Stages of Invisibility by H.D. Timmons Smashwords Edition * * * * * Published By: H.D. Timmons on Smashwords Stages of Invisibility Copyright © 2011 by H.D. Timmons Smashwords Edition License Notes Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support * * * * * Stages of Invisibility All things considered, I had surmised that the manifestation began nearly a year ago. Naturally, I first thought it was merely my wild imaginings that brought about my perception of what was happening to me. But, could I even conceive of it? This was something I had not expected. I was, in fact, becoming invisible. My first recollection of the onset of this phenomenon took place during a meeting after my first week at my new place of employment. There we sat, in the conference room discussing the progress of the latest project, when suddenly it happened – or didn’t happen, as it were. At my previous job I was the go-to-guy for these types of discussions, always fresh and brimming with original ideas. But, not this day or any further days. None of my new colleagues solicited my input, and when I did voice my thoughtful contribution I spoke without turning nary an ear my way. I found myself inexplicably unheard, without a voice, as if I had faded into the wallpaper and art prints that adorned the office architecture – as mute as the Edvard Munch expressionist painting of the screaming man displayed in the lobby. Daily I would wonder, as I passed this painting, if I were to simply walk out of the building and never return would anyone even notice? Each day was worse than the previous day, and in the progression of this situation I was allowed to define my predicament realizing that I was indeed in the beginning stages of invisibility. In the weeks that followed I began to thoroughly test my theory, entering areas of no admittance undetected and exiting with equal stealth. I learned to choreograph my movements in dealing with my so-called illness; much like a person with Parkinson’s syndrome learns to maneuver in anticipation of the unexpected, yet impending, muscle contractions and spasms. I would enter my employer’s office and, in prankish fashion, proceed to move and disorganize files all while he was still seated at his desk hard at work. Upon leaving his office my cloak would often dissolve allowing him a glimpse of me and assume I had just entered. Naturally, I would ask for a particular file and laugh inwardly at his vexation in not finding it properly located. My body would sometimes sporadically and spontaneously fade while waiting on line in the department store, allowing other patrons to step ahead of me without acknowledging that I had even been there before them. Casually walking across the street would find cars turning corners, without so much as a hesitation, missing me by mere inches. From behind my curtain of invisibility I found I was given a remarkable gift. I was allowed to witness people being careless and cruel to one another. At social functions I became the transparent fly on the wall observing and overhearing the trifling matters that others make into dilemmas of paramount importance. The irony was that as people saw less and less of me I began to see them ever more clearly. And, I began to hate them. I felt that I was now living each day on borrowed time, hating my predicament and people equally. The progression of my condition, however, began affecting my already fragile home life with increasing regularity, to my dismay. I startled my wife many an evening while she was on the phone. She claimed she hadn’t seen me enter the room when clearly I had been there for several minutes vying for her attention. My wife was the only person I didn’t hate although our relationship had been quite tumultuous in recent years, to say the least. I didn’t see much point of burdening her with the horrifying truth of what had become of me as it would have only added an unnecessary strain. To have her ever more frequently turn her back to my seemingly empty side of our bed, and to watch her carry on through our house as if she were completely alone was heartbreaking, yet such quiet resignation on my part seemed most humane. I would often leave a trinket or some flowers for her so she would know I still adored her, despite how expensive that practice had become, although, occasional shoplifting was never so easy. But my debility was a bloody curse not a parlor trick. As the illness progressed further it became apparent that the final stages of invisibility did not only mean that I could no longer be seen, but true physics would reveal that I would gradually cease to exist. I found no precedent in any medical journal for this phenomenon and presumed that no doctor could prescribe a treatment or antidote for my dire condition, much as there is no remedy to combat human spontaneous combustion. My condition was mine alone to reckon with no matter how maddening it became. Each day my awareness of the inevitable end was ever-present in my thoughts – whatever thoughts I could maintain, that is. It was as if rational thought escaped my brain through the ever-thinning membrane that was once my skull. Food only left an ill taste on my eroding tongue and I dare say that my vanishing stomach walls could properly contain any substance. I became lethargic and weak as every muscle and bone lost its strength to support my body. Solid matter transforming to nothing at all. Matter and mass no longer relevant. I was vanishing; vanishing into oblivion. For me, there is nothing to do but wait. Sitting in the feeble glow of my twilight, straining to conjure a memory, I recall the casual, yet heartfelt words of an old friend I ran into on holiday several years ago. He said to me happily, “It’s so good to see you.” To which I replied, “Well, I must admit, it’s good to be seen.” ### If you liked this short story please encourage me to write more. Email me at hdtimmons@timmonsdesign.com