The Girl Who Chased the Pendulum · The Girl Who Chased the Pendulum 2 14 April 1972: My name is Eva Harter and today is the RMS Titanic 60 th anniversary. And if you’re reading

The Girl Who Chased the Pendulum

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Lamar Bakhsh

[email protected]

11,100 words


By Lamar Bakhsh


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14 April 1972:

My name is Eva Harter and today is the RMS Titanic 60th anniversary. And if you’re reading this, that means you somehow, by some miracle, stumbled on my

notebook and you might have flipped through the pages to see who this square thing belongs to or perhaps you were just curious. I ask you, I beg of you not to give this book away nor seek its owner.

Tuck it away if you're busy but don't throw it in the trash.

Sixty years ago I was on the Titanic, I witnessed it all; magic and tragedy. But I survived. Things happened to me there, bad things. But now looking at it from sixty years later's perspective, perhaps they weren't bad at all.

The reason I'm writing this down is that I want dust to settle. I want the absence to disappear even though it's probably too late. I want to leave the wars inside me and the fire lighting my stomach. I want to think about what happened many years ago without feeling like my heart crashed into my ribs.

Those who were on the boats would always know. The horror that lays down below; blue and black and some wooden rail carved by hand. We reached the final unplanned destination with an itch bothering our tongues and stings in our eyes. Some wanted to tell the story and some did not. But people listened anyway, their ears were always pricked up for more and more; sad tales to tell their husbands or children and maybe even the newspaper. They listened even if the story is bad and the hero is worse.

So here I am, although very late, writing my story down. Nobody would capture it right… nobody did. I can't and never would. But I'll do my best.

I was a little girl, a girl of thirteen… and you’re probably thinking thirteen isn’t ‘little’ but it is, folks. You see, at that age in particular, you think you know and understand everything and every action you take is simply the right the choice. At thirteen you believe you’re thinking straight and right, and just the chances of you doing wrong things is as possible as human beings breathing underwater or the Titanic, if you saw it, sinking. And that specific sort of thinking makes you worse than a baby playing with fire for people (and yourself ) have high expectations of the way you think.

When the huge RMS Titanic started to sail away, folks on the massive shore passionately waved their hands and hats, kids sat on their father’s shoulders as if that way they could reach us any closer. Some of the people were smiling, some laughing, some crying, some jumping up and down, and some were just too proud to even smile, but there was one common thing between all these people: Goodbye.

You either say goodbye or be said to. But everyone had a goodbye to say, except for me. I silently watched the ship sail away in the chaotic windy afternoon, my face blank, a stone in

my throat but no tears left to shed, and wondering why my mother payed 60 dollars when the room we were going to stay in costed only 30.

I’ve been living with my sane father in Southampton before my insane mother forced me to move away and come with her to live in New York. “You’re going to thank me later,” she said, “You’re not safe here, never will be.” She said those things, absolutely oblivious of the fact that I wasn’t the girl to be forced to do something, she would know that if she raised me.

But she did not.I think about it a lot-- maybe my father let her take me away because he was so angry at my


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mother and wanted to teach her a lesson. After all, my father always said that I inherited nothing from him but his brain, he told me the only way he knew that I was really his daughter was based on the way my brain worked.

My father loved me, even though he seldom said so, but he did, I could always see it in his eyes and actions.

Beautiful chaos, is how I’d describe it. The ship was the most crowded place I’ve ever laid my eyes on that time, I couldn’t spot a space

that wasn’t stuffed with people. I’ve never seen so many happy people in my life and I, myself, was a tiny bit happy too. For a moment I forgot the shouts, threats, and the fights that resulted me standing on the Titanic ship, with my mother, having a one-way ship ticket to New York.

I stood on the Titanic thinking about the last time I saw my father… when I cried and begged my father to come, I cried in desperation and loneliness and he just stood there, and I could’ve sworn that I saw his mouth’s corners turned up as if… smiling, but then I wasn’t seeing clearly because my vision was blurry with tears. After a horrible silence from him and a loud cries from me, he leaned so close to me and whispered to my ears words I should’ve thought about more than I did then, “Don't worry, young lady, we will get together when you least expect it.”

And that was the first time my father called me ‘young lady’ he always called me ‘little girl’ ‘kid’ ‘baby lemon’ ‘little Eva’ and I tell you my father wasn’t the man who threw words and names out of nowhere.

It’s been so long but I remember the long, horrible days like it happened just yesterday. How can I forget them? After all, it’s the only thing I think about in the middle of the night after so many years. I could still smell the smoke, the dirt, the horses, the ocean, and finally the scent of something brand new. I still remember the small halls and narrow pathways inside the ship’s stomach, the RMS Titanic was a great, complex labyrinth.

Every time I tried to make a small talk with my mother she would say keep silent or I’d spank you so I kept silent and watched the ocean and I remember how it looked: like the ocean had no beginning nor an end, simply infinite.

The afternoons were sunny and warm, the sunsets were brilliantly orange and at that time of the day the Titanic had been the ship of dreams for everyone but me. I wanted so badly to feel the wind on my skin, I wanted to smell the ocean but my mother forbade me from coming out. I stood on a chair in our small room and watched the sun and nothing else.

“You’re your father’s daughter, Eva, you think I don’t know what you’d do?”Three days passed, I did nothing inside the room in Third Class but thinking, waiting, and

counting. On the third day of the trip, I was laying on my back in the bed, counting one to ten then start

all over again. One— Two— Three— Four— Five— Six— Seven— Eight—


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Nine— Ten— One— Two— Three— Four— An envelope slipped under the door. I remember its scent: jasmine. I turned it around expecting to see:

For Ru!Rather than:

For M"s EvaCuriosity curved the sides of my mouth and opened it into a joyful smile. It was such a great

feeling to be noticed again, to be addressed properly and directly. I wondered if it was from my father or our neighbors. I opened it and read the words whom I’ll forget only when I’m dressed in coffin.

It said:

Dear Eva, I’m y#r fa!er’s close f$end, % Bruce, do y# remember me?

Sure y# do. He told me to w$te y# and inform y# !at he’s waiting for y# in New York and if y# want to live wi! him, y#’d have to do a c#ple of simple !ings.

Fir&: 't $d of y#r mo!er, in any way y#r fa!er taught y#, whil& y# in ( )ip.

Second: when y# land in New York, turn le* and walk &raight and y# will find y#r fa!er. He prom"es.

Y#rs sincerely,


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% Bruc- I read it over and over and over. (“I’m going to see Father!”) was what I first thought and then,

(“How am I going to get rid of my mother?”) I wanted to live with my father again, so desperately. I would’ve done anything. And I did.Before I could think of ways to get rid of her, my mother came into the room and I tossed the

letter under my pillow and tried so hard to fix my face but then she didn’t even bother looking at my face.

Her head was down but I could still hear her sniffs and soft sobbing and I thought: Again? For she has been coming in early evenings everyday, bring her daughter food, then lay on her

bed facing the wall. I'd stopped asking by then. One time I tapped her shoulder and asked her what was wrong, she twisted my ears forcefully and told me, with gritted teeth, to eat my food silently.

And that day when she faced the wall and cried, I ate the juicy pork and the hot bread and butter with my hands.

The fourth day, 14 April, was long and sad. I woke up, found a plate of eggs and bacon and my mother gone. I looked at the small, golden

necklace-watch my father gave me for my last birthday and found it pointing at nine. And again I ate my breakfast with my hands.

April 14th was full of surprises and one of them was my mother walking in the room in the afternoon (not crying) and stayed in! And I thought this was a sign from God, that He wants me to live with my father, that He approves.

Another surprise was my mother coming to sit on the bed I was sleeping on and tried to touch my hand but backed away and said, “How are you today?” with a concerned voice full of motherly warm feelings.

“Fine.” I responded with my head down.“You wanna do something today? See the ocean?” she sounded almost sorry. “My friend is

waiting for us down the hall, we could do something, together.” “I want to do something today,” I slipped my hand slowly under my pillow, “but not to see the

ocean.” I smiled. And she, surprisingly, believed it. “What then, dearest? Tell me. Anything. You’ve been a good

daughter.” I weighted my possibilities and said, “I want a hug,” my fingers were curled under my pillow by

then, “a hug from you.” Her eyes were glossy that I saw myself in them, so small and vulnerable sitting in the corner of

the bed. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Come here.” She leaned in and put her arms around me, squeezed my skinny body so tight I could hardly breathe.

Under me, my hands rose and I found myself hugging her back. When my palms touched her bare back, flashbacks appeared in front of my closed eyes. When I was five—maybe younger— clutching her so hard as if she was the last hint of oxygen left for me, and she throwing my hands away like I was begging her for money not a mother. My father cursing her behind me. I begged her not to leave but she did walk away, without a final glance of her only daughter, she was indeed the last shred and she left me not breathing. I thought I wouldn’t move on back then, I would always


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cling into her, my mother, she was loving and like no one else. I thought I didn’t move on and I didn’t want to move on but before I thought that; I’ve already moved on.

My life did not stop, nor will it stop after her. She walked away from me once, and I wanted her to take a bite from the same bitter candy.

“I’m sorry too.” With all the energy I saved in that room, with all the fat and calories I ate for four days, with all

the anger and tears, with every blood cell that existed in my body, I stabbed her in the back of her neck with the butter knife.

At the speed of light, I shoved the pillow away, picked up the the knives , forks, and spoons, but not all of them. I remember looking up at my mother who, surprisingly, didn't make a sound, her mouth open in wide O but she somehow managed to stand up, walk two and a half steps then fell on her knees with a forceful THUMP.

My hands were shaking badly that I dropped one spoon, I picked it up and lifted my bed gown and hid them all in my underwear except for one. I recall how they felt against the soft skin of my privates: cold, hard metal. I was afraid in any second the fork would cut me open. The foul odor of blood was choking me, salty and metallic. While red liquid soaking her plain brown dress my mother was still struggling, I thrusted the last butter knife I had in her heart, exactly the way my father taught me; a strong thrust then twist. I took the keys from her old purse, cleaned my hands with her bed sheets.

I waited a few seconds to observe her, look at her before I threw the sheets upon her body; I couldn’t place the differences between seven years and now… for as the years passed the less I thought about her the more her face became blurry and faded away. She looked quite old for her age and had a wave of white hair, a hooked nose and white skin. Full lips and thick-lashed eyes.

What made me forget her seven years ago, would make me forget her seven years from now, I thought. Before I went out of the room I thought, do I look messy?

I straightened my chocolate-colored hair, looked down on myself; the baggy, creamy gown wasn’t red, but the smell of blood clung on my hands like wet clothes.

My father taught me how to kill clean; not touch more than necessary and other tricks.I fixed my face and went out of the room.I was locking the room when I heard footsteps that were as loud as my heart beats, “Miss Eva,”

said a calm voice, I looked up at to see a fat man, his belly walking before him, his face was round and sweaty, and even though his mouth was hiding behind the thick mustache you could tell that he was smiling, “what is the matter, Miss? You look very pale.”

“Who are you?” “It’s Mr. Bruce.” His smile was wide enough to show his yellowish teeth. “Mr. Bruce? From the letter?” “Indeed.” My heart was racing my thoughts, “You’re not my father’s dear friend, you’re not the one who

comes every friday.” I never knew who my father’s friend was or how he looked like, I asked him once what was his friend’s name and he responded to me with silence and cold eyes. But I saw the man, a few times, from a good distance, and I was undoubtedly sure he wasn’t this man who was standing in front of me for my father’s friend was tall and slim.

“Indeed.” He repeated. “I don’t understand…”


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He looked behind him and sideways, checking if we’re being watched or not then hurried toward me and took a handful of my hair so quickly and gripped it.

I gasped but didn’t cry. “Open the door,” he whispered to my ear intensely and pushed my head, “open it, let me see

your handwork.” He was pulling my hair so aggressively, I felt my skull bleeding I had to bite my lips to stop

myself from screaming, I knew I wasn’t winning nor will I. That was it. The whole thing was a trap, a great test that I failed and now I was going to pay for it. I opened the door and he shoved me inside, yanked the keys from my hands and said, “do not

move.” And I didn’t. He examined my mother for a few minutes then covered her again and chuckled, “Your father

taught you well, he would’ve been proud.”“My father isn’t coming, is he? You lied.” I didn’t ask him why did he lie because I was

determined to do it anyway once we landed in New York. I was going to get rid of my mother anyway. All that time alone in the small, white room got me thinking; Plan A, Plan B, and even Plan C. My father’s deep voice echoing inside my head repeatedly, all the long dark night in the hot basement.

“Believe it or not, your father is actually on board, he’s here waiting for you.” And before I could say anything, he held out is hand, “I will take you to him, only if you were a little good girl and came with me.” He stretched his hand for me and I took it. I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?

He took me to room number 307, we walked two halls to the right from the room I’ve been staying in, Mr. Bruce kept suddenly stopping several times (“Shh, I hear someone coming. We don’t want them to see us, do we?”), I didn’t give him much of a thought, all I was thinking was that my father is here and everything would be fine now, I couldn’t believe my father was so close and I didn’t feel it.

“Here we are, young princess.” He was still gripping my hand.Mr. Bruce unlocked the door and I gasped in horror at the sight in front of me, he shoved me

first before I could draw another breath. “We agreed you’ll be a good girl, didn’t we?”There was four women, two of them were laying on a bed and the other two on the other bed.

You almost mistook it for sleeping if it wasn’t for the blood soaking the pillows that almost looked like expensive red sheet, and the fine slender piece of metal going through their left side of their neck and coming out from the right side, I stared bewilderedly for god knows how long at them and couldn’t move. I thought back then that it’s only a matter of moment till I lay next to them.

The corpses brought out an awful odor that I pray to god everyday before I go to bed to never smell it again, a horrible scent that smelled of rot and betrayal.

Another surprise then hit me, which is when I stabbed her, my mother, I did not feel any remorse or regret and if time rewinded itself I’d undeniably do it again. I’d been so calm and solid in my feet, unafraid. But now smelling the dead women, I thought about my mother smelling exactly like that and felt my stomach knot then went to my knees.

“Get up!” Mr. Bruce shouted at me, and I did. I wanted to run to my mother, to save her for perhaps she wasn’t dead. My father sometimes

would tell me stories about people and animals surviving miraculously, “My friend taught me where to stab a spot in the chest without getting the victim killed, you perhaps want to learn that


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today?” “But, Father, why would I stab something and not want get them killed. I mean, I’m sorry but it’s

pointless.” I remember how he shot me a sharp look that spoke threats.“Are you saying that I’d teach you something pointless?” “Tell me then, what’s the point?” “I thought you were smarter, Baby Eva.” He shook his head, “The point is to avoid it. To pay

attention. To learn that just because it's in the chest doesn't mean it's dead.” “Oh.”“Sometimes the heart is inaccessible and you’d panic and go for another spot, and I want to

teach you where not to stab, got it?” “Yes, Father.” How stupid I thought I was.My mother never had a miracle in her life and maybe she’d have just this one now, I tried to

remember where exactly I stabbed but couldn’t recollect the spot but the degree to which I want to run from Mr. Bruce is only eclipsed by the degree to the impossibility of it.

I asked the only question that I thought could get me out of here, “What do you want, Mr. Bruce?” I asked, not facing him.

“And at the end, all women ask the same question.” He snorted. “Please don’t hurt me, I did nothing.” I faked a weak voice, “I did nothing wrong to you.” “Yes! You’re quite the obeying young lady.” “Please,” I tried harder. “Why is your nose bleeding, Miss Eva?” I touched my nose: nothing. “It isn’t bleeding.” He shook his head violently, “oh no, you getting messy, young lady.” He opened his small black

bag, took out a napkin then held it to my nose, “Here, hold this.” I held it for a second then looked at it: there wasn’t a drop of blood. “I’m not bleeding, Mr. Bruce.”“Ah! Look at this mess!” he took a new folded bed sheet and started scrubbing the clean floor.

“It’s spreading! Help me, Miss Eva, will you?” “But Mr. Bruce there’s nothing to clean, there’s no blood. Look,” I threw the napkin away and

angled my face to him, “there is nothing.” He gasped, “Ah! You stupid whore! Are you trying to get me caught? Hold that napkin, now!” he

held the napkin with his thumb and forefinger as if disgusted with what was on it. “But Mr. Bruce…” harder, harder, and harder. “I SAID HOLD IT, YOU LITTLE WHORE!” his loud voice could’ve woken the dead women

laying only a few feet from me. My body jumped up and I obeyed because again I didn’t have another choice. Mr. Bruce started shivering and scrubbing the clean floor, panting and whimpering. It was the

first time I saw someone acting so maniac, I was so afraid if I interrupted I would end up like the corpses next to me.

I wanted to survive so I did what I thought he wanted, “Do you want me to help you?” “Yes, yes, please, help me.” He stood up and tossed me another new bed sheets, “Clean with one

hand, and hold the napkin with the other. If someone smelled your blood, there’s a good chance they’d call the police and we don’t want to get caught, yes? Because then I’d have to tell them about what you did to your mother.”


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I nodded and scrubbed the floor. “You lied again, didn’t you? My father isn’t here.” He didn’t stop panting, “See, your father taught you, but not too well.” He smiled a wickedly,

“He never taught you not to trust strangers now, did he? You would think a man like your father would know that not everything worked the way he wanted, turns out no.” He smiled at me then struggled to stand up and looked around, his eyes widening. “Oh, no.” He hurried to scrub the white walls. “Your bloody nose! The blood is everywhere!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” He, oblivious to my apology, gasped loudly, “We need to get out of here, please, please, please. I

don’t want to go to jail. There’s blood everywhere!” he cried then shoved me out of the way, kneeled in front of the door, and started sweeping something that was only visible to him with his hands, he thought there was blood passing under the door. He started muttering something in a language I’ve never heard before; some syllables he stretched for so long as if praying, some he seemed to melt together as if he was speaking underwater.

This was my chance. “Yes, let’s get out of here. Somebody will eventually come and see the corpses.”

He frowned for a split second then smiled widely, “You think I’m as stupid as your father, young princess?” he stood up, “you stay here, I’m tying you under the bed.”

“No, please, don’t leave me with the corpses, please. I will do everything you ask me. I swear it on my father’s life and my life.”

“I take words from nobody,” he seized my hands behind me, leaned close to my ear and whispered, “little lemon.”

The moment he said ‘little lemon’ I had questions that could expand as long as the ocean we were sailing in; how did he know? Who is he to my father? To me? To my dead mother? My friend is waiting for us down the hall, we could do something, together. She told me before I put her to rest. Was he the friend?

“How do you know me?” I blurted“Why, I’m your mother’s close friend.” “Like a childhood friend?” “Not particularly.” “You’re the one whom she left us for?” “Ah, wish I was that guy.” “Then who?” “We met here, on this ship. On the RMS Titanic; the ship where dreams come true!” “So you weren’t close.” “We were.” “No, you were not! You just met her a few days ago.” “Ah, silly little lemon. Friendship isn’t about how many months and years we’ve known each

other.” He came so close I could’ve counted his nose’s hair and how many black-heads he had. “It’s about how many secrets we share, don’t you think? It’s about opening your heart completely and unthinkingly.” He giggled like a little girl, covering his mouth and hunching. “She had several drinks and spilled it all out,” he threw his head back and roared with laughter, “what was she thinking? I was some kind of bartender who would patiently listens to her while she spills all her problems to me?” he laughed as if he just had three big, fat glasses of vanilla beer, “she thought she could spill it all out then go away like nothing happened between us! She thought ‘ah, maybe I


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could get it off my shoulders to a stranger who was nice enough to buy me a drink then walk away.’” He stopped and said with a serious voice, “Poor thing didn’t know nobody take things from me for free. Nobody.”

I stopped thinking for a moment to remember if I asked or took something from him… to see my father which does not count because I paid my debt, he said ‘get rid of your mother’ and I did. There was nothing on me, I thought.

I looked over the corpses, “All of them took something from you for free?” “Why ask questions you know the answer to?” He winked.“What do you want from me?” I asked, “How can I pay you back?” His wicked smile, his eyes

pregnant with evil, his instability, all things about him said he had no good intentions, I truly would’ve done anything for him to let me go.

“I’ll answer that question later.” His voice’s tone made it crystal clear that the discussion was off the table.

He started looking intensely around the room, muttering words and shaking again. He tied my hand with the bed sheet I was using for cleaning, tossed me under the bed then hurried out of the room.

The second his footsteps faded away like an echo, I tried to free myself. It didn’t take me so long because he tied the two angles of the bed sheet poorly, he probably thought he did it neatly, I thanked god he was a crazy, hallucinator pig.

Barefooted, I let my ear kiss the cold, white-painted door to hear if someone was out there: there was not.

I checked my watch: 5:30pm. I opened the door, slowly and watchfully as if I was careful not to disturb the corpses, got out on

my toes, closed door just as quietly and unhurriedly, turned around and— Bumped into Mr. Bruce’s huge belly. I gasped, covered my mouth before screaming. “Well, well, young princess. Looks like horse’s shit is more worthy than your promises.” His eyes

shined of bad intentions. I noticed he had something metal-shiny tied to his fist, I stole a quick glance at it: a tall sharp

needle, about 8 and a half inches, was tied neatly with a red cotton thread between his middle and forefinger.

I gaped, my eyes widened at the thought that this is what was buried sideways in the ladies’ necks then widened bigger when I realized it’s only a matter of a minute before I become just like them.

The fear, the terror, he saw it all in my face then smiled, “Do you like it? I just sharpened it.” He laughed an evil laugh, a laugh that sent shivers all down my spine, a laugh I could still hear it in my nightmares after sixty years.

After letting him enjoy the pleasure but before he got a grip on me, I ran as fast I could down the hall. The two forks, three spoons were obstructing me from running my usual speed but all of Mr. Bruce extra fat made it easier. I tried to focus more on my pace rather than the pain the utensils were causing me.

I noticed a few things whilst I was running: it was freezing (that hour the air temperature dropped 10 degrees, down to 0.5 C), my feet were numb, I could still hear Mr. Bruce’s curses and heavy footsteps behind me. I shouldered between people and ran through the narrow, white halls, I


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climbed god knows how many stairs, I found myself running toward a blocked pathway and I would go back my way and run left instead of right, I ran as hard as was my desire to live.

I ran and climed stairs until I found myself on the Titanic's deck, I was taken back by the stunning sunset; shades of orange and scarlet, the clouds were wondering whether to wear blue or pink on that sad day, it was so beautiful as if the sky was almost apologizing about what was going to happen later that night it wanted us to enjoy something simply amazing before we face the tragedy. The cold wind, slapping my sleeping gown violently, seemed to sail us to the sun instead of New York. In that moment I felt sorry for myself, for not exploring the Titanic enough, it deserved to be appreciated and toured. She was a massive piece of art that came only once a century and every a thousand generations. The sky, the ocean, the wind, the scent, the ship, it all gathered to make one phenomenal picture, I could've stood there forever.

Right now, I envy the people who died that night, those hours were a great sight to look at before saying goodbye to your last heartbeats. I take pity on myself now for I’ll die sad and alone and the cracked ceiling of my bedroom would probably be the last thing I see before I close my eyes and never opening them again.

And after carving the unforgettable sight of the Titanic forever in my memory, I moved to run again, looking for a place to hide. I turned around to climb one more set of stairs until there were no more stairs to climb, I slowed down owning it to the fact that I lost Mr. Bruce through this outstanding maze. I let my eyes wander the deck then swallow every detail of the surface, my brain puked possibilities of hiding. I’d hide but then what? How long am I going to hide before we land? I asked myself while I paced.

I walked left and saw the covered boats, hesitated for a second, looked behind me and saw about fifteen people none of them was Mr. Bruce. I prayed to god if there was one and untied three of the boat cover’s thick ropes and slipped inside.

Nerves and lack of oxygen made sweat tickle down all over my spine, my breath steadied and I closed my eyes but dared to sleep not.

There was no longer a sun to warm me a little, darkness filled the big boat. I noted all the sounds around me: my cold breaths, the faint nervous murmurs beyond the thick sheet, and the ship slapping the waves.

I tried to map out a plan but my brain was so tired. I thought, whatever happens, happens. I don’t know how many hours passed when someone lifted the boat’s cover suddenly. “Here she

is!” said someone completely unfamiliar, “that’s your little girl, aren’t she?” By then, I was laying on my aching back and keeping still, no words escaping my throat. I just

stared and blinked. The stranger extended his hand for me. “Come one, bad girl. Your father is very upset.” He was

smiling innocently. “Do you realize how much trouble you’re in for uniting these ropes, Miss Eva?”“She was a bad girl.” Mr. Bruce was smiling as well, but with no tinge of innocence. I closed my eyes for a couple moments to gather my courage, I sat up, got out of the oak boat

and fixed my face. “He’s not my father,” the stranger’s face fell. “He killed my mother.” I looked at Mr. Bruce with deathly hatred. “He killed my mother and four other ladies, so pardon me for uniting these ropes for I wanted to save my life from him.” I pointed at him with my shaking finger and faked tears.

“What did I tell you, Officer?” Mr. Bruce shrugged. “Miss Eva, Miss Eva!” the Officer put his hands around me. “Your father loves you very much


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and your duty as a daughter is to love him more than you hate New York. Your mother’s death wasn’t his fault, it wasn't yours, it was nobody’s. Do you understand?” he was standing in front of me by then, “you’re going to have a great life in New York, a great school, new friends, huh? Friends better the ones you have back home. Now go to your father, you’re lucky to have him. We’re really busy here.” He scooted me to Mr. Bruce’s embrace.

“No! You don’t understand! He kills women with needles, please believe me, please. He’s going to kill me.”

The look on the Officer’s face was sympathy and pity, a look you would give a sheep going to slaughter but what should I do? I want meat, too. He sighed loudly, “Needles don’t kill, sweetheart. Needles cure.”

“I swear he killed them with needles!” I, somehow, forgot to mention the fact that they weren’t like any needles, they were huge and sharp.

“Where?” “In the neck.” “No, I mean…” he took a deep breath as if his patience was wearing thin. “Did you see him kill

them?” “Officer please don’t bother…” Mr. Bruce started to say but the Officer showed him his palm and

said, “please, Mr. Bruce, let me deal with her.” He looked at me. “So did you see him or not?” “Yes, I saw him! In his room. In my room, too.” “How about I tell you I was just in his room and your room? We were looking for you. Nothing

was amiss to me.” He patted my shoulder. “And dear, why would you ask your father to sleep in another room just because you’re angry at him? That’s not how a good daughter behaves, that’s how a money-waster behaves, huh? Be a good daughter, Miss Eva.”

And he left. Just like that. He left me with Mr. Bruce. We just stood there, his arm around my shoulder, until the Officer was nowhere to be seen.“Indeed,” Mr. Bruce eventually said after the stretched silence. “Why don’t you be a good

daughter?” “Just tell me what you want from me.” I swear I could hear the last shred of hope flying away as

my words poured out. “Why, I want what’s best for you. For us.”I bursted into tears, and this time they were true tears. Tears that questioned everything. Tears

of confusion and frustration. Tears that regretted walking away from my father. Tears that blamed me for all of this mess. Tears that regretted killing my mother. Tears oblivious that it wasn’t just me who’s life is about to end, but the whole ship. Tears unaware of the fact that it’s only a matter of minutes before the vicious ocean demanded its dinner.

I looked up the sky, hoping the biting cold would freeze my tears. The sky was moonless, clear and flat calm. The ocean and the sky created two shades of dark blue that almost passed for black. The New York Times newspaper after the ancient said in that hour, the lack of the wind and calm waters actually made spotting an iceberg more difficult, as without wind they were unable to see water breaking on the berg. The lack of moonlight limited the chance of reflected light from the iceberg.

I cried facing the sky. Cried. Cried.


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And cried.After sniffing and wiping away the last batch of tears, I looked at Mr. Bruce. He instantly

grabbed me by the elbow and dragged me all the way down the ship’s insides into his clean, corpse-less room.

He shoved me in, bared the bed sheets then took something out of his suitcase, I frowned when I saw what was in his hands: an old, rusty kitchen grater.

“What are you doing?” He stopped. “You cried? Why did you do that?”“Because of you!” I screamed. “What is it that I did?” his voice was terrifyingly calm. “You tricked me! You made me think I was going to see my father, and in order to that I had to

get rid of my mother.” “No,” he took a step closer. “This has nothing to do with me. Don’t throw it in my face just

because I gave you an excuse for what you were going to do it anyway.”I pursed my lips. You’re right. But I didn’t say it, and even if I was going to he wouldn’t hear me; he was already

struggling to his feet. Mr. Bruce bended my legs then tied my right hand with my right knee and likewise with my left side. The stuff tucked in my underwear pressed too hard and made it difficult to sit properly.

I didn’t resist as I just watched him do it. He gripped my hands and forced them into fists. “Carla was too trusting, she told me everything…” he started to say before I interrupted.

“Who’s Carla?” I heard the name before but wasn’t very sure. “Your aunt.”“How do you know my aunt?” I don’t know my aunt.“You don’t know your aunt?” “No, do you?” He stared at me for a moment then bursted into laughter. “Your father told you nothing, did he,

princess?”“Where are you heading with this talk?” I narrowed my eyes.All I got for an answer was him tying my mouth shut. “You are surely interruptive, Miss Eva.”

He looked at me after he was done with the last knot, “Are you strong, Miss Eva? Think twice before you answer.”

I thought once… I wasn’t strong. My mother took me against my will from my father, if I had been strong I would’ve been in my old oak bed in my own bedroom, inhaling the familiarity of my father’s old walls, letting the shuffling sounds of him drifting me to sleep.

And I thought twice… if I was weak, I wouldn’t have put my mother to rest to take a step closer to what I want. I was strong enough to remove something standing in my way. I drove a knife through her, that surely required strong muscles.

But do you truly consider yourself strong when facing the weakest? Am I so weak because all it took me was a simple shove? Am I strong because it usually takes very much to simply make up your mind? Am I weak physically and strong when it came to my willpower?

Mr. Bruce loosened the knot just enough to let me speak, his looks demanded an answer.“I’m not strong,” I said, “but I’m not weak either.” I was just like everyone else; more and less. He nodded then tied me again. “Well, it’s time we settle for one of them. I want you to listen to


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me very carefully to what I’m going to say next. Do not make a sound because if you did, I’ll make it worse. Is that understood, Miss Eva?”

I nodded. He smiled. Without a trace of hesitation, he held the grater and gripped my right fist and started forcefully

rubbing it against my knuckles.And oh, God. It was really sharp. But not as sharper as the pain. In that moment, I remembered the time I accidentally cut myself

really deep and thinking that was the worse pain I’ve ever came across. Several months passed and I broke my arm, and when the doctor tried to fix me I never thought I’d wish I had hemiplegia. After that I burned my leg, really bad, and again I thought burning was the worst kind of pain I’ve ever felt.

And then this, Mr. Bruce slowly shredding my knuckles. I can still remember my skin chunks sliding down my legs and blood… too much blood. It was the type of pain that sent flashes of colors in front of your eyes, a pain you thought that would last forever, a pain that pulled the air out of your chest then choked you with it, a pain I hope nobody ever experiences after me.

I screamed into the sheets that were tied on my mouth, screamed till I tasted blood in my mouth but that didn’t stop me and I screamed even louder when he stopped because when he did, the pain got worse. And again, I never thought I’d wish he never stopped, I screamed ‘don’t stop’ but my words came out muffled.

He was talking but I couldn’t listen to anything, he moved my right hand to the side and started doing the same thing on my bended knees.

It hurt much, much worse. I could write long, stretched descriptions of how much the pain burned me but I need the pages to finish the story that has been choking me for years.

And I screamed until my vocal cords bid me a farewell. He stopped. I looked up. His hands were caked with blood and thicker things. I felt sick— which was odd because blood

was never too much for me, I swallowed my vomit. Mr. Bruce looked at this own handwork as the biggest accomplishment he ever did. I was too exhausted to say anything when he held his hands to his mouth and licked my blood of his fingers, his hungry eyes never leaving mine.

“The women you murdered wasn’t your mother.” He said it as if it was a common knowledge running around.

I wanted to say something, to protest, to tell him I didn’t believe him… not anymore. He got me twice and I wouldn’t allow it to happen thrice.

“She was your aunt, princess. Your mother’s sister. Your Momma went to finish her business with your father. He wasn’t the only one plotting.” He laughed at the horror painting my face. “Things were going well for both of them— your mother and aunt, threats and all but sadly not for so long. Affairs took a turn around and Carla had to get in the ship leaving your mother behind, she had no choice. Sad, isn’t it?” he was silent for a minute or two. “Didn’t you wonder where I put the sleeping ladies? Your aunt had an extra room. Well, it was supposed to your mother’s but that never happened.”

I didn’t have a chance to think, the pain clung into me like a warm, drowsy octopus. I closed my eyes. “Your mother came to get you, she had a good reason to, do you know why?” he shook my


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head cruelly. “Look at me, keep your eyes open. Yes, don’t close them. Now do you know why?”Despite the unendurable pain, I somehow found the energy to shake my head.“Your father was waiting for you to flower,” Mr. Bruce succeed in moving to sit next to me like

there was no blood around us at all, he put his arms around me, pushed me into his embrace and secured my head on his shoulder. “He was waiting for a reason,” he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That reason was because he wanted to mate with you, Eva.”

I tried to push away from him but he was fat and too strong. “No, listen to me. He wanted to mate with you because he wanted more… psychos. Your father wanted an extraordinary product of his brain and yours, he wanted an extra partner in crime. He wanted a boy.”

It was true, my father have always wanted a boy and never failed to keep reminding me of how much it’d be easier for him if I was a boy. Then I remembered something my father told me while my head was still pinned into Mr. Bruce's shoulder. “But one day, little lemon. One day you’ll bring us a boy. Sooner than later.”

“Soon enough, we’ll have the big family your mother failed to give me.”“Do you want to say something, princess?” I shook my head: no. “Do you have questions?” I shook my head again. “Do you believe Uncle Bruce?”I hesitated for a second then shook my head one more time.No. He sighed disappointedly. “I put ladies to sleep for good reasons. Carla did not deserve to be put

to sleep, Eva.” I closed my eyes and choked on my puzzlement, and that moment was the worst of my night.

The moment I swallowed it all. I replayed all the things that happened since the morning, all the things I had before I got on that cursed ship. I was all alone in terrible world, I just like a yellow crushed leaf on the sidewalk that seconds away was among spiritous greens before a vicious wind ripped me away. And you know what’s the saddest part? Is that for a short period of time I really thought I had it all, and I blindly believed I’d make it. Because when my father said those things, all I had in my mind was one day I’d get married to someone like Uncle Smith—our neighbor, and I would have the big family my father and I wished for. I could have. I almost had.

No one, not a person warned me about betrayals and loss. No one warned me about not believing and trusting my family too much. I really thought if I closed my eyes and stretched my hand for my father he’d pull me to the stars and higher clouds. No one warned me that sometimes your family is the reason behind soaked pillows and broken souls and so so many bad dreams.

Mr. Bruce and I sat in silence for a very long time. An hour or more. A silence that let my memories speak from another perspective and vacuums all the lies dusting the truth.

Why did my father raised me like that? I remember questioning everything. Why did he convince me that being cold and hard was the way to live, even if it was his way of living; it wasn’t fair. I didn’t get to choose. I’ve never been shown how to properly feel toward someone or something. My father casting disgusted looks to a husband hugging his wife, a mother giving her infant sweet kisses on the mouth and eventually I learned to cast some looks myself. Because I thought I knew what was right, that being bitter was it.

I believed Mr. Bruce and even though I didn’t say it out loud, I know he knew I did.


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I groaned and ushered him in a motion that demanded freeing my mouth. And he did. “I have a question.” “Yes?” “Why did you do that to me?” I looked at my throbbing knees, still bleeding but numb.He looked at my knees like he didn’t do it, like it was an odd sight that’s never been seen before.

“I did not.” “Yes, you did. Look it’s your grater.” He sucked on a breath. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Come closer, dear.” He pulled me toward

him. I didn’t resist. “Carla didn’t know what happened to your mother, they were supposed to meet on the shore but she didn’t show up so she got on the ship alone.

“Carla is gone and probably your mother, too. It isn’t safe to be around your father as well. You have no one, I understand. I understand too well. Do you want to live with me, dear?” the hope in his eyes was bold enough to slice through it. “You’ll be safe with me.”

I nodded because I had nothing. “Marvelous! Go to sleep, princess Eva. You need it.” Sleep I did and woke up to absolute horror.

It was at 11:40 at night when the ship hit the iceberg. Many passengers, including me, and crew slept through the collision whilst others assumed the ship survived a glancing blow and was undamaged.

You can’t argue that the RMS Titanic’s death was art. In the open ocean, not a single pair of eyes outside the ship saw it. Hundreds of stars came just

to witness the forgettable. But the Titanic was unnoticed in her time by a living spirit, and tragically misunderstood. The sea was strangely empty except for the Titanic herself and the iceberg. She tried and failed. Her ink a dead mixture of sad tears and screams that came with it. I easily wrote screams but it was screams and because there’s no other word for it and if I could invent a word only for the screams that happened in the Titanic I gladly would.

But screams. Yes. Loads and loads of them, and every kind also. Panic screams, horrified screams, pain screams, grief screams, hopeless screams… and the list goes on.

The mirror was her canvas in which her creativity was scattered and glowed, the paint was nothing more but terrible sounds and shades of dark colors with little glowing dots that didn’t stay for long. After many years, I do believe her death was art. Self-destructive, and beautifully tragic.

And god help me, she broke.She left. But her poetry will forever scar the darkest hollowness on this earth. She could have been saved, thousands of people and great tons of iron and metal and coals

could have been saved. There was a ship near by, it was called the Californian. But unfortunately, very very unluckily, she has turned off her wireless for the evening, she was a mere twenty miles away and could have reached Titanic before she sank but the devil is real.

He is not a little hooded red man with horns and a tail. He can be beautiful and magically manipulative because you almost mistook him for an earth heaven.

I woke up to a rush of people being chased by the last hours. And Mr. Bruce wasn’t anywhere to be seen.


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My instant thought was that they have found the bodies and got Mr. Bruce. My second thought was that I had to run, they can’t catch me. All I had in mind was what my father used to tell me what happens to the people when they get caught; rape and torture and cutting tongues out, and I didn’t want that.

My right knuckles and knees were tightly bandaged but still slowly bleeding and when I tried to stand, I felt my knees being stabbed all over again.

I looked at the watch hidden beneath my gown around my neck: 11:50 pm.The water has poured in and risen fourteen feet in the front part of the ship by then but my

room was way in the back. The panicky footsteps and voices outside ringed something inside me, I tried to calm my heartbeat the way my father taught me, “Inhale. Hold. One, two, three. Exhale. Be heartless, like a ghost. Animals can hear your heartbeat miles away.”

I tried and tried but it didn’t work. Worst case scenarios rushing in and out of my brain. I made up all sorts of excuses ‘it was self-

defense’ ‘she tried to kill me’ ‘she would’ve killed me in a blink’ while I reached my underwear to get the forks and the spoons out.

I didn’t acknowledge the cuts the forks did to privates. I clutched the two forks and dropped the spoons, muttered a prayer to the thing that’s responsible for this life. I did believe in god back then, I don’t believe in such a thing now.

I waited a few minutes just to check if Mr. Bruce would come, then I went outside.I thought the corridor was empty before I heard, “What are you doing here all alone? Go on,

kid. Wear a lifejacket now.” A complete stranger clumsily dressed me in a lifejacket. “Where’s your mother, huh? Where’s your family?”

My answer was instant. “They’re already up. I took a nap.” “Jesus Christ.” He covered his face with both hands.“What’s wrong?” He sighed. “Look at you, so innocent, aren’t you? Go up to your family, go.” I stared at him in

confusion. “GO!”And I went. I ran and ran. But the more I ran the more I felt like I was running toward the grounds rather

than up to the docks. I didn’t know how to get on there, right and left and left then right to a long corridor.

The piercing cold made my teeth clatter and my toes numb. I stopped from a step to another for a sound to guide me up, it didn’t take long to finally hear

loud and hurried shouts guided me to the stairs that was suffocatingly crowded. “HURRY! THEY’LL CLOSE THE GATES IN ANY MINUTE NOW. THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE TO GO UP.”

“What’s going on?” I asked a tall women dressed in a lifejacket, hugging her baby to her chest. She looked down on me, wide-eyed. “The ship is sinking.” She had to bend to whisper near my

ear. “You have to get on a lifeboat.”At these last hours, my mind was in abyss of hopelessness and too many questions; how is this

happening and how? Where’s Mr. Bruce? Did he leave me? Who do I go to to get me in a lifeboat? And I wanted to survive. Badly. But I regret it now, my seat could’ve been saved for someone

who was worth saving; a missed father, a dear husband, a loved daughter. After passing the chaotic, crowded set of stairs I managed to reach the empty Standard Class


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passage, everyone else ran to the next pair of stair but me; I wanted to find Mr. Bruce (or maybe I just wanted to sit there until the ship sink, I’m not very sure) I scanned the empty pathway only to find someone in front of me that made me scream my lungs out.

My father. A wicked smile broke its way into his face, “Shush, young lady.” My shock fell to the fact that he

was wearing a suit which he never does, he doesn’t own one, he even used to mock people dressed in suits. His eyes invested every inch of my body and smiled even bigger when he saw my bandaged hand.

I wasn’t in control of my body back then, shaking, I fell on my knees, numb to the pain, and gaping at him. “No, no, no, no. You didn’t get on the ship. No!” The sinking didn’t scare me at that moment as much as the terror that he might do it to me now. I knew what Mr. Bruce meant by the term ‘mating’ I wasn’t stupid. Flashbacks of my father ‘mating’ with that chubby women last year took colors in front of my eyes, the house’s walls were something close to paper and I heard the bed’s banging so hard I was afraid the walls would crash and the women’s loud noises overlapping the banging . It wasn’t screaming in pleasure but in agony. I did nothing about her screams but smile. I was glad to hear her wretched yells, my hatred toward the women was instant when my father told me to go to my room for the rest of the night because he has a guest and offering his best hospitality was the least he can do. And I was even happier when I sneaked a look through my bedroom door to see her walking out of the house sniffing her sobs and limping.

At least drowning is less painful, I thought back then.He firmly covered my mouth with his hand. “As a matter of a fact, I did. How could I let

someone take my only daughter away from me? Did you really think I’d let you slip away from my palms like water? I did not know you think that low of your father.”

I swallowed and closed my eyes, then wondered where in earth is Mr. Bruce. My father aggressively lifted me on his shoulder. “It must be fate. I was on my way to get you. My plan was to get you once Titanic landed on New York but change of plans, we have to get going.”

He used his right hand to pin both my wrists behind my back and the other one got a death grip on my arse, my head pounded on his lower back. “The ship is sinking.” I didn’t know what else to say. I knew he knew but I was desperately hoping he’d go to try to save his own life and leave me alone. I could’ve cursed him but I tried that once and my father made sure I wouldn’t do it again. I could’ve kicked but he was faster than canary.

“You got that straight, my Eva.”I’ve should have woken up by now, all of it was silly dream. Or perhaps Mr. Bruce would bust in

in the right second— not early and not too late, like in fairy tales. He comes to rescue me from my evil father and he would write down his relatives address and tell me to get out of this ship then go to them and be safe.

I wish it was a fairy tale or a dream, I really wish. He walked, surprisingly, very slowly still carrying me for I don’t know how long. I didn’t make a

sound let alone release a breath.I looked up when he stopped. We were still on the wooden pathway. He laid me down, pinned my chest on the freezing floor with his palm. I screamed when the

realization that he was ripping my panties off with his other hand hit me. I was screaming when he said, “I have to do this now. It can’t wait.”I was screaming when slipped two fingers inside of me and did what I remember to seem like a


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pinch. I was screaming when I bled.“Eva. Eva, my daughter. My big daughter now, my big Eva. Lady Eva. Better me than someone

else. Right, daughter?” I was still screaming when a man yelled so loud, “HEY!” I really wished he came sooner, before

it was too late.It was the same officer that lectured me and gave me to Mr. Bruce. “Please, please, please. I beg you get me away from him. I beg you.” I cried loudly. I tried to amuse myself with the thought that one day this won’t hurt anymore. Soon. That it’s

okay. My privates’ inner skin would replace itself, bran new, like nothing happened. Because I had no bruises, no scars, no visible wounds… like the most valuable thing I had wasn’t stolen away.

It really was like nothing happened. I don’t know what my father’s face was like because I wasn’t looking at him, my eyes were

closed, but I know he was rooted into his spot. I felt it. He didn’t move an inch. Not even his fingers inside me.

It was as fast as a shooting star. “BLOODY HEARTLESS BASTARD!” I wasn’t feeling my father’s presence weighing me down

anymore, the sound of something’s wreckage echoed down the wide corridor… again and again. My father did not make one pained whimper nor did I move.

I heard the officer’s pants getting closer to me. He lowered my gown clutching the hem and was so careful not to touch me. “Eva?” his whisper was as gentle as a father waking up his baby girl, “Are you hurt? Are you conscious? I was late, wasn’t I? Christ.”

I said “Yes.” To all the things he said.“Who is he?”“My father’s friend.” “He called you ‘daughter’” “He’s… crazy.”My body was shaking as if it was dipped into the ocean we were sailing on. And I broke down.And that was the last time I cried. Ever. “You’ll be fine, Eva. Let’s go find your father, yes?” I nodded. “Everything is going to be fine. Be strong. Yes, kid?”I stood up. “Get me out of this ship.” He took off and I followed him. The noise was smothering, and the cold was spiking. I hugged myself as I watched the horror

on the-soon-to-be-buried faces and the first of eight emergency distress rockets is fired followed by aaaaahs and oooohs. The officer cupped both his hands on his mouth and shouted Mr. Bruce’s name several times then stood on a big, square metallic thing that I have no clue of its functions.

Mr. Bruce wasn’t hard to spot owning it to his shape. “THERE HE IS!” the officer called out, then dragged me behind him clutching my hands until we saw him standing, his back to us, silently watching the first lifeboat being launched.

“Wait here, I need a word with your father.” I was out of earshot and didn’t object.He didn’t let Mr. Bruce get a chance to talk, I saw him mutter a thing after another. Doing non-

stop gestures with his band, Mr. Bruce tried to turn around and take a look at me but the Officer


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stopped him and talked some more. After he finished talking, he nodding in question, Mr. Bruce nodded back in agreement.

They hurried toward me. Mr. Bruce didn’t say a word just took my hand and we followed the Officer wherever he wanted to lead us to. We jogged inside while people were dying to get outside, turned corners and walked slender pathways until we reached a narrow white-cream door.

“Wait here.” The Officer told me then walked in and Mr. Bruce followed him.It took them less than a minute. The two of them walked out of the door, wearing the same

uniform: an officer suit. Not wasting time, they were running the way we came and I followed thoughtlessly. Reaching

the dock we had to stop, my knee was on a blaze and flowing too much blood. They didn’t say anything when I motioned to my knee, Mr. Bruce acted like he did before— like he wasn’t the one responsible for it.

“I’ll carry you, okay?” said the Officer. I nodded. He picked me up, I was too tall for him that one of his arms was around behind my knees and

one hand pinning my head to his shoulder blade.I closed my eyes, felt him running, and I wished I had the ability to close my ears too. The cries

and shouts and whispers and the sound of boats launching was the only thing filling the hollow ravine we were stuck in.

“What’s going to happen to us?” “She’s sinking.” “Lord help us. Save our souls.” “LOWER AT THE SAME TIME!” “Mommyyyyyyyy!” “Go on, Officer Bruce.” “But he’s heavy.” “And fast. COME ON, OFFICER ROSTRON. WE DON’T HAVE TIME!”

Cries

Shouts

Whimpers

Whispers

I felt his lips brush my ear. “I won’t let you drown when that thing was the last thing that happened to you. Go. Survive. Don’t let it stop you. Yes, kid? This is a second chance for you.”

And he put me on the boat, next to Mr. Bruce who was griping the boat oars.And we rowed.Leaving the Titanic half sunk off the coast of Newfoundland below the surface of the north

Atlantic, we rowed. Leaving all the corpses to die twice, leaving everything unfortunate behind, we rowed. Gold, diamonds, silver, expensive clothes that were supposed to be worn once, sparkly shoes, old wine and beer, tons of iron and coals, it all didn’t matter when one is stripped naked of


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the last hint of possibility. I wish it mattered be to me if we went or not. Nonetheless, we rowed. Through the cold water and weather that was like millions of tiny knives that didn’t seem to stab you in the right spot, too cold you almost mistook it for a hell, we rowed faster and faster. Shutting our ears to the dreadful sounds that echoed and faded but forever in my nightmares and even after sixty years it still paints the inside of my eyelids, we rowed and rowed. We rowed away from a future underwater museum and a hidden treasure one exert themselves for. Abandoning thirteen years of my life to sink with the Titanic and a couple of thousands of living spirits with it, we rowed. Saying a farewell to the little girl I once was and the old lady I’d become one day, we rowed.

We rowed back to home.

Documents

The Girl Who Chased the Pendulum · The Girl Who Chased the Pendulum 2 14 April 1972: My name is Eva Harter and today is the RMS Titanic 60 th anniversary. And if you’re reading