Vanishing Point

I leave the clinic of THE GONE. I’m dead they chuckle. I have this fucking dial etched into my wrist. All because I stole a stupid fucking car. It’s set to 10 and numbered to 0.

I pull instructions from my pocket. Simple and direct: 10 = Opaque, 0 = Vanishing Point. Enjoy. T&C apply.

I dial in an 8, for shits and giggles. My wrist aches. It feels nice. I notice my hand; it seems to fade slightly.

I panic at the sight of my fading hand and quickly turn the dial back up to 10. It’s an agony I scream to. Back to 8 and I’m full of bliss. I sigh.

That was three weeks ago. I’m learning to live with it. My main problem is cups. I know my transparent hand is there, but the handles…

They seem to elude me. I just can’t make sense of how to grip them. They feel mushy, like somehow I’m not quite making any real contact.

It’s been 6 months. I often play with my dial. It’s set to 4. I’m looking into a mirror, wall visible through the back of my head.

Today I had a bad experience with a cab driver. I struggled to finger my bill, and dropped it in dog shit. He called me a vanishing cunt.

It disturbed me. I felt the sudden need for bliss. At home, in the bathroom, I notched my dial to 2. In tingles, I soared.

I can take the pain now. I often sit in a dark cupboard twiddling the dial, before turning the lights on to see if I’m still here.

The problem is that the lower I dial, the more euphoric I feel. I’m hardly visible now. The thought of dialling down to 0 consumes me.

What would the feeling be like? My brow perspires and my fingers constantly twitch. Would my joy be complete? I can’t take not knowing.

My hazy form is just visible in the mirror. My dial is set to 1. I concentrate on my reflection and take a deep breath…click.

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