The Dream of Genes

Chapter 1: Vincent

"You're going to miss your flight, Vincent," Dr. Lamar warned me after the screen flickered from invalid to valid. Everything was calm, only the surrounding air to keep me company. Today was the day I was waiting—no, working for, all my life. By the means of a donor, I had cheated the system for the last five years to open doors that would otherwise be closed to me. So why was my stomach churning?

My shoes softly clicked on the floor like a syncopated drum beat. Against my better judgment, I just had to turn around to double-check that the doctor would be letting me through. How long had he known about my invalidity? When did he find out? Why did he not tell anyone? We made eye contact for a few seconds, each beat taking up the length of a lifetime, each one pushing the rocket launch back a few days. This couldn't honestly be happening, could it? He smiled at me as if he could read my thoughts: a smile and a blink-and-you-miss-it-nod of affirmation. Yes, he was indeed letting me through.

I turned around and continued my march to the circular terminal, folding my hands behind my back just before I entered the cylinder-shaped space.

My feet kept rhythm as I made my way through the terminal. Everything around me glowed like I was walking inside a spaceship—which I guess, in a way, I was because I was walking into the chambers of a rocket. Each step brought me closer to my dream and, yet also gave me a sense of unease. It was something foreign to me, something entirely new, but additionally, I was doing something I had never done before. I pretended to be as Jerome-Morrow-like as possible. How would he act if he were in my position? Calm and collected, better than everyone else: perfect. He would smirk, his head pointed upward.

My footfalls came steady like a metronome as I made my way through the curved walls of the terminal. I could not help but think of what Eugene told me before he sent me off. He did not say goodbye—I never liked goodbyes—but told me something better. I had given him my dream. I was so surprised I couldn't comprehend what to say, so I said nothing.

I did not think much about that as one of my hands naturally found its way into my pocket. Eugene had given me an envelope before I left: a gift. It was also out of the ordinary for him to do that. I think he truthfully enjoyed my company all the years we lived together. He was never one to share his emotions unless he was exceedingly drunk.

"Not until you're upstairs," Eugene had told me before I departed. I didn't know why, but I had not opened it yet, although I was way past the upstairs of our condominium. At that point, my body had relaxed, but like an intrusive thought, my nausea had started to germinate inside of me like a disease. Had upstairs meant outside, or had it represented when I was in space and on Titan, one of the many moons of Saturn? I didn't know, so why did I prolong the opening of his envelope?

I stopped in the middle of the terminal. The passageway's twists and turns concealed me from view, ensuring that no one could see. I wanted to open this in secret, and if I entered that rocket, I would never get the privacy I desired until it was too late. It was now or never.

I reached into my pocket once more and felt the yellow-tinted paper. It was thicker on the back than on the front as I slowly opened it. Inside, I found a lock of hair, cut and tied off. I knew whose it was because the strands looked blonde and brunette simultaneously at the same time. It was Eugene's honey dawn hair. I stood silent in the terminal. What did it mean? Why would Eugene give me a lock of his hair? Was it a sentimental piece—something to remember him by? Eugene had already given me two lifetimes' worth of blood and urine to utilize once I returned to Earth, so why would he give me his hair?

My eyes began to water as I realized what it meant. The thoughts in my brain were going a hundred miles an hour in a residential zone. Eugene already gave me all the other samples but didn't give me any hair samples. I never considered Eugene to be the sentimental type. No, he would have used his gift to hint at something.

That's when I realized what it meant.

All of that talk about traveling and dreams was just a cleverly hidden façade alluding to my friend's suicide. He was giving me his body—so I could take his place, and I had given him my dream—so he could finally kill himself.

I turned around, my heart beating like it did that day on the treadmill. It was too fast, almost like I would have a heart attack, but I would fight through the pain like I had always done before. I almost dropped the envelope as I raced back. The place was deserted; all the medical equipment that had previously tested me and showed my invalidity was gone—moved into the laboratory, I presumed. The hallway stretched as far as I could see without anyone there to stand in my way. I passed the identity checks before I found myself outside and in my car, speeding away.