I’d become accustomed to being the only naked person in the room. After all, they had yet to invent invisible clothes, and throwing on a sweater would have right ruined the whole effect. They would have called me the Walking Cardigan, instead of something more dignified—like Disappearo, which I’ve been angling for.
It’s only by the grace of some hyperactive mirror cells that I’m not a Vaguely See-Through Simon, who you can, in fact, sort of see through. He’s like a fog wisp. He was Test Subject 0738. I am 0739.
I’m completely gone, visually. A success. But you never think about how cold it’s going to be when you’re invisible. You think about the places you’ll lurk and the things you’ll overhear and even the bank vaults that you’ll stroll right through. I think about touching one of those Van Gogh paintings right in front of a guard. So many layers.
But museums and vaults and backstage dressing rooms are quite chilly. I imagine them to be, anyway.
They haven’t actually let me out yet.
They’ve got a bell around my ankle that jingles when I walk around the lab—just like the one my dad put on our cat to warn the robins.
“It’s for everyone’s safety,” they say.
The whole thing’s left me with quite a lot of time on my hands. I’m in the greatest shape of my life. Six-packs like a Hasselhoff. Quadriceps like a warthog.
I look great.
You’ll have to take my word for it.
Front page image by Anita Carril.
GHOST WRITER is a project by Tracy Danger Mumford. New sections are released every other Sunday. If you’d like to receive email alerts—and that’s all you’ll get, a short email—saying the new one’s up, sign up here: