He woke up invisible. It was more than simply disappearing from sight, however. He could not be heard, he could not be smelled, he could not be touched. Truly invisible. But for the first time in his life he felt whole, calm, aware. The thick swirl of thoughts that had plagued him for years was gone, replaced by a pleasant distant echo, like raindrops in a cave. Like a branch crackling in the woods. Peaceful.
He sat up in his bed, except he didn’t move how a body moved, he moved how the fog moves, docile but brooding, stoic and unnerving. The feeling was natural, as if the fog had always been within him.
Flowing from under sheets, along dusty wooden floors, under cracks of closed doors, between drifting cars, through branches of great pines, above the people he used to know. The heightened sense of awareness, coupled with his newly sterilized mind, allowed him a new perspective on these. He was a part of them all. He had a place as they did, all turning together like gears inside a great clock. Peaceful.
Suddenly, her voice seethed into him, drowning out every thought in a pool of caustic reverberation. The peaceful raindrops and branches displaced by sharp hot flashes of panic and the engulfing mouth of dark. The feeling of death.
When he opened his eyes, he was in her room. Illuminated by the gray twilight of fall, he saw pages of journals strewn across the floor, torn in a fever from their spine. He saw familiar photos of people he knew, loved. A mirror with a cobweb shatter, bloodied bandages and crumpled tissues, and her.
He became locked to this scene. No longer the fog, but the stagnant air of depression. He would always be in her memory.