This chick is driving me nuts. She's floating in my head tempting me to ignore revisions and play in firstdraftland again. She doesn't even have a NAME yet, and she's super strong. This means there will be a book at some point. Because I am crazy enough to write this.
The second I was born, I almost died. Doctor dropped me. It's not his fault though. When I smacked the floor and let out a screeching cry, all anyone could see was the semi-transparent umbilical cord, taut and bloody. Poor guy scooped me up, grasping at my invisible body in shock. They guessed I came out breech, because my spine was fractured and the bruising to my head wasn't enough to kill me.
I spent a year in the hospital—not because of injuries. They had to study me; Mom and Dad wanted a cure. They wanted a normal baby. You know, one that flies or can read minds. Instead they got the first invisible child ever. I was famous. The faceless baby.
There was no curing to be had; the supernatural specialists tried everything. The only contraption in the whole place that could capture an image was the x-ray machine. So they had a lot of pictures of my bones and a few face molds. When they gave up trying to bring pigment to my body, my parents took me home. They still got mobbed by paparazzi. Yes, they took pictures of an "empty" car seat, a blanket covering the girl who would never be seen.
Sixteen years later, all I know about myself is that I am five foot eight, a hundred and forty pounds, and the owner of one rocking wardrobe (when all people see is your clothing, it's important, trust me). The most recent mold of my face suggests a nose it's a shame no one can see. The button kind people pay for. My lips are lacking, but I can't know for sure. I took in a mouthful of plaster once and have clamped my lips shut since. Eye color? No clue. Skin? I try to keep it soft, at least. Sometimes I pretend I have freckles, but I could be purple for all I know. Hair? Wavy, wiry. Possibly curly if I had any clue how to style it.
It's not so bad, right? That's what people say if I complain. Brady Mitchell can't see me blush every time he passes me in the halls. And no one can ever say I'm ugly...though no one will ever tell me I'm pretty either. I can literally disappear when I don't feel like dealing with Mom. It's easy to be comfortable naked when no one can see. And I don't have to shave my legs. I hear that sucks.
And yet sometimes I dream about someone who can see me. Someone who could tell me what my eyes look like open. Someone who could describe the tint of my skin. Just so I could know. It's hard enough figuring out who I am on the inside. Maybe it would be easier if I knew who I was on the outside.