aeipathy

1

aeipathy: an enduring and consuming passion

*

To anyone reading this: you don't know me. Obviously you don't, you've never heard of me. No one has actually heard  of me. I'm a stranger to everyone, a stranger to the whole world. I have more identities than a motherfucker with DID. I guess you could say I'm off the grid, but I never was on the grid.
Hello. I'm James Michael. I know what I just said puts my status as an unreliable narrator, but this being in first person has already established me as an unreliable narrator. But you can trust me. For some weird, random, unexplainable reason, I am entrusting you. So you can trust me when I tell you that my real name is James Michael. And you can trust me when I tell you I'm invisible.
I can't really explain how this became to be. I've always been invisible. And it's not even like I was just randomly created into existence. For my entire life, I have been invisible. However, people can still hear me. I'm like a motherfucking ghost. I am a motherfucking ghost.
I've spent my entire life not knowing why I was here, how I was here, or why I wasn't normal. But it's not like I'm uneducated. I've absorbed people's conversations, and when I was a young child I realized I would have to go to school and shit. So I did. I'd say I "snuck in" but there's not much sneaking involved when you're invisible. I did that until high school. I still learned, but I took it upon myself to teach me the important things. I furthered my education in the shit they thought was important, but I took up actual important things that the school system doesn't teach. I learned about the laws, the Constitution, and anything that interested me. I learned how the world worked, how this country works.
But that was then, dear reader. Let's talk about now.
Now, I am around 26. I say around, because I have no real way of knowing. I don't remember having a mom, or a dad, or siblings. I have had no one. I've spent my life alone, with no friends, no one to talk to. I don't know my birthday. And I guess it doesn't matter. Birthdays are a stupid celebration. Congratulations, your parents had unprotected sex, or maybe the fucking condom broke. Now you're here.
When I was a child I went to a few birthday parties. They're worthless. Maybe they'd feel better if they knew I was there. Maybe they'd feel better if I was liked, and had friends, and if I actually knew my goddamn birthday.
I try not to focus on the dull side of life, however.
I'm a bit of a playboy, you could say. Do I use this to fill the empty void inside me from the unanswered questions of my life? I don't know, this isn't a fucking therapy session. I know what you're thinking. "James, how can you be a playboy when you're invisible?" Listen here, young child. I wear the skins of the people I killed- I mean I made. I look like a goddamn wax figure. Except you know. More realistic.
No one can tell I'm in a fucking meat suit, so I've got that working for me. I go to bars and clubs and wait for some ladies to approach me. Or a man. I don't have a preference, and I don't care. I'm here, (or not, considering the whole invisible thing) and I'm young-ish. However, I usually lure more girls in than men. Apparently men aren't into my hot ass, which is a shame. If you're wondering how my suit stays clean and not all gross, the answer is I clean it. Obviously. I'm not a slob, I'll have you know. I'm very neat and tidy. As soon as I get done with my fling I kill them... Dismiss. I meant dismiss them. From life.
I mean.
Me.
Can you convict an invisible man? I hope not.
Maybe I shouldn't have told you my name.
But I'm invisible. How the fuck are you gonna find me?
I guess that brings me to where the story begins. In a bar. I'm sitting at the bar, an empty glass in front of me. I can't consume anything, but I can sure act like it. I've learned how to be an excellent actor.
The bartender comes over to where I'm sitting, puts the cliche white towel down and puts his hands on the counter.
"Want another?"
I smile. It's polite, don't you know?
"I'm good, thanks."
The bartender looks me up and down. It was almost as if he was solving a puzzle; he looked confused beyond belief, but he was concentrating hard on the details.
"What are you doing here alone, if not to get drunk?"
I

smile again. But it's not out of politeness, no, it's a coy smile, a smirk, if you will.
"I'm observing the room. Taking in the atmosphere. Waiting."
"Waiting?"
I look around the room, and spot a woman alone at the booths. She has a drink; maybe a daiquiri, and a plate of food she's barely touching. She looks down at it, her hair covering her face from view, and picks up a french fry. She looks up, and around, before locking eyes with me.
"For her."
I got up and went to her booth. I realized that having the conversation with the bartender prevents me from dismissing her. Or I guess, I would have to go through extra hoops. Get a new suit.
It didn't matter at the moment, though. She seemed new, refreshing, and interesting.
I flashed my winning smile. "Do you mind if I sit here, dear?"
She looked up at me and smiled warmly.
"No, I don't mind at all."

*this story is cowritten; this part was written by glassfiguress*