TRAIN [FIRST DRAFT]

Chapter 26: Eighteen Years Ago

 They were so close to mundane eighteen years ago, Abba and Benjamin Whitaker. They were celebrating their one-year anniversary in their living room, with French music playing in the background as they popped a bottle of bubbly. No wild parties or crazy friends and family members surrounded them, not even Suzanne. She had called in the morning to congratulate them. She had even bought them a gift: elaborate rose-embossed china. Abba could not drink alcohol since she was pregnant, but Benjamin allowed her a sip from his glass.

"Ben, I can't," she insisted, even though she had already raised his glass to her lips.

He laughed at her, and her cheeks reddened. Her vacant hand tediously swept the hairs out of her eyes. Her hair was kept in a messy ponytail, the strands were wavy, and she was clean of make-up. Benjamin looked the way Aimee had remembered him: a cordial man with thick eyebrows and faint stubble, barely even a beard. Abba returned his glass to him, and her hand rubbed warm circles on her belly.

"I have been thinking..."

"Uh-oh," remarked Benjamin, amusingly, but he sat the champagne bottle down and listened.

"Did I ever explain my project to you?" she asked enthusiastically, as her fingers hooked her hands together on the dining table.

"Hmm, possibly."

"I have finally achieved the results I wanted. AIM is finally a success."

"AIM, the project related to all those very random posters you stuck on our bedroom walls?"

"Not random," she smacked him on the arm. "I am a genius, remember? Benjamin, with what I am doing – what I have done – we can ensure that our little Aimee will be protected."

"Okay... and what have you done, my love?"

Her face lit up as she explained further, "I have invented a microchip that enhances the human body's regeneration rate. That means not only will our bodies take longer to age, but we will also heal from injury forty times quicker than any human on earth. That is AIM: Augmenting Injected Microchips."

"Injected Microchips?"

"Benjamin, do you trust me?" she held his hand.

He was still processing, "You're my wife; of course I trust you."

She inhaled, beaming, "Wait here."

She got up from her seat and moseyed into their bedroom. He waited for her, patiently, filled with anxiety as he took three gulps of his alcohol. When she came back, she had in her hands a black, rectangular case. She raised the lid, revealing nothing but a long, painful-looking syringe.

Benjamin's eyebrows rose, "That is one sharp needle."

"It is not painful," said Abba. "It took me three-and-a-half seconds to do it."

"To do what, to inject yourself?" worry flooded his mind and showed in his eyes. "When did you inject yourself? Why would you do that?"

"Hey, you said you trust me, so trust me. This will make sure that no matter what happens to us, we will always be able to look after our daughter once she's born. We will always be there for her. Maybe one day we can give our little girl a little microchip, too–"

"No!"

"Listen to me, Benjamin. It is the right thing to do."

He could not say more; he knew her better than anyone did, he knew that she was right. At least, that was what he told himself. He grabbed the syringe, and did what had to be done.