Jason Everett Morris -- The Future of Horror

I, Marcus William Davis, have just postulated myself invisible.

He labeled it “conclusion” (C1) then, turning to the next page in his spiral notebook, began outlining the proof’s tenets (P1 through P13). Each was detailed with clarity and reason, a logical progression from one to the next until the formula was recorded for all the ages. The arguments were sound: valid in all propositions and deductions, nothing contradictory or implausible. It was so bulletproof, you could strap it on a cop. It was as watertight as a duck’s ass. And so it went, for, if nothing else, after four semesters of graduate studies at Rutland Sterling University, Marcus had come to believe in one thing at least. If a proof could be logically upheld on paper, a priori or a posteriori, it was Truth. Capital T.

That was how, sitting in Heinrich’s Kaffeehaus nursing his ninety-nine cent bottomless cup of French roast, Marcus became invisible, camouflaged, gone, transparent, free of his life.

It was all much easier than he’d thought, actually. Hard-nosed logic aside, he knew if he’d stayed put, he’d remain undetected (P3). Eyes locked on his theology textbook kept him anonymous, and the man with the Van Dyke goatee beard standing in line would not notice he was being ogled half to death (P4). Light bent around Marcus rather than bouncing off to be detected by the human eye (P5). In that vacant space, goatee guy would only see the brick and mortar fireplace behind Marcus, and nothing of him.

Glancing down, Marcus saw himself drumming his pen against his thigh––but of course, he would. Even the invisible could see themselves. And they could see each other as well. They shared the same secrets and lore, after all, and so, when two with such power encountered one another, they would be compelled to reveal themselves, as a courtesy.

Their clothes became invisible as well, otherwise it’d be too uncomfortable, walking around naked. Too chilly and floppy (P7), unless a person was into that sort of thing. No judgments. Marcus himself opted to keep his simple t-shirt and jeans on. Moreover, it would defeat the purpose if partially digested food could be seen sloshing around, not to mention distracting and pukey. Therefore, the coffee Marcus sipped became invisible in his esophagus. The cup floated in mid-air, because that was a cool, spooky effect, but the magic took over once he drank the coffee down.

Ruining the proof wouldn’t be difficult at all. That was the whole trick of it. The slightest word or touch would break the enchantment. The natural law of the unseen states that you must remain inactive (P11). Once someone sees your actions, they see you.

Drop a pen, scuff a shoe, sneeze, or cut one, and you’re still in the clear. Farts get blamed on phantom people all the time. Touch or speak to someone, however, and how could you hide then? As soon as Marcus pounced on goatee guy (read: approached him with sweaty palms and crackling voice offering to buy him a coffee, not attack him with a porn-star bedroom growl) all invisibility would be lost. The guy’d be looking right at him, for fuck’s sake, and he’d have to explain himself.

Marcus sat back and watched goatee guy waiting impatiently in line. He clenched and unclenched his jaw. He was handsomer that way, not smiling. More intensity around the eyes. He rocked on the balls of his feet, arms stuffed into his pockets. Those waiting to place their espresso or latte orders were regular folks here to get a cup of joe, but this man was so unlike Marcus and his kind that he couldn’t help but study him. Study parts of him, at any rate.

Goatee guy was probably in his early thirties, so too old to be a Rutland Sterling student. Alum maybe. He dressed with money, so definitely not a prof. His black slacks, accompanied by a sleek leather belt, had been flawlessly pressed, as was his burgundy designer button-down. Wisps of dark chest hair poked out from the open throat. A silver watch and simple silver ring, worn around his left index, were the only jewelry. A cinched jacket completed the look.

Impeccable dresser: strike one.

Hair was cute, too: witch-black, fashionably gelled and pushed forward with high, spiked bangs. A widow’s peak pulled slightly down on his ledge forehead. Marcus personally couldn’t grow facial hair for shit, thus his fetishizing of the midnight beard and mustache. Elbow propped on his arm, goatee guy absently tugged at the coarse hairs under his chin. His cheeks and neck were clean-shaven, conditioned, and moisturized.

Well groomed with product: strike two.

He appeared as someone who’d undergone a transformation in his adult years. He could have once upon a time been very skinny or very fat, or nerdy, or had a too-big nose, or any combination therein. Genetics and biological chemistry were rarely kind in the teen years, but he might have been hit harder. It wasn’t until he’d grown up a bit, gained some experience, that he’d come into his own.

The aesthetic had nothing to do with youth or undue vanity, the hairless statuesque bodies and pretty features often idolized. His was the sort of look that appealed to an old soul like Marcus. This fellow could, after all those years of unattractiveness, appreciate his own beauty. That…and it looked like goatee guy had a bod you’d love to be crushed under.

Body conscious: strike three.

Marcus’s bottomless cup did indeed have a bottom, and it was rather empty at the moment. Goatee guy stood last in line––time to carpe diem the day.

Excuse me, sir. I couldn’t help noticing you from my table. No no, you wouldn’t have seen me. I was wondering if you would care to join me for a fuck…ing cup of coffee?

Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven, angel?

Anything to get the guy to laugh, crack a smile, be charmed and seduced. He’d never really done such a thing before, not in such an establishment, but surely it could be done. Nothing new or scary. All it took was the act of action.

The front door swooshed open, and in stepped a new set of patrons to join the end of the line. Through the course of their chatting, the one placed his hand in the small of his friend’s back, chuckling about some little something or other, as boyfriends are wont to do.

Curses. Marcus’s dastardly plans foiled again!

It was a relief, truth be told. It saved Marcus from potential embarrassment. Goatee guy could’ve been the complete opposite of what he seemed. Chances were, there was more homophobia there than homoeroticism. There might not have been any awkward teenage phase to grow out of. That was just a dumb daydream. He could be metrosexual, or perhaps these weren’t designer fashions at all, but Sunday school clothes, worn on a Tuesday night for some reason. He might have come from Bible study, where they armed Jesus’s followers with Scripture. Capital S.

If Marcus had broken the invisibility proof, approached this man, offered to buy him a coffee, no words might have been spoken at all, only fists (P12). Or, something even more catastrophic could have happened. Goatee guy could simply say he wasn’t interested (P13).
Watching from his place of obscurity, Marcus felt sudden regret since, unfortunately, he suffered from that most original of sins: being drawn to things that were bad for him.