The best part about working on a time machine is that one can do as much work on the machine and spend as much time doing this work, but never age. As we were independently funded, we used ourselves as test subjects. Initially, we only went back minutes; but as the technology progressed, we went back increasingly farther. Even better, "future" Michelle started adding to "Past" Michelle's initial equations, so we created a schism in the future. In reality, the completion of the small device took 35 years; but if we were pressed to plot our work in a timeline, it would be more along the lines of one and a half years. Working on the machine was not the only task at hand, as I knew I would need to learn German and better my french.
The time finally came when it was ready for use. We worried about telling anyone else about our work, since the reality of time-terrorism was palpable. I simply told my loved ones that I had days to live and said my goodbyes. It was hard and terrifying, since I knew I would never see them again. I drank over 200 gallons of Diet Pepsi, since I would no longer be able to put that sweet sweet nectar to my lips.
Michelle and I stood in her laboratory, each in silence but teeming with melancholy. Even after being best friends for technically 15 years (but really 50), working on the machine brought us to the point where one word sentences were the order of the day. She handed me the latest model, a tiny machine that resembled a late-20th century beeper and we hugged as sisters. Finally letting go, I put up my hand up, palm outwards to say one last goodbye, and pushed the button with the other. She slowly disappeared and I was sucked into the all-too familiar vortex.
Being conscious of taking up all the dimensions of life is a strange feeling. It is similar to the feeling one gets when they realize they have asked a question that is unanswerable and yet their mind searches all its reaches in attempts to answer it. I remembered the mathematical equation that was as familiar to me as my own name, using it to traverse the proper distance of the fourth dimension.
I pushed the release at last, landing firmly on the cobbled streets of Vienna in the year 1794. Wandering about in my jeans and knapsack with 21st century commodities (water purifier, extra extra filters, 18th century dress, history book, hiking boots, antibiotics, natural remedy handbook, english to german dictionary, pen and paper); I found a nook where I could change quietly into a more acceptable outfit. After wandering for another couple of hours, I decided to find work. My german was acceptable enough to find work as a maid, so I contacted the palace of Prince Lobkowitz (one of Beethoven's patrons).
The housekeeper let me in, immediately recognizing my accent as different. She knew the Prince would want to meet me, even just as a person of interest. He decided to use me as a scribe, translating documents from French to German (a stretch for my abilities, but I survived).
I worked for him for two months before I met Beethoven. He was coming up the stairs with such fervor, but I was deep into a paper on the recent uprising in France that I didn't notice him standing behind me until he yelled, "who are you?!" . I started and turned to find his face not six inches from mine. In stumbling language, I told him I was Lobkowitz's new scribe. "A woman?! That can read and write in different languages, each not her native tongue!" The idea seemed foreign and intriguing to him (an inadvertant ploy of mine, I might add). He sat in the chair next to my desk, talking with me for three hours, ignoring then forgetting his meeting with the Prince. After realizing the time, and with subtle hints from myself (I needed to get back to work), he abruptly got up and left.
I could not decipher him, he was a mystery to me. I was unsure whether he found me interesting or obstinate. I felt a kindred to him, both unable to conform to society's rulings. But the very next day, he came to see me again. He made no pretense of going to see the prince. We talked for hours again, I even made him laugh a couple of times. I told him about my fake childhood and about my parents (who were developing a language for the deaf, only a half-lie). He was intrigued by this language (for obvious reasons), and requested I teach it to him. We made appointments for this to happen.
He drew closer and closer to me through this instruction. There is something so secure and private about sharing a language with only one other person. We would talk in silence from then on, even laughing in sign at times.
It was then he proposed marriage.
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