Disclaimer: I do not own Titanic (1997).

Broken Reflections

By Lady Elena Dawson

Prologue

"Please, sir, spare a penny," the woman begged. Her hair was a tangled, large mess of a stunningly red color; once-beautiful curls that were sloppily cut. Her eyes were puffy from eternal tears, and her clothing torn from little care and endless use. She pushed her copper locks out of her eyes and pleaded using their charming colors: green, with a touch of blue, surrounded by lush lashes.

The man, clearly not buying the woman's grovels, shook his head firmly, lips tight from embarrassment. How could he let this beggar woman catch him on the street like that? After all, he'd been living in New York his whole life, and was experienced in avoiding the poor. Maybe it was because the thought of his sick wife that made him not notice...

"I'm sorry, miss, but I cannot give out any money," he said, and pushed the woman aside. She caught his arm, a little bit roughly, but at least she didn't tug at his shirt's sleeve desperately. "My daughter is ill, sir, please! I have nothing but the clothes on my back to sell for her! Please, sir, please! I cannot lose her!" The woman was now on her knees; her grasp on the man loosened, and she knelt down her head in a prayer.

The man sighed. By his suit and tie, he was clearly an entrepreneur with money to spare. Luckily for her, he pitied the poor and donated to local charities often. Taking the woman by the arm, he gently lifted her off the ground. She was sobbing, her head down, hands covering her eyes. Smiling, he said, "I'll put you out of your misery, miss, if you would look me in the eye."

The sound of the woman's sobs faded, and she rubbed her eyes before slowly looking up. What she saw made her heart race, and she tried to prevent a smile of triumph from spreading on her cracked lips. The man was rummaging in his coat pocket, pulling out a few bills, and handing them to her. "For your daughter," he said, and he shoved them in her hands before she could protest.

"Thank you!" she exclaimed. "You are merciful!" To show respect, she bobbed her head a little and curtsied.

As the man was leaving, a young woman approached toward the beggar, perplexed. She had dirty-blonde hair and bright, green eyes that were hard to read. Her clothes were also tattered, and her hygiene also not as good. Her hair came down in cleaner curls, though, and when she saw the wad of cash in the woman's hand, she shook her head and stormed off.

The woman just smiled triumphantly. "Oh, she'll be fine," she said to herself while smiling at the cash. Stuffing it in her mangy coat pocket, she made her way down the crowded streets of New York, in the same direction as the girl had went.

This woman's name was Rose Dawson.