This unusual story combines elements of mind control (especially) and freeuse (somewhat). Although it doesn't seem like exactly either, it's closely related — alongside the questionable consent such may imply — so if you don't enjoy elements in that ballpark then I can't recommend this tale. Be warned that it starts pretty slow, because there's a fair bit of premise and backstory to get through. However, once the ride starts, it doesn't stop. All characters are 18+.
* * *
I've always been invisible. Not in the "wrapped in bandages/objects hovering midair" kind of way... more in the "does anyone even know I exist" way.
My condition has perplexed me for as long as I can remember. Being the youngest child, I would routinely be ignored by my older siblings. Even my parents had a hard time keeping me in focus. They would answer a question of how many children they had with a variation of, "Five — no, six." They'd pause, focusing. "We have six kids," they'd repeat, furling their brows.
I can count the number of times a teacher chose me to answer questions in school on one hand, and I was always the last kid picked at any sports... if I got selected at all. Sadly, this affliction has become worse as I've gotten older. Now when I'm waiting in line at a fast-food joint, people will literally walk around me, as if I wasn't even there. And I have to be careful at four-way stop signs, in case someone tries to run into me.
If I really,
really
concentrate, I can make myself be seen for brief periods. I'm pretty sure I've heard "Oh! I didn't see you" more than my own name. But exerting my mind in that way is honestly exhausting, and almost always gives me a splitting headache afterwards. So, I don't even bother most of the time, unless I
really
need to interact with someone.
If I'd been born a few decades earlier, my life would be unbearable. Fortunately, whatever has caused me to be "invisible" doesn't seem to extend to the internet, text messages, video chat, phone calls, or other avenues devoid of face-to-face contact. Between online shopping, web portals, self-checkout kiosks, it's actually pretty straightforward to live without needing human interaction. I'm probably one of the only people who looks back fondly at the Covid years, because the possibilities of those trapped at home and existing solely online exploded. I had so many more friends and associates, even in my own town.
"Had." Operative word.
What's weird about my invisibility — and I think of it as "invisibility," even though that's not quite the right word — is that people
actively
do not see me. What I mean is, their brains and bodies will do literally anything to avoid acknowledging that I'm there. Anyone who sees me (well,
doesn't
see me) just goes on with their life as best they can; if I interject to stop them from doing what they wanted, they'll do something else and pretend it was their idea. For example, if I stand in front of a doorway, anyone who wants to get through will walk around me. If I hold the door closed, they'll pull futilely on the door a few times before giving up; they might even mutter something about changing their mind.
I'm not an idiot. I know I could do a lot of... well,
evil
stuff with this ability. But I always tried to make the most of my situation, keeping my head down and trying to be a better person. I did adequately in school, probably because (inconceivably) my in-class tests still seemed to be acknowledged. Or maybe the teachers are just embarrassed that they don't remember me but don't have me marked as absent, so they assume I'm doing well enough to pass. I never quite worked out the parameters, because it doesn't really matter much. Point is, I'm a B student — short for "barely there"? I made it into university (thanks to an application process that exists entirely online), where it's easier to get ignored in larger classrooms.
So, that's been my life for the first 21 years, here but not really, trying to do what's right but mostly muddling through. Interpersonally, the sole bright spot in life shined from my parents. They were the only people who could see me more often than not, acknowledge me by name, carry on conversations with me. They loved me, their loser virgin son.
April 9. "Deadliest Crash of Year on I-66," the headlines declared. There were 16 total fatalities when the tanker truck overturned, too fast on rain-slick roads. The news focused mostly on the 10 who died in the charter bus, or the tanker driver, or the three nuns who were driving back from a Catholic pilgrimage. It's ironic, in a way, that the two most-invisible entities in that story were my parents.
"Were." Operative word.
My five brothers and sisters spoke at the funeral. I wasn't invited. Not because of any malice, but... well, you know. But I was still there. It was nice, for what it was. The flowers, the music, the words of consolation. Closed casket (for obvious reasons).
All of it was meaningless. I lost the only people who meant anything to me, who knew I existed.
The following weeks established my new reality. Walking to class across the huge campus felt even less corporeal than before, my steps floating with the weightlessness of my grief. I tried to look at matters intellectually: In a tangible, day-to-day sense, my life wasn't appreciably worse. Financially, I was even
better
off than before, with a million bucks in savings. (I'm not sure if my
five
siblings felt any oddness or confusion when the
six
-million-dollar insurance payout resulted in each of them getting exactly a million dollars, but — if so — I haven't heard about it.) And it's not like I saw my parents every day, or even every week. On a daily basis, my life hasn't changed at all.
But I changed. Whatever had previously been holding me back had now deteriorated into something darker... something I struggled to understand the shape of.
One element I did not struggle to understand the shape of was Marcia Keller. Her form came into focus as I saw her at — where was I?
The campus library. I had apparently wandered into that venerable building along with my thoughts. That made sense. In years past, I would often find comfort at that catacomb of tomes... floating among my peers, all of whom were mostly invisible in their own way and lost in their academic pursuits. My feet must have been on autopilot, hoping to bring me someplace that would comfort me. But I was
not
comforted, because of Marcia Keller.
I mentioned earlier about being a virgin. I know it's something that other guys my age obsess about, but it didn't bother me. I take a matter-of-fact approach. In a way, I had kind of accepted that I may never know the touch of a woman, feeling her determined breath against my skin, her hot hand wrapped around my manhood in anticipation, the feel of her fecund femininity caressing my turgid cock as I — okay, maybe it bothered me a bit.
When it came to relationships, there was only one time I really made an effort, in my senior year of high school. And that was Marcia Keller. With her sandy-blond hair, wavy curls, hazel eyes, lipstick smile, and cute form, she was a dream come true for any hot-blooded student. We were both 18 and preparing for college, and I somehow deluded myself into thinking I had a shot with her.
I focused for months to be seen by her in myriad interactions; we had actual conversations. And she even seemed to
appreciate
knowing me. Sure, the mental exertion resulted in splitting headaches when I got home, but she knew my name. She liked me.
I asked her to prom. She said,
"Yes!"
with a light laugh. That one syllable still echoes in my ears, a
yes
with a titter that exuded an energy of, "I'd be
delighted
to go to prom with you! It's one of the most natural things in the world for us to do, together." We sorted out our plans, after which I went home and took far too many painkillers.
Prom night. I arrived at her house (well, her parents'), with my rented tuxedo and store-bought corsage in the colors she picked. I knocked on her door, and it opened. The doorway framed her standing there, hair tall, makeup immaculate, wearing the luckiest dress in the world. Blue velvet, like the old song my parents liked to dance to. I looked down at the azure orchid bouquet and realized it would look amazing on her.
The door opened further, guided by another hand — a hand belonging to Richard Todd. I hadn't seen Richard in a year; he was a senior when we were juniors, and had been going to college the past year. He must have realized that Marcia was old enough to date while he was probably struggling to establish himself as a small fish in a big university pond.
"Yo... is someone there?" asked Richard. He, too, was wearing a tuxedo — no doubt also rented — and carrying a blue-themed corsage, similar to mine but less attractive (if I say so myself). He looked
through
me standing there, with the vacant eyes I'd grown accustomed to my entire life but hurt more than I could recall.
"I'm not sure," said Marcia, her red lips frowning in a crimson arc.
Her
invisible gaze hurt even more than Richard's.
"Well," replied Richard with a shrug. "Guess we'd better get going! So glad you agreed to go to prom with me, babe!" he smiled.
"Yeah," said Marcia, still looking around outside. If she saw me, she gave no indication. "I feel pretty lucky. I'm not sure why I bought a dress before I had a date, but if you hadn't asked me like a blast from the past, I don't think I could've gone alone. I probably would've just stayed home, crying with a pint of ice cream."
"Hey, now," Richard chuckled, stroking her chin. "I can't stand the thought of your face being all wet and sad." He kissed her, a perhaps too-aggressive gesture for the beginning of their first date. She laughed nervously as she pulled away, a strand of saliva briefly bridging their lips. She gave another furtive glance outside (at me but not), still looking slightly confused, as if trying to recall something really important.
Obviously, she had forgotten I existed after we'd made our plans, and her mind couldn't put the fragments together in a way that made sense. I considered trying to focus and make myself visible, but what would be the point? It'd just explode an evening that I'd wanted to be magical for her. And for who? I'm nobody.
They drove off, and I followed them to the venue in my own car. The whole night I watched them dance from afar. I know it was stupid, and probably not healthy, but I just wanted to be there with her on this special night. The DJ had a web-based request app, and I asked for "Blue Velvet." The two of them swayed together, the closing notes of the song seemingly swallowed by her perfect form.
That same form was still perfect years later as I saw her in the college library, standing behind the services desk. The "Marcia" name tag advertised the fact she worked there, as if standing behind the venerable oak counter didn't establish that. She had an air of unfamiliarity, as if she were still learning the ropes; if this part-time job was new, that would explain why I hadn't seen her here before now.
She was still beautiful — more so, if that were possible. The college years had been good to her, as if broadening her mind had given her always-gleaming blue eyes more depth. She wore a smile (lipstick red, as ever) that gave her the aura of someone laughing at a joke only she knew. She was taking advantage of the warm weather by wearing a blue pleated skirt that came to her mid thighs, and a thin white blouse that tucked around the curves of her still-fit form. She clearly wasn't trying to look sexy, but that made her all the sexier.
My heart both elated and broke seeing her again.
It was a big university, and we hadn't crossed paths since we both came to the same school three years ago. I was glad for that; if I hadn't settled on the college's acceptance letter before the prom-night incident, I would have almost certainly chosen a different school. But the inertia of bureaucracy meant it was easier to stay than to try making any significant changes. (And if any such plan would have required
face-to-face
fixing... well, that's basically impossible.)
Honestly, if I'd seen her at any time
