Invisibilia

On my birthday, I went out with friends. The night ended in a club, not my favourite, but not the worst. It was fine. We drank too much, and a guy was staring at me across the dance floor. My friends noticed and made lewd hand signals at me. We all laughed, and I wound up at his place: a small, tidy apartment, with almost clinically minimal decor. It looked like somewhere you’d rent for short-term business stays, but he said he owned it. 

The next morning, I crept out of his bed. In the bathroom, I rinsed my face with water and used one of his pristine towels to scrub my makeup and crusty mascara off. I placed the towel back on the rack, visible streaks of colour 005 smeared on it. As I adjusted the towel to at least hide them until after I left, I noticed a discoloured patch of skin on my right forearm. It was the size of a ten-cent piece. Only, it wasn’t discoloured. I could see all the way through my arm to the tiled floor, the reflection of the bathroom light shining through my new hole. 

Rubbing the spot, I could still feel my skin under my fingertips. It was there, and rubbing it returned the pink of my skin, as if healing the wound. But after a few moments, the hole reappeared. 

I itched it, massaged it, pressed hard on it, turning the ends of my fingers white from the pressure. The same reaction: the hole would disappear, only to return. 

I knew what this was, and I wasn’t ready. 

Returning to his bedroom, I collected my clothes off the floor and exited. His snores irritated me. A slumber of ignorance, like a newborn, swaddled in a protective cocoon. Fuck you, I thought, as I imagined another woman, younger and flawless, in his bed the next time. 

At home, I scrubbed, I moisturised, I oiled, but nothing worked longer than a few hours. That spot was there to stay. 

No, it fucking isn’t, I said aloud to the room, as I Googled clinics. The nearest one was located in the mall, and I booked an appointment through their online system. No call needed. No personal contact necessary. 

Hello, I said at the counter on the day. I’m here for my appointment. They ushered me into the consultation suite, their teal-coloured scrubs swishing over their Crocs. They took my photo with a tablet and jostled different filters across my face; the damage, the sun, age, stress. She showed me a chart; what would happen to my face, my body over time. How the hole would spread. But not yet, she said with acute positivity, holding her finger in the air. We can stop it, but we must act fast. A few thousand dollars, a combination of 36-pin and nano needles, one hour, and it’ll be put to rest. I could pay in instalments. 

I knew I would say yes. I couldn’t show anyone this hole. I couldn’t even tell my mother. She would understand, and would comfort me, and that was the worst part. Acceptance. We would accept it together, and I was not ready to accept it. 

Let’s do it, I said.

It hurt. It really hurt. They used a numbing agent, but it might as well have been toothpaste. The needles felt like shards of fire, and the skin across my arms and face was red and swollen by the time I left. They called me brave, told me how strong I was, and offered me a discount for a follow-up appointment. Trying not to cry at the thought of another round, I declined and said I’d book when I was ready.

Feigning a temperature, I worked from home for two weeks, while my skin healed. It peeled and flaked away, and the layer underneath was supple, vibrant. It had been worth it. I felt better than I had in years. 

I wanted another night out.

This time, heads turned, men gawped. Women gawped, too, but I paid them less attention. 

That night’s man was better looking than the last. And rich. Jackpot. He bought my drinks and complimented my ass, squeezing it hard. I giggled, even though it wasn’t funny, and we went to a hotel. It was fine. I was incredible. 

Six months later, I was on the office phone with a vendor, using my mobile as a mirror to reapply a new lip liner. It was deep plum, and according to the saleswoman, complimented my autumn tones. I felt great. The woman on the phone was complaining about the size of our order and why we’d reduced it. It would affect her numbers and create problems for her, blah, blah, blah.  I imagined she looked dumpy and dishevelled. This shade really does suit me, I thought. I was nodding and mmm-hmming to her when I noticed a discolouration on my neck. 

Lifting my head, I saw a small hole the size of a pea. I could see the office wall through it. I rubbed, and the spot’s opacity returned momentarily, then waned again. My heartbeat thrummed with fear and outrage. They’d guaranteed me twelve months, those crooks. I finished my call and immediately dialled the clinic, whose machine only directed me to their website. 

Their website directed me to an FAQ area:

How long do the effects last?

Results typically last between 6 and 12 months, depending on your individual skin type, lifestyle, and how your body responds to the treatment. Factors such as age…I didn’t bother reading the rest. I knew what they’d say—6 months. It had been 6 months. All I could remember were their promises for twelve months. Twelve months, they’d said. Thousands I’d spent, and the pain had been excruciating. And, I’d only had six months. My bank balance couldn’t handle it again, even if I thought I could.

Running to the privacy of the bathroom, I poked and prodded the area with my finger, then took a step back from the mirror, wondering where it might happen next. Without opening my mouth, I affirmed to myself: you are OK. You will be OK. No one will care. This is normal.

I returned from the bathroom, yearning to cover the spot with my hand, though reluctant to draw any additional attention to the area that had become inflamed from my belligerent prodding. I forced myself forward, my step feeling increasingly awkward.

The next day was Saturday, and, safe under my duvet, I asked AI for help. 

First of all, take a breath, it said patronisingly. The good news is, invisibility doesn’t come all at once, but in phases, and there are ways to slow it down. It had advice: remain active, ground yourself in routine, breathe, and avoid isolation, the latter in direct contrast to what I wanted.

Asking the internet for help only set the algorithm after me. Now my social media feeds were filled with videos of people affirming their love of their invisibility: dressing for it, styling for it, showing it off brazenly. One woman embraced hers so emphatically she almost convinced me; that is, until I read the comments under her video, and found one from a man that said simply, ‘grose’. Despite the misspelling and his unattractive avatar, I found myself agreeing with him. 

With no vacation days left, I had no choice but to remain at work, terrified of what my colleagues would say. I arrived with a churning stomach. However, after hours and then days, it appeared no one noticed. Or, if they did, they were respectful enough not to raise it, and I found myself desperately grateful. 

The office became safe. Comfortable. Though invitations for coffee with my male colleagues dwindled. They stopped buying me drinks after work. Stopped asking me if I’d found a boyfriend yet, and began showing me photos of their children I hadn’t known they had. 

On my next birthday, I didn’t go out, declining pleas from friends. I wasn’t sure I would ever go out again. They told me they would take me to places I belonged; we would feel welcome. But all I wanted were my birthdays from before. I wanted to make bad choices and end up in the bed of a stranger who thought I was the best-looking thing in the room. They said I could have that, but they said it with winced eyes and voices that inflected at the end, like a wheezed question. I couldn’t. And they knew it. 

I studied breathing techniques, I bought special creams enhanced with trademarked mollusc excretions, I took up yogilates, and drank 3 litres of water a day. I attended sweat classes, read self-help books, binged TikTok videos—sometimes of young women showing me how to apply make-up I already knew how to apply, sometimes of women showing off their invisibility. I’d flit back and forth between them, torturing myself, ripping open feelings I hadn’t wanted, but couldn’t turn away from. 

A see-through pinprick appeared on the back of my hand. It was asymmetrical and worried me enough to go to the GP. That’s life, she’d said. Her tone positive.

A year later, invisible freckles dotted my face, running up my nose and spanning across my T-zone. There was a new treatment available that involved a paralysing chemical originally discovered by a taxidermist who’d noticed youthful improvement on her skin. Since then, demand for it had soared, and women and men alike were queuing up to slather themselves for $300 per 50ml, or one treatment. 

I booked an appointment.

At my consultation, the clinician hmm’d and haaa’d, pointing out my most concerning areas, including a spot on the back of my neck I hadn’t been aware of. This is quite advanced, she’d said. It would require four treatments’ worth. At least $1,200. Yes, I could pay in instalments. Yes, the effects last twelve months. Bullshit. The website had the same waiver as before: it varies. I couldn’t go through with it. 

I was chasing a tide that would go out.

Then I saw my mum. 

Oh, she said. You went earlier than me; I wonder why. I wanted to cry. I wanted to smack her. 

Instead, I said, I had work and couldn’t stay long.

Every day, I checked the mirror, making a mental note of the holes on my body. Smears, splodges, lines. There was no uniformity. It was so heartbreakingly random and persistent. If the lotions, treatments, and breathing exercises were working, I couldn’t tell. Perhaps they were slowing it down, perhaps they weren’t, but I continued with them in crippling fear of how much worse things would be if I didn’t.

You look fabulous for your age, my friends said, as they, in turn, began to disappear. I’m relieved, my married friend said. No more makeup, no more pervy men honking from cars, it’s freedom. We can just be us. But I wasn’t ready to just be us. I missed the honks, the attention. Now I needed expensive pills, a day’s worth of water, low-sodium meals, and make-up applied with a trowel to feel even half-worth what I felt before. 

And, I was single. Being young and single was fabulous. Now it wasn’t. Men didn’t look at me; they couldn’t see me. 

As fewer men asked for my number, I took a friend’s advice: I tried online dating. After my first few failures—one man refusing to believe I hadn’t filtered out the invisibilia in my profile picture, another asking if I had a younger sister, and one who stood me up—I closed my account and deleted the app.

Friends set me up. Sometimes they were nice, and we dated for a while. Sometimes they weren’t. 

My mum, unwilling to picture a future without grandchildren, encouraged me to keep trying. I think that ship has sailed, I admitted, hoping to wound her a little. 

It became necessary to avoid crowds and busy areas, as it was all too easy to be stood on. Forget ordering things—at bars, at counters—I ordered online. My relationship with the world became one-sided. Just me and a screen. Isolated, the opposite of what AI had recommended. But how could I fight a battle with no ammo, allies, or hope?

And then.

Hi, he’d said, sidling up to me in the bus queue.

My voice, croaky from lack of use, sputtered a confused hello in reply.

He offered to buy me a cup of coffee, pointing behind me. 

I followed his point, perplexed. It was a cafe I used to frequent, in a time I’d almost forgotten.

He wanted to buy me coffee. 

Wait, I said, you can see me?

Of course, he answered. It’s hard to miss someone so beautiful.