Fadeout
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck -
My hand keeps phasing in and out. I can't keep it steady.
I try to concentrate and feel the sweat forming unsteadily on my brow, the growing ache in my muscles – it's no use.
This isn't fair, can't be happening. It used to be so easy.
My fingers flickering faintly, like a defective distress beacon.
Maybe that's all that'll be left of me – the hand. That's bound to give some old lady a good scare.
I start to laugh at the image. They should do a movie about that – Attack of the Magically Disappearing Hand. Laughing turns to coughing and I can taste blood in my mouth.
Suddenly, it's not that funny.
There's a crushing pain in my chest and a biting, clawing one in my throat and something stuck in my side and breathing is getting to be a bloody challenge and -
I haven't felt this real in a while.
It's so clear now.
I'm going to die.
This is just fucking brilliant. Dying in a ditch by the road, like good old fashioned roadkill.
Well, invisible roadkill. At least it's inventive.
Just like that. Nothing special about it. Nothing memorable.
Well, what did I expect? Fireworks?
It's cold, and I'm not sure if it's just the rotten weather or my sweat or something else - doesn't matter much.
My hand finally fades into transparency – poof - like a candle going out.
And that's it. I can't go back.
God.
My heart begins to race - like it's even got anywhere to get to – and the world starts spinning out of control. I manage to turn sideways before I vomit, but I still get some on me. Fucking cherry on top of a fucking wonderful day.
There's a prickling in my fingertips. My vision's beginning to lose focus, but I'm not sure focus is all that great a trait right now anyway.
I dream and it's almost lucid and everything's alright before it turns into a hollow, barren nightmare.
I wake up with a jolt, and for a second there I forget where I am.
But the world is the same as I left it, only greyer around the edges. Dulled out, like it's screened through a smoking pipe.
There's less pain, mostly a thin-layered irritation radiating through my skin, making everything feel a little smaller, a little dimmer.
It reminds me of something, and I try to think what it is - go through a round of a buzzing headache before I figure it out.
It's like those little crystal balls with the city inside - the ones that you shake to get a miniature show of fake snow. Decorative memorabilia – spiffy name for a piece of gift shop garbage.
Why does that feel like the bloody story of my life?
And speaking of which, shouldn't it be flashing before my eyes about now? In slow motion and all?
But the only thing flashing by is the traffic, and it's speedy and soulless, and no help whatsoever.
Maybe I just watched too many movies.
If I can't get any of the fancy flashbacks, then I should at least cling to some nice memories.
Like that girl in France, with the red hair and the crooked smile, and the bundle of special tricks up her sleeve.
What was her name again? Monique? Michelle?
Never mind.
It's all so fleeting and meaningless. Hard to remember if it even really happened. Could be my brain is just making it all up on the spot - a last resort sort of thing.
It's only fitting that my memory is spotty. Nobody will remember me, either. Maybe as an anecdote, or an amusing side note. Or as 'that guy'.
Nothing more. Invisible man, remember?
This thought pattern might be slightly pathetic, but if you can't feel a bit sorry for yourself when you're dying alone in a pool of your own sweat and vomit, then when can you?
I haven't done anything important. Haven't made the least fucking bit of a difference.
But what does it even matter now?
What does anything matter?
I drift away again.
Reality sinks back in after my little nap, but it's not as heavy as it used to be.
Doesn't really hurt much anymore.
I barely feel a thing now.
But I think, therefore I am.
Right?
I shouldn't have gotten philosophy into it, because other questions begin to pop up like magic mushrooms.
If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
And if an invisible man dies and no one is around to see him, did he even exist?
It's cold and quiet and it won't be long now.
I can't keep my eyes open any longer. Numbness has spread everywhere, and it's almost pleasant in a way. Like a song playing in the distance.
Something good. The Who, maybe.
Wouldn't mind dying to that.
Maybe I'm better off taking an existential stance on this.
Life just is until it's not.
But I don't want to disappear.
And then it actually penetrates.
Not panic or hysteria, but a brutal, frozen fear.
A ragged, scratched breath gets trapped in my chest.
It can't get out and neither can I.
I can't cry, because it won't do any good. I don't have the energy anyway.
Nothing I can do.
Soon I won't be able to think anymore.
And then there'll be nothing.
Doesn't matter if I accept it.
It's never mattered.
Footsteps.
Doesn't matter doesn't matter no one can see me –
"Hello there."
Can't lift my head – too heavy – but I manage to crack my eyes open, enough to see the polished dress shoes, shining like ruby-red slippers.
Are they here to take me home?
Ounce of rationality returns - why is he talking to himself? Especially a greeting – seems a bit on the redundant side.
Wait.
He can see me.
That's impossible.
Not that I give a damn.
Through hazy, smudged shades, I manage to make out his face.
It's an odd one, with straw-like blond hair and pale blue eyes.
The Wizard.
He smiles.
"Need a hand?"
He leans in and places his hand on my chest, and it's so warm it hurts.
It's indescribable, whatever this sensation is.
He makes everything better.
Like it never even happened.
"Shall we?"
This time the hand is extended, and I take it and let him pull me to my feet.
At this point, I'm ready to believe in fairy dust.
And follow him over the bloody rainbow.