I look down on my body. The mass of flesh I’ve called “me” for so many years, that I’ve spent hours staring at in the mirror, memorizing each and every line, on display for the world to see, is nowhere to be seen. I look down again. Nothing. I’ve become invisible. Much like a document you forget to save, I think to myself.
I am nothing if not dedicated. That’s what I’d like to think, anyway. As I prepare to leave for school I realise, with a hint of wallowing, that the fact I am still going to class is probably more reminiscent of the shock I share with Gregor Samsa than an unyielding sense of discipline. At least I won’t wriggle myself to death. I convince myself that the thought is soothing as I step out the door. I wore an overcoat. The more I hide my body, or lack thereof I suppose, the better. There is also a sense of theatre in going out mid-crisis wearing an overcoat. I am the literal embodiment of the Petersburg hero, drowning in his self-pity as he drags his metaphorically invisible body through the pee-stained streets.
It only occurs to me how strange the notion of going to school invisible is, after I’m halfway there. I turn around and start walking the way back.
I don’t return home. Suddenly I realise I couldn’t bear to be alone with a creature I cannot see within four walls. I go to a park. One thing you will only realise once you are invisible is how little people look at each other. No one realizes the floating coat. Or no one cares. I decide the distinction is irrelevant.
A cat stares at me. Cats stared at me before, too, so I can’t say I’m fazed. I stare at it back. It lets out a hairball. I spit at it.
I take off the overcoat and sit on a patch of grass. Now entirely invisible, the few elderly people walking their dogs pass right by me, blissfully unaware. Blissful indeed. I realise my thoughts have been unusually quiet, as if my brain decided that an imperceptible being needs not be troubled by worldly things. I have no clue what to do. It’s baffling how quickly relevance fades once you disappear. I am happy. I cry, invisibly. Since no one sees, I will deny crying at all. This is what they mean by relativity.
I wonder if I still need to eat. I wonder, if I died, would it still make a difference? After all, all deaths are merely changes in a scenery we deny we are part of, are they not?
After pondering death aimlessly for some half hour, I get up. I want coffee. Strangely enough, despite my apparent lack of bodily functions, my desire to consume roasted bean juice is hardly diminished.
I make my way to a nearby cafe. The barista doesn’t look up. I clear my throat. The barista doesn’t look up. I give up, and when I do, I decide that although I may not be Atlas, I can still carry the moral weight of taking someone’s coffee. I grab the americano sitting sadly before a middle-aged woman. Her hair, platinum blonde, possibly dyed to hide away emerging greys, is slicked back. She looks miserable as she texts someone on her phone. I don’t look like anything at all, so I feel morally superior. I sip the coffee.
It takes the woman about 5 seconds to get interested in her beverage again. She grabs the vacancy where the cup sat until a short while ago. She sips the void. I sip the americano. It tastes like a void.