Transparent

by Bill West


A sound like sand dropped sudden from a tipper-truck wakes you in your student room. The glo-clock flicks to 12:15. You switch on the light.

In the corner your computer hums, hard drive flashing. You smile and think of pictures downloading from your hidden cameras, triggered by movement.

You get up, move your telescope, open the curtains. You stare, it makes no sense. You reach out and touch, not glass but the grittiness of a bricked-up window.

You wonder if vigilante bricklayers have stolen in while you slept. You would laugh if you could shrug off guilt. Guilt holds you prisoner.

You feel sick, chilled, and something strange is happening to your skin. Your hands fade until light passes through them. You see glass bones articulate beneath glass skin. You stumble to the mirror. Eyeballs swivel within a crystal skull cradling brain. Your liquid heart pulses behind transparent ribs while lungs like filament wings flutter.

You howl and scream again. Are you dreaming, is this real? What will you do? How will you live when people can see through you?


Copyright © 2006 by Bill West

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