The Swim Back [Gattaca]

Chapter Two: Discovery

[[AN: This chapter is a little iffy and does describe like a burnt body and references to canonical suicide.]]

Eugene was twelve years old when he took up swimming. His parents thought that he should be involved in more sports because that was where he succeeded. He won over and over and over again in sports. Soccer, basketball, rugby, hockey, in sports, he was perfection. The older he got, the better at academics he became as well, winning science fairs, debates, trivia bowls, and more. Whatever he attempted, he succeeded in. He had to succeed in. His parents loved showing off his many medals and trophies from everything he had won, gushing about the traits they had given their son to make him the best of the best. Swimming was just another sport, just another competition for Eugene to win, another medal to be placed around his neck. That was what it was supposed to be. Swimming wasn't quite the same as the other sports. Under the water, Eugene couldn't hear the cheers or the chants of his name. It all just blended together, became a muffled blur of distant sound coming from far away. In the water, Eugene was at peace, it was a blissful void that surrounded him, he could be almost unaware of his competitors who would never be as good as him. Underneath the surface of the water, he had nothing and no one other than himself. He had nothing to prove, nothing to win, no impossible standard to live up to. He decided that swimming was his favorite sport, was his everything. Eugene was twelve years old and the burden of perfection didn't seem so heavy.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vincent stared at the wheelchair in confusion, searching the nearby area for its owner. There was no way that Eugene could get very far without it, so it made no sense that Vincent couldn't see him. He had a distant memory of Eugene mentioning that he would be traveling, but Vincent hadn't believed him. Was it possible that he had another wheelchair that he used to leave the house, to go traveling? Vincent took another step closer when he was hit by an overpowering stench that nearly knocked him back, causing him to hold his hand up to his nose. He didn't know how the smell hadn't hit him before, but his sense of smell had never been the best and the entire room still smelled of cleaning supplies that could almost cloak the stench. Vincent didn't how to even begin describing the smell. It smelt distantly of something that had been burnt, someone forgetting that the oven was on and allowing a good meal to go to waste as it shriveled and turned black, remaining underneath the stove for weeks as it was left behind and forgotten. It smelled rotten and dry and Vincent found himself overwhelmed by nausea, rushing towards the bathroom and doubling over the toilet to empty his already nearly vacant stomach.

He pulled himself up, coughing and wiping his mouth as he fought off a wave of lightheadedness. He took a few breaths, making sure that his stomach gave no more protest before straightening himself and gazing back into the room. He quickly pulled his shirt over his nose, hoping to prevent the smell from reaching his nostrils as he walked back out, warely approaching the empty wheelchair. He searched it for any fungus or anything that could be the cause of the smell, but discovered nothing. He looked up and hesitantly opened the incinerator door, crying out when he saw what was inside. He stumbled back, tripping over the chair and falling to the floor, eyes wide and horrified as he stared at the ghastly scene before him. Resting in the incinerator was a skeleton, burnt flecks of flesh still clinging to the bones and a shining hunk of something fused with the ribs.

Vincent gagged as his stomach attempted to remove contents that it didn't hold, body shaking and eyes closing in an attempt to remove the memory of what he saw. There was a skeleton in his incinerator. There was a rotting corpse in his house and he had no idea how it had gotten there or how long it had been laying there. There was a skeleton in his incinerator, in front of Eugene's wheelchair. Vincent's eyes snapped open as realization dawned on him. The empty chair, the talk of traveling, the shining clump of silver infused with the body, everything Eugene had said that night when he was drunk and had decided to spill his life to Vincent. Eugene.

Vincent felt tears burn at his eyes and he wanted to scream. He wanted to shout, to cry, to pray, to beg, to yell at Eugene for being so stupid. He did none of those things. Instead, he sat on the floor and stared at the remains of his friend, unable to move or process what was happening, what had happened. He started to reach for his phone, but he stopped. He couldn't call the authorities or tell anyone. What would he say? He couldn't claim that he, legally Jerome Morrow, had discovered that Jerome Morrow was dead. No one knew. Jerome Morrow was dead and no one knew besides the person who had stolen his name, his face, his life. Vincent choked and the dam finally broke, releasing a flood of tears to spill down his cheeks and rain onto the floor. He pulled his knees to his chest as he sobbed, no longer minding the foul stench wafting off of the body.

"Why?" He choked out, unable to look at the skeleton any longer. "Why did you do this?" His hands trembled. "Why?" He shouted into the empty house, knowing that there was no one to hear him. Why did he take himself from Vincent? How could he just throw himself away? Didn't he know that Vincent needed him? "I love you." He whispered, crying into his knees. "I loved you, you fucking idiot!" He screamed, needing to take out his emotions on something, on anything. "I wanted to tell you. I just needed to tell you." He didn't know why he was continuing to talk when he knew that Eugene couldn't hear him. He wiped his eyes after crying for what felt like hours, what might have been hours. "You're a coward, Eugene Morrow." He whispered. "A coward."