I've been on a Gattaca kick lately. I've watched it every night for almost a week now. While watching the last scene for the thousandth time, bits of sentences and phrases kept popping into my head, so I put it all together and this is what I got.

It's vague and somewhat disjointed; as I'm sure last thoughts are. Hopefully it's not terrible, but I suppose that's up to all of you to decide.

I don't own Gattaca.


Stand in front of a moving car. You should die. He doesn't.

Drink too much. Liver should shut down. Fail. It doesn't.

Smoke a pack of cigarettes a day. You should get lung cancer. He won't.

Lock one's self in an incinerator and pull the switch. You should burn.

For once in his flawlessly Valid life, he does what he should. God, he burnsburnsburns.

He breathes in smoke and ash and fumes of his own flesh. The fire kissescaresses everything. He should be dead already. But he's not.

His heart beats.

It beats steadyslowrelentless.

Jerome, Jerome the metronome.

It's painful. God, it's so painful.

But he's not afraid. Not of dying, at least. Not of burning incinerators or speeding cars or drowning.

He's afraid of heights and silver medals and being one step down on the podium.

He shouldn't have to fear those things. He's a genetic masterpiece, the picture of perfection.

He used to pity those who fail, those who can't, those don't have a chance. People like VincentJeromeVincentJeromeVincent.

He never thought that he'd be one of them.

Invalid.

He's only failed twice in his life. Silver and that fucking wheelchair and if he fails now, worse-than-third degree burns.

He won't fail this time.

He can feel his pulse beginning to slow, his vision slipping away and he can hardly feel the flames at this point.

Death is coming fast, but, fuck, it's not fast enough.

He's finished. Resigned.

Through his last scarce breaths and heartbeats, he thinks of Vincent. Vincent with his head beyond the clouds, Vincent among the stars.

Vincent is a better Jerome anyway.