A Life Transparent

by Todd Keisling

  “Face it,” she went on, “your brother’s right. You live for that job, and nothing else. Money, time, routine—it’s all that’s important to you, and what you earn is never enough for you.”

  He squeezed Mr. Precious Paws tightly enough to elicit a low growl from the feline.

  “That’s not true.”

  Donna wiped the tears from her face. “Then take a day off.”

  “To do what?”

  “Nothing!” she shouted. “Absolutely nothing! Not a goddamn thing!”

  “But—”

  “But what?”

  He searched for an answer. A plausible answer. One that would make sense to her in this state. He scratched away at the interior of his own mind looking for the perfect thing to say, and still he came up with the very excuse he’d tried to avoid.

  “But we have to save.”

  Donna forced a smile, shook her head, and made her way out of the room. A few moments later the back patio door opened and closed. His words hung in the air, thickening, weighing down upon him.

  He had a life, damnit. He had a wife, a job, a house, maybe a child—what more to life could there be? Had he missed some vital detail about growing up—something explaining the details of having a “life?”

  Mr. Precious Paws yowled and scratched at his cheek. He flinched, yelped in pain, and watched as the feline ran for the stairs. He realized he’d squeezed the cat too hard, a victim of his tense reverie. He stood there for only a moment longer, rubbing the scratch and nursing a battered ego. He looked at his watch: 6:49. Within the span of twenty minutes, he’d managed to alienate every member of his family. That was a personal record.

  • • •

  Donovan retreated to his office. It was at times like this that he tried to escape into the world of his novel in an attempt to pull out something good and productive. His characters—the disillusioned Joe Hopper, a hard-boiled Private Eye, and the often philosophical, often dangerous Mistress Colby—were experiencing their plight as two human beings trying to survive in the decline of Western culture. Donovan pecked at the keyboard for an hour, listening to the crooning, Southern drawl of Hopper in his own head. When he typed a thousand words, he stopped to read over them.

  Ain’t no good, hoss, Hopper said. Donovan frowned and deleted them all. He started again.

  It had been like this for over a year. Every evening he would sit down to work out the details of the plot’s climax, and no matter how much he wrote, no matter the quality, it would always end in deletion. The story was frozen on page 299.

  After a second attempt and another deleted set of words, he sat back in his chair and shook his head. The cursor blinked.

  He leaned forward, buried his head in his hands, and muttered, “I don’t know anymore.”

  Tonight just wasn’t his night. The day was shot, and the evening wasn’t shaping up to be much better.

  He looked back at the stack of pages on his desk. The first 299 pages of his magnum opus stared back. No matter how hard he tried to get into the groove of writing, he could not. His head was clouded by conversations with his brother and his wife. Memories of Timothy Butler’s contrived grin only served to drive the feeling home. And there was that damn indigestion, too.

  Perhaps Identinel was sucking the life from him. He had to consider the possibility. Had he made the right choice by staying with the company for so long, rather than working for a few years before moving on to greener pastures? Of course, he told himself. I’ve made enough money to sustain the both of us for years.

  Donna’s voice chimed in his head, It’s not about the money.

  And it wasn’t. He knew that. Turning in his seat, Donovan stared at the document on his screen. He frowned. Should’ve finished this damn thing by now, he thought. I could’ve pumped out five novels in the time I’ve spent on this one.

  He thought about Joe Hopper, and wished life could truly imitate art. He wished he had the guts to face an uncertain future, walk into work tomorrow, and tell Butler to cram the review up his ass. It was something Hopper would do with Southern grace and style. It was something Michael Candle might do, too.

  Staring at the great white nothing beneath page 299, Donovan suddenly saw the story’s faults. Page 300 would never be realized, because nothing had really happened in the previous 299. He’d fallen into complacency with the story, certain that this was the best it could be. In that security, he’d resigned his characters to the same fate.

  He’d lost his drive, his vision. To fix the story, he realized, he would have to start over. He closed the document and deleted the file. The indigestion, which had grown from an occasional discomfort to a constant, annoying sensation, relented for a brief moment.

  Maybe I’m getting an ulcer.

  He looked at the blank page and was just about to type “The Great American Novel by Donovan Candle” when he glanced at the clock. He smiled, closed the document, and turned off the computer. It was three minutes to nine o’clock.

  “Almost forgot,” he said to the empty room, “it’s time for CSI.”

  • • •

  The discomfort in his stomach grew worse as the minutes passed. It wasn’t pain, so much as uneasiness building up within him. A few times, a sharp droning chime filled his head, making it hard to concentrate on the screen.

  Donovan tiptoed into the bedroom half an hour after Donna retired. He thought about waking her to tell her about the strange sensation he felt, but that would make him even more of a jerk. Whatever it was, it didn’t hurt, and so he decided to take it like a man.

  Donna stirred as he crawled into bed. She rolled to her side, facing him. He pulled the blanket over himself and stared at the ceiling.

  Her fingertips brushed his arm, and when he looked over he saw that her eyes were open.

  “Hi,” he said. She smiled, leaned forward, and kissed him. That kiss led to another. He began to say something, but she pressed her finger against his lips. She sat up and climbed on top of him. He gasped when she took him in her hand and slid him into her.

  They made love for what seemed like an hour, their bodies entwined in a chaos of sheets and blankets, until they collapsed into one another with one, climactic shiver. Sweaty, dizzy, Donovan leaned back against the headboard and sighed. He closed his eyes. Donna raised up, kissed his forehead, and said, “I love you, Donnie.”

  “I love you too,” he said, opening his eyes and expecting to see her there. Only she wasn’t. She’d rolled away from him.

  “I’m still mad at you, though,” she said. He remained there for a moment longer before uttering a long, low sigh. The room suddenly felt cold, gray. The weird pull in his gut strengthened. He closed his eyes and rolled over, trying his best to ignore the feeling. For now, Donovan was just happy to go to sleep.

  • • •

  His night was filled with odd, troubling dreams. The alarm woke him, and he silenced its blaring beep on his way to the bathroom.

  He yawned, fumbling for the light switch along the wall. Barely able to make out shapes in the dark, Donovan didn’t trust himself to piss without a light. His fingers found the switch; light filled the room.

  Donovan dismissed what he saw as a figment of his lingering dream state, as though somehow his brain wasn’t quite tuned in and was sending static to his senses. Wake up, he told himself. Early bird and all that crap.

  He rubbed his eyes, blinked, even splashed his face with water in an attempt to uncross the wires in his brain, but it was still happening. The pull in his stomach was now greater than ever. The phantom hand yanked at his guts, threatening to pull him right out of reality. He almost didn’t mind it, would’ve preferred it to what he saw happening before his eyes.

  He held out his hand, staring in slack-jawed terror as his skin—flesh, meat, bone, all of him—flickered in and out of existence. For a split-second, Donovan Candle seemed to disappear, and the only thing that kept him rooted in that waking reality was the sound of his horrified scream.

 
• 2 •

  THE FLICKERING

  He silenced himself, watching his reflection flicker, fade, and return to full opacity. He stared at one hand, then the other. Was he dreaming? He had to be. Things like this did not happen. He ran cold water over his hands, half expecting it to pass through his palms, but instead it pooled and spilled over into the sink. Now, certain that he was truly awake, he stared at his hands once more. They were solid, just as they should be.

  Get a grip, hoss. It was too early for Hopper’s quips. Donovan pushed the thought aside, leaned forward, and took a long look at his reflection.

  “Just a dream,” he muttered to himself. “Sleep walking. That’s all.”

  The uncomfortable force wrenched at his gut so hard that he doubled over the sink. He fought off nausea and the surging drone in his head. Keep it together, he thought. Just getting sick, is all. Take a shower.

  The warm water delivered him from the sickening feeling, and he let his mind wander. Perhaps he was sleepwalking? He’d read about it happening to people of all ages. It was a sound conclusion, one that put him at ease. He chuckled about it, his voice a hollow echo in the shower stall. What a strange dream, he thought. Almost like I wasn’t there—like a projection.

  He burst into laughter and reached down to turn off the water. His hands faded in unison, followed by his arms. His laughter twisted into a shriek. He ran his hands over himself, down his torso, hips, manhood, and buttocks. All of him seemed to fade in and out like static, his skin first growing transparent, then vanishing entirely for an instant before reappearing as solid matter.

  Donovan pushed open the shower door and returned to the mirror, staring in abject horror as his own reflection dimmed and faded.

  “Donna,” he muttered. It was low at first, then grew to a trembling plea. “Donna!”

  He staggered down the hall, leaving a trail of damp carpet in his wake. The alarm clock on the nightstand read 6:40—just five minutes shy of Donna’s alarm.

  “Honey.”

  She stirred beneath the blankets. Frightened, Donovan’s eyes darted between his fading self and his sleeping wife. Beads of water rolled down his forehead and fell to the floor.

  “Donna?” He nudged one of her exposed feet.

  She grunted. “What, Don?”

  “Honey, there’s something wrong. I—”

  Donna sat up, squinting at him. “Where’re your clothes?”

  Her question seemed strange to him. What did it matter where his clothes were? He stared at her, held out his fading, flickering hands, and frowned. Water dripped onto the bed.

  “I was in the shower, and—”

  “And you’re still wet. You’re dripping all over the floor, Don. Go get a towel. Jeez.”

  Donna pulled back the blankets and gasped when her feet met damp carpet. She glared at him. He stood there, naked and soaked, with both hands held out in a gesture of confused apology. His stomach lurched again as his skin flickered into a transparent state.

  “Don’t you see this?”

  She looked at him, groggy-eyed and puzzled. “See what?”

  “This!” He held out his arms. The pull in his abdomen settled down. His skin returned to normal, as if to mock him.

  Donna covered a yawn. He watched her in disbelief. How could she not see? Was this some sort of weird head game, a throwback to their previous evening’s argument? No, he realized, that couldn’t be it. They’d known each other for too long to sink to such petty levels. Besides, he knew she loved him too much to ignore something as serious as this.

  “I see you making a mess I’ll have to clean up. And,” she fought back another yawn, “I see that if I don’t get some coffee soon, I’m going to bite off your head.”

  Donna pushed past him, uttered a small sigh when she saw the soaked trail to the bathroom, and went downstairs to the kitchen. Donovan stared at his hands again and flinched as his flesh began to deteriorate once more.

  I have to be dreaming, he thought. I have to be—

  The second alarm startled him. He reached over, turned it off, and fanned out his fingers. They were there, and yet they weren’t, fading from opaque to translucent, from flesh to nothing and back again.

  You ain’t dreamin, hoss. Hopper again. He cursed his imagination for breeding a Southern detective, and cursed himself for letting the character become the voice of his inner monologue.

  More water dripped from his arm. He regarded his hands once more with caution before retreating to the bathroom for a towel.

  • • •

  After a couple of ill-fated attempts, he decided to skip shaving. His flesh vanished every time he began to drag the blade across his face. The last thing he wanted was to misjudge and leave a large, unshaven patch of hair across his chin—or worse, to slit his own throat. Getting dressed was just as difficult. His leg would waver, dim, and vanish each time he tried to put on his trousers. Once clothed, he found his shirt and pants flickered along with the rest of him.

  When he finally made it downstairs, Donna watched him with mild irritation. An empty bowl sat before his place at the table along with a box of cereal. On most mornings he ventured downstairs to find a hot breakfast waiting for him. Today he took the hint. She was still angry, but for God’s sake, couldn’t she see what was happening to him?

  Donovan ate his cereal in silence. Mr. Precious Paws traveled into the kitchen and sat at his feet. The cat looked up at him with wide eyes, ears perked with attentive curiosity. When Donovan lifted a spoonful, his hand dimmed and flashed out of reality. A quick jerk in his gut startled him. He dropped the spoon, startling Mr. Precious Paws out of his reverent stare, and frowned as the cat scampered away.

  For a moment the room went gray, and the pull in his stomach exerted such force that he cried out in pain. He blinked tears from his eyes and stared about the room. Its warmth was gone, replaced with a stagnant, cold grayish tone that seemed to cover every surface. Donna was cast in its hue as she poured herself a bowl of cereal.

  He blinked. Color returned to the room.

  “Donna,” he whispered, “there is something wrong.”

  She flipped through the morning newspaper, seemingly oblivious to his statement. He reached down, picked up his spoon, then leaned forward to stare at his wife.

  “Donna.”

  Nothing. Not so much as a raised eyebrow.

  Mr. Precious Paws wandered over, stood on his hind legs, and scratched at Donovan’s knee. He yelped, startled by the prickle of the cat’s claws, and kicked his leg. The cat yowled and slid across the kitchen floor, colliding against the cabinetry with a soft thump.

  “Don’t kick the cat.”

  He looked back at his wife. She glared at him, her lips pulled into a frown. He held up his trembling hands and twiddled his fingers.

  “Look at this,” he said flatly. All ten digits vacillated between solidity and transparency.

  She strained to look at him. After a moment of eye contact, Donna put a hand to her temple and began to rub.

  “What?”

  “This,” he said, and recoiled as his hands flashed in and out of existence. He’d been faced with the sight for almost half an hour now, but it was something he doubted he’d ever get used to. How could he? To see one’s own self fading away like a ghost was unnerving, unsettling—it only happened in the movies, not in reality, yet even on film it carried an element of startling horror.

  “Sorry.” She rubbed at her temple and went back to the newspaper. “I have a headache, and you aren’t helping.”

  His heart dropped into his stomach. She can’t see, he realized. He placed both hands on his knees and frowned. Had he finally snapped? Was this hallucinatory transparency just the first step? He wondered if other strange mental anomalies would follow—strange, impossible delusions like flying elephants or a perceived ability to walk through walls.

  He tried to work out what was happening to him, but all he could do was stare at his skin, at the way it faded and filled with a fl
esh-colored static. His vision danced from a full spectrum of color to cold shades of gray. This effect lasted only for a fraction of a second, but was obvious enough for him to notice. Color-blindness along with insanity? He grew so distracted by these disturbing possibilities that time slipped by him. Donna snapped him out of these troubled musings.

  “Don,” she said, “you’re going to be late.”

  “Late?” He scrambled to his feet. “What time—”

  His eyes fell upon the microwave clock. It read 8:05 in large, digital numbers.

  “Oh hell.”

  Donovan quickly kissed his wife’s cheek, grabbed his keys, and darted out the door.

  • • •

  Donna was puzzled by the exchange. She sat back in her seat and rubbed at her temples once more. It was an ungodly headache. It sliced through her thoughts with measured, low throbs.

  Her husband’s behavior meandered on the strange side of things. It’s just stress, she told herself. Just stress over his review—

  A drone of noise surged through her head, filling it with an interminable buzzing. She lost her concentration. For a moment she stared off into space, lost in a white, agonizing static. Finally, after a few seconds, the buzzing stopped. Donna looked about the room, then down at her feet. Mr. Precious Paws stared up at her.

  “What’s up, Paws?”

  The cat blinked. Donna reached down and scratched between his ears.

  “Good kitty.”

  She went back to her reading. The headache did not return.

  • • •

  Driving on Tuesdays was no different than on Mondays. The same traffic, the same commute, the same moronic drivers. The commute was the reason he left earlier than necessary every morning. Now he was one of those morons, leaving too late and driving too fast to make up for lost time. He honked the horn and screamed as another driver cut him off without so much as a turn signal.

  “It’s okay,” he told himself. His voice was distant and empty in the absence of the usual radio banter, but he couldn’t bear listening to morning radio personalities go on about inane garbage. His mind was elsewhere. “There’s an explanation. Always an explanation.”