Invisible

Invisible-- Chapter Three

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Chapter Three

In my haste to escape, I forgot to grab a set of clothes from my dresser back at home. But what would the point be to wear them, if everything I touched couldn't be felt, couldn't be held? 

Even though I couldn't feel anything, the cool October breeze still chilled my skin and made me shiver. Teeny little boxer shorts didn't do much good in the middle of autumn. So, I turned back around, and headed back to the house... 

The empty quietness of the street made me wonder what happend to me... The memory of John attacking me stuck out in my mind, playing over and over again, repeating itself without stopping. I distinctly remembered getting shot in the leg, in the side, if I got shot anywhere else I couldn't remember. Then I fell, my eyes closed and never opened... Until I got to the park... 

Then I remembered-- after I blacked out, I saw an image of myself on a stretcher, bleeding and close to death. Had I seen that after I had died, when I was a ghost? 

Ugh... All these questions made my head spin, their answers remaining undiscovered. 

The house came back into view, my window peeking at me from the side. Without thinking I ran towards the window, and jumped right through the wall. Before I knew it I was standing in the middle of my bedroom, the lamplight casting eerie shadows on the white walls. As hard as I tried not to, my eyes wandered over to the bed where I had been sleeping when John tried to stab me. 

Deep gashes were ripped through the sheets, revealing the inside of the mattress. A bedspring poked through the mattress like claws. The quilt that was supposed to be on the bed was on the floor, crumpled up in a ball from when I fell out of bed. 

Before I started hyperventilating, I walked over to my dresser where my clothes were. The drawers were all closed. 

Long sigh. This would be interesting. 

I tried to grab the brass handles on the dresser drawers, only to have my fingers glide right through them. My eyebrows knitted together when I concentrated on grabbing the handle, trying to remember what the cold metal felt underneath my touch in the early morning before school. 

And just like that, it was there in my fist. Smiling, I yanked the drawer open, revealing piles of rumpled up tee-shirts. Again, I thought back to yesterday morning when it took me forever to try to find a tee-shirt before school, because they were all dirty. Then I reached out and picked up the first tee-shirt I saw. 

Hm. Maybe being like this wouldn't be so hard after all. I yanked the shirt on over my head, shoving my arms through the sleeves and pulling it down over my stomach. Then the pair of jeans which I also took out of the dresser using the same method, were pulled on as well. 

But while I was poking my foot through the leg of the jeans, something caught my eye. A tiny black hole was dug into my calf, exactly where John had shot me. I frowned, wobbling over to the lamp and holding my leg underneath the light. Blood had left a crimson blotch around the hole, which was atleast a few inches deep. Surprisingly enough, it didn't even hurt. It was like it wasn't even there, my leg felt the same way it did when there wasn't a hole in it. 

Peering even closer, I looked in the hole, a silver piece of metal glinting slightly in the lamplight. 

The bullet. 

I glanced around the room before hopping up and waddling over to the bathroom, my feet still in the pantlegs. I willed myself to touch again, opening the medicine cabinet above the sink and bringing out the box of band-aids. Since it didn't hurt, I'd just leave the bullet in there and cover it up with a bandaid. 

Curiously I pulled up the bottom of my shirt, to see if there was another hole in my side from the other bullet. Sure enough, another hole had been burrowed through my flesh, stained with blood. This one didn't hurt either, but I slapped a band-aid on it anyway. 

Sighing, I pulled up my pants and sat on the bathroom counter, folding my hands in my lap. I thought back to my Sunday School days, which I stopped attending last summer when I turned fifteen. My teacher, Lisa, had mentioned something about dying-- how everything that died went to heaven, as long as they believed in God, anyway. If you were bad, you went to Hell. But there was something inbetween, called... Purgatory? I think that was it... Like, God sent to there for purification or temporary punishment, I think she said. What did I do to deserve that, though? 

Whatever. If God doesn't like me, that's not my fault. 

But now what was I gonna do? I couldn't talk to anybody, as far as I've experienced nobody can see me, I can't touch anything... 

Well, if I tried extra hard I could touch stuff, but there wouldn't be a point in touching people if they couldn't see or hear me. It might be kinda fun to scare the crap out of my enemies-- just run a finger down their spine, only to have them turn around and find nothing behind them, but that would be only a little to cruel. 

In the morning, I decided. What exactly was going to happen in the morning, I wasn't exactly sure. But it seemed a good place to start.