a ship with that much lumber aboard—deck chairs, tables,
doors, what have you—would have enough debris to easily find something I could
mount and wait. I was under the impression that the lifeboats would come
back—the half-empty ones for certain. It made little sense to me to think that
those people, the thousand or so who had made it safely aboard a life vessel--would
sit idly by. I assumed it would only be a matter of moments before there was a
rescue party, if you will. I also remembered seeing a light on the horizon
before we went under. I thought this other ship would be our salvation. It
turns out I was mistaken in all of my optimistic assumptions.
“In answer
to your inquiry, however, there really is no order of things, no chronological
account I can replicate for you. There was no time. Curious souls often ask me
how long it took for the rescue boat—that’s what they like to call it, which I
find quite ironic—the rescue boat to come back and begin to check to see who was
still alive. I can’t answer that question, honestly. It was an eternity. It was
the blink of an eye. I can’t precisely tell you what happened after I found
myself completely submerged in the Atlantic. Nothing happened. Everything
happened. All at the same time.”
There was a
long pause as the thin man in the upright leather chair seemed to ponder how to
proceed. “Can you describe how you felt?”
He pressed
the palm of his hand into one eye socket, pressing hard enough to feel an ache
before running his hand through his brown hair and straightening the hem of his
jacket. He cleared his throat. “I felt like I was going to die. My body was
both on fire and frozen solid at the same time. It’s hard to describe, but at
some point, the human body becomes so cold it burns. I had the fleeting thought
that there were three choices that lay before me, and I didn’t truly have any
options because there was no time to weight the potential outcomes. I only had
time to react.”
“What were
the choices?”
“The first
one was to fight—to swim as fast as I could in any direction; it really didn’t
seem to matter which. Thrash about, try to make a headway in one bearing or
another. I couldn’t see any of the lifeboats, so there was no sense in
attempting to reach one, but swimming would be action, and action seemed to be
an option.
“The next
was to do nothing. To stay perfectly still and allow the ocean to take me, as
it so clearly wanted to do. As I said, I could feel it pulling me. It wasn’t
the suction created by the ship or some such rubbish would-be scientists will
try to explain in their overly-wordy, overly-educated statements. It was the
ocean itself. She wanted me, wanted all of us, and her lapping waves were an
invitation to let go of everything I’d ever known before and simply cease to
exist.”
He went
quiet again, and the man across the room seemed perplexed as to whether or not
he should issue another prompt or simply wait. He tried the latter for a
lengthy while, and then, just as his thin lips parted to probe, the story was
continued.
“The third
option never really existed. I just thought it might. I thought there was a
chance that I could employ the same tactic I had every other time I’d been in
such a precarious situation, sure of nothing but certain death. It didn’t work
this time, however.”
“What
tactic is that?” he asked, squinting behind his thin-rimmed glasses.
The answer
came more quickly than expected. “Wake up.”
The
inquisitor absorbed the answer and then gave one short nod of the head. “I
see,” he said quietly, as if it had never occurred to him that one might even
think that was an option. “I suppose it makes sense one might assume, under the
circumstances, they must be having a dream.”
“A
nightmare,” he corrected.
“Indeed.”
“Once I
realized that my preferred escape method was not a true possibility, a parade
of familiar faces skirted through my mind, people I wished to see again, and I
began to look around for an alternative. That’s when I saw the collapsible.”
“About how
far away do you think it was?”
“In truth,
not far at all. At that point, it didn’t matter, however. Any sort of movement
whatsoever was excruciating. All of my joints had frozen stiff after just a few
minutes in the water. It could’ve been a hand’s breath away and reaching it
would’ve been nearly impossible. I’d say, it was less than ten yards’ distance.
It may as well have been floating up next to the mocking moon.”
“And yet,
you were able to reach it, eventually.”
“I was. I’m
sure I don’t know how. When I started out on my journey, there was quite a
commotion surrounding the upturned vessel as those nearby struggled to gain
traction and buoyancy. By the time of my arrival, everyone was much more…
still. Some were grasping hold with all their might. Others slipped below the
surface and were not strong enough to recover from the siren call of the abyss.
There was no helping them, no matter how badly the others wished they could
assist. At that point, it truly was every man for himself.”
“You were
able to find a spot somehow, and to grab hold?”
“Somehow,”
he agreed. He began to strum his fingers on the arm of the couch
intermittently, as if typing out a message using Morse Code.
“And you’ve
no idea how long you were there, you say?”
“No.” The
answer came quickly, unlike all of the other words that refused to form
coherent sentences.
“Do you
remember being plucked from the water, then? When the lifeboats finally
returned?”
“No.”
Equally as easily accessible. “I don’t remember anything again until after I
awoke on Carpathia.” He was quiet for
a very long time again, before he reconsidered his statement. “That’s not true.
I do remember something else.” His voice was soft now, just above a whisper,
and the man across the room leaned forward in his chair, straining to hear.
“It’s the true reason I’m here.”
“What’s
that?”
The
strumming stopped, and he looked up, a shift in his countenance. “The
photographs in my mind are one thing. I see their faces. That’s… troubling.
It’s not the worst of it. But every time I close my eyes, I distinctly see each
of them. A woman with short, curly hair. A man with some sort of wrap on his
head, his face frozen in anguish. Literally frozen. A little boy, maybe six,
clinging to a woman I presumed to be his mother. A baby wrapped in layers of
blankets and nestled between an arm stiff with frost and a bosom that would
never feed the child again. Their faces are haunting, and they are everywhere.
Despite that daily terror, it isn’t the worst.”
“It isn’t?
What is it then? What could possibly be worse than seeing the faces of the dead
everywhere you look?”
“Dr.
Morgan, have you ever considered the different definitions for the word
‘drown’?”
The
question seemed to take him aback, and he scooted his shoulders into the chair.
“No, I can’t honestly say that I have.”
“I looked
it up in the dictionary because I was curious as to precisely what it might
say. It’s such an interesting word. It doesn’t quite roll off the tongue, does
it? Drown. Drown. Drowning. It sounds almost as morbid as the meaning behind
it. The latter definition is almost as unsettling as the first, though, when
you think about it. You can’t just stick to the first definition, mind you,
doctor. You have to read them all. ‘To die under water of liquid or other
suffocation.’ Yes, of course, we all know that one. We were all trying so hard
to avoid it that night, though I’m not sure any of us thought of the true cause
of death—freezing. Nevertheless, the Atlantic that night was full of over two
thousand persons trying hard not to succumb to the first definition of the word
drown.
“If you’ll
read further, however, my good man, you’ll come up with another definition. ‘To
overwhelm as if to render inaudible, as by a louder sound.’ Dr. Morgan, since
I’ve arrived back in New York City, I’ve heard all sorts of loud sounds.
Whistles, horns, people shouting, doors slamming, music playing. Some of them
startle me because I now have a new association with each of them. I can’t
imagine what might happen should I ever again hear the loud popping sound of a
firecracker exploding, much like the distress signal that was fired off that
night. But one thing that still eludes me, Dr. Morgan, is the second part of
that definition—a louder sound, one that renders the original sound inaudible.”
“I’m not
sure I know exactly what you mean.”
“It’s quite
simple, really, Dr. Morgan. I’ve come here, I continue to come here, because
I’m hoping that you can help me extinguish, or otherwise drown out the constant
noise I’m hearing, not with my ears but with my mind. Not just while I’m
sleeping but even when I’m awake. It never stops. It’s there all the time. And,
Dr. Morgan, while I’m quite certain that a psychiatrist of your caliber is just
as capable as anyone in the world at helping me with this problem, I must admit
I’m afraid it might be a lost cause.”
“Why do you
say that, Mr. Ashton?”
“Because,
Dr. Morgan, it’s been nearly six months since Titanic sank, and I still hear them. I still hear the screams, the wails,
the cries for help. I still hear the thrashing sound of two thousand people
desperately trying to survive, trying to accept option one and fight for their
lives, for those of the ones they love, many of which were right there with
them, freezing to death, being dragged under by the pull of the Atlantic. I’m
afraid, Dr. Morgan, that I’ve reached the startling conclusion that, despite
the irony of the word itself, there’s no helping my situation. Quite frankly,
kind sir, I’m of the opinion that nothing drowns out the sound of drowning.”
Dr. Laurie
Morgan was silent for some time, taking in the statement his patient had so
decidedly declared, not sure how to respond. Eventually, he cleared his throat,
and taking off his spectacles, he picked up a cleaning cloth off of the desk
beside him and began to carefully clean the lenses. “Mr. Ashton…” he began.
“Please,
call me Charlie.”
“Right. Charlie,
I do think there is an answer, that we will find a way to make the noises stop,
or at least lessen. I understand you’ve been through the sort of traumatic
experience only a few people can identify with. However, I believe if we
continue to work together, we will eventually see results, and you’ll begin to
feel much better.”
Charlie ran
a hand through his hair and let out a deep sigh. He wanted to believe the
doctor. He’d already made some progress in the few months they had been working
together, but he didn’t know for sure if there was any solution. Today had been
a bit of a breakthrough in that he was able to tell the doctor precisely what
it was that was still troubling him. Choosing to be optimistic, he nodded, and
reaching over next to him on the lounger he refused to lie on, he grabbed his
hat before standing. Dr. Morgan rose out of his chair and stepped forward, and
Charlie had to tip his head and peer down at the much shorter man. “Thank you
for your time, doctor.” He extended his hand, and the doctor shook it. “I will
see you next week.”
“Thank you,
Charlie,” Dr. Morgan replied. “Yes, next week. I hope to work on finding some
answers then.”
Charlie
nodded and forced a smile, thinking that might be all but impossible. He headed
for the office door, and waving goodbye, he let himself out. The receptionist,
an older woman with graying hair, smiled at him, and Charlie wished her a good
day before making his way down and out of the office building into the busy
streets of New York where amidst a crowd of thousands, he felt just as alone as
he had when he’d been floating in a sea of faces in the frigid Atlantic.
