The Vain Curse of Invisibility

I don’t remember the exact day I discovered I could switch from invisible and visible. Just the day when I couldn’t anymore. The day I permanently became stuck like this. Invisible.

At first, I had my fun with it. You know, the classics: tugging at hair, scaring people, misplacing their possessions. But pretty soon, I got bored with that and people started to notice that I was missing.

My brother was the first one to call the police. Hysteric, he insisted I had been murdered or kidnapped--but let’s be real here, I’m an adult, it would be abducted. They made him file a report and wait. And wait. And wait. And wait.

Meanwhile, my parents were in Hawaii or Fiji or whatever topical paradize they picked out this time with their phones on silent. Honestly, their phones could have been on full ringer and I still wouldn’t expect them to pick up for me. I’ve always been invisible to them. Ironic, huh?

Since I wasn’t going to work--or my boss couldn’t see me there, at least--I lost my job. Lost my apartment too. Now, I camp out in the soggy corner of my brother’s apartment in silence. One tired evening I slipped in with him and have been hiding out ever since.

I know what you’re thinking: why don’t you talk to someone? Explain that you’re still there?

And to answer your question, around the end of week one of staying at my brother’s apartment, I broke my vow of silence. Then, I pretty much talked to him nonstop--until he was involuntarily sent to the physciatric ward of the hospital for hearing voices. It was hard to follow him in there. What, with all the fancy keycards and whatnot. I don’t talk to anyone but myself now.

He’s been gone for a few weeks now. For some reason, he can’t seem to convince the staff that he’s actually sane--though, I guess everyone in that building is trying the exact same. The apartment seems too big without him. My brother doesn’t have any pets or plants, so no one stops by. I’d leave the place myself, but then I’d be condemned to living life locked out. Completely abandoned and alone. So, for now, I’m gonna stick to eating his expired canned foods after I went through everything in his fridge.

It took a long time, but there was something my brother was able to get discharged long enough to attend. My funeral. Despite having enough money to go to Paris five times a year, my parents ‘splurged’ for a petite funeral for their only daughter. The service lasted exactly one hour and that was it. It was already over.

The crowd dispersed, but I stayed, looming over my new gravestone. It had my name engraved on it. Right there. Right above the fresh mound of dirt covering an empty coffin. My foot sunk into the fresh dirt. I suppose this is better than being buried alive. But, I still bit my tongue to keep from screaming.

My brother wasn’t readmitted to the mental hospital. I didn’t sneak back into his apartment and drive him insane again. Instead, I stayed at the graveyard. I sat by my stone and watched as my stone slowly blended into the sea of death around me like I blended into the background of everyone else.

Pretty soon, even my gravestone became invisible.

What’s to be expected, honestly? I did nothing about it. Nothing but curl up next to the freezing chill of the stone and wait for it to become warmer than my flesh as a soft hunger consumed my stomach. And wait. And wait. And wait.