What started this whole ordeal is an issue that I’m sure that anyone who wears contacts or glasses can relate to.
I’ve had the same eye prescription since I was 13 years old. It literally has not fluctuated on. Every year since my release, I’ve had to go through the same crap. It goes something like this: take a day off from work, see the optometrist, have my eyes dilated, be told my prescription has not changed even a fraction of a point, and then pray I survive the drive home with my weird, light-sensitive eyes. I also usually end up getting a migraine from the dilation, so, overall, I consider my yearly eye exam to be an exasperating, painful occasion.
I just don’t know why I need to get my prescription renewed every year. Neither does my wallet. I’m working part time (or at least that’s what my contract say. I’m regularly pushing 50 hours a week) so no insurance.
This means that two months ago, when my prescription was up and my final contact ripped, I was dreading the bill for what I knew would culminate to useless experience.
Then I had a ‘brilliant’ idea.
I thought it’d be smart to order contacts online and skip my annual irritation. I checked the popular sites and, much to my displeasure, they either required an updated prescription or were substantially more expensive. I was about to give up after looking through the first five or six, but then I found a seller who seemed perfect:
Thealls33ingeye.com
They had my brand for about twenty bucks cheaper than I usually pay and advertised next day shipping. I’m not usually the type of guy who would order something from an unknown website, but there was an option to purchase through PayPal. Thinking I didn’t have much to lose, I clicked the big red ‘BUY’ button.
I went to bed, feeling uneasy about my purchase. As soon as I had bought it, I felt sure it was a scam and thought I had a few annoying calls to PayPal in my near future.
The next morning, I got ready for work. I put in my one good contact and hoped that I wouldn’t get a migraine from the missing one.
When I went outside, There was a small cardboard box on the porch of my trailer. It was a little after 5 am, much too early for the mail to have run. I picked up the box and thought maybe I’d missed an Amazon delivery the previous day. I threw it in the passenger seat of my car without giving it a second thought and sped off to work.
I’m employed as a janitor at the local retirement home, Shady Oaks, and yes, it’s literally named that. I haven’t changed the name for privacy concerns or anything like that. The owner (never met the guy) just must be lacking in the imagination department.
Anyway, it’s pretty large by retirement home standards and advertises itself as a ‘retirement community.’ Currently there are about 500 residents, the majority of which are well over the age of 75. There’s a decent percentage of live-ins in their 60s, plagued by the likes of dementia and Alzheimer’s, but only a handful of patients are younger than that. All the young ones either have a debilitating mental illness or have suffered some sort of trauma that has rendered them unable to live on their own.
Of that group, I have only seen one resident at Shady Oaks younger than me. Her name was Ann, and she was only 20 years old when she got into a fatal car crash.
A drunk driver swerved into oncoming traffic, killing Ann’s family (her mother and her two younger sisters) on impact. Ann, the sole survivor, told me how she listened as cars passed by the wreckage for what felt like hours. All she could see was blood and broken glass. She told me that her body, the thing she had thought was her, was suddenly unresponsive and alien. She tried to move, to pull herself from the wreckage, but her body wouldn’t listen. It kept her locked in place. Ann told me that she felt like something else had taken control of her, that some force had possessed her and was forcing her to stay in place. Despite the vast disconnect between her body and mind, Ann told me he could feel everything.
She could feel all those purple points of flaring pain… The glass embedded into her arms and legs… All the broken bones that caused her breath to come out in raspy, wet coughs.
When the EMT finally arrived (reportedly ten minutes after the crash) Ann said she could hear them saying that no one could have survived the crash. She tried to make a noise, to alert them that she was there and needed help, but she couldn’t. Each time she tried, she said all she could produce was a quiet gurgle as she choked on her own blood. Ann was sure she would die there.
Thankfully, Ann survived, but she’d broken her neck. On top of becoming paralyzed, she’d also sustained a major concussion. Her life would never be the same.
Ann’s father was mostly out of the picture. I don’t really know the whole story, but I know that he wasn’t there for her during Ann’s childhood. Her dad seemed to step up after the accident. Apparently, the way that the EMT’s had removed her from the wreckage might have worsened her injury. He fought tooth and nail for Ann until the hospital agreed on a settlement. I don’t know the exact number, but it was apparently a pretty decent sum. Ann’s father used that money to put her in Shady Oaks and then took off to God knows where. She hasn’t heard from him in years.
Ann is the main reason I’ve stayed employed so long at Shady Oaks. It’s kind of ironic. When I first saw Ann six years ago, I was on the verge of quitting and seeing her, so frail and small that I’d first thought she was a child, was nearly the final nail in the coffin to me turning in my resignation.
Ann was a far cry from the usual residents I dealt with.
Shady Oaks is separated into 4 buildings. The first is where able bodied seniors who need minimal care live. A lot of the residents here have their own cars, and they are free to come and go with some perimeters. The second is where residents with either minor physical disabilities or the preliminary stages of dementia/ Alzheimer’s live. The residents are still somewhat free to roam the building, but the doors to the outside stay locked. The third block I try to avoid; it’s where residents with severe, debilitating issues live. They are confined to their rooms. It’s a sad sight to see.
The fourth block is where I work. It is the smallest (around 25 residents) and it’s where the old folks are sent when their minds are still solid, but their bodies are not. I’ve overheard a few past coworkers refer to us as the death block. It is a fitting name. This is where a lot of residents are moved to when they are standing on their last leg. We do have a few long-term residents, like Ann, who aren’t quite at death’s door, but they are rare cases.
I don’t mind working so close to death. In fact, I’m fairly certain that working in the fourth block is far better than the third. I try not to get attached to the old folks in the death block. They don’t stay long after all. Still, seeing Ann so young and here in the death block made me feel… I don’t know. Upset? Scared? Unsettled?
All I can really say is it just didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel fair.
It still doesn’t.
Ann was paralyzed, but she could still talk. When I would clean her room, she would ask me to turn the tv on and make polite conversation. She had a pronounced stutter from the accident, but I could tell how smart she was. I could see, even before I’d known her, that her body had become a cage that prevented her from moving or even communicating the way she wanted.
It was excruciatingly difficult to be around her.
Again, I’d already been on the verge of quitting, but for reasons I will get into in a moment, I was worried about finding employment elsewhere.
After a few weeks with Ann, I requested my manager move me. At first it seemed like she was going to approve the request, but then I made the mistake of telling her why I wanted to be moved.
Evidently, the fact that I was uncomfortable around a young, immobile girl meant I was perfect for the job. She said this with ease and then callously joked about being worried about some of my coworkers. I was repulsed. The flippant way she could imply that about them, almost laughing but with a sick certainty in her eyes disgusted me.
I remember heading back to the death block after that meeting, eyeing each of my coworkers as I went. Which ones had she been talking about?
I was sure that I would quit after that, but, as I went online, looking for openings, this overwhelming feeling of anxiety settled like a dark cloud. The reason I felt so bleak isn’t something I run around broadcasting, but it’s pretty unavoidable in the context of employment.
I am a felon.
It doesn’t matter if I’ve been on the straight and narrow for over 7 years. It doesn’t matter that I spent my youth, the entirety of my 20s, behind bars. None of that matters. All prospective employers see is a little box checked yes, because a stupid, 19-year-old version of myself caught a charge on account of possessing a Schedule IV with intent to sell.
And it’s true.
I’m not going to spin you some story about me being falsely convicted. My mom had passed away shortly before the events that led me to prison. When cleaning out her stuff, I found two whole bottles of Xanax. I was your average poor college kid and thought I could make a quick buck.
Instead, I got ten years.
When I got out of prison, I was pushing 30 and the only place I could find to hire me was Shady Oaks. I wondered, especially after talking with my manager, how many of my coworkers were in the same boat as me. How many were felons that accepted this minimum wage, demeaning janitorial job with no benefits because it was their only option?
As a felon, it’d be kind of hypocritical to judge others for holding the same status. Still, I found myself watching my coworkers, wondering if they were violent, wondering if they would really hurt Ann in the way my manager had implied if given the chance.
So, I stayed, and I would end up being thankful that I did.
After that horrid conversation with my manager, I figured there was no avoiding Ann. I stopped being short with her. As I’d thought, Ann’s mind was brilliant. Through her broken body, there was a shine to her soul that could not be dampened.
I found out about her life before the crash, all of her hobbies, what her dreams had been… You get the point. She came about a year after I started at Shady Oaks. I joked often that she was both the youngest and the oldest resident in the death block. It’s been around six years now and Ann has become my best friend.
So that morning, the morning I’d found the box on my porch, I grabbed my cart and headed straight to Ann’s room. This was the usual routine. She was asleep; but I still flicked the light on and sat down purposefully heavy on the edge of the bed.
She groaned, stuttering out my name.
“Who else?” I asked her, lighting up a cigarette.
Ann didn’t smoke before she came to Shady Oaks but, well, call me a bad influence. I introduced her to one of the world’s most uselessly expensive past times. She opened her mouth and I popped the cigarette in after taking a draw myself.
She took a few shallow breaths and then I took the cigarette back “Y-You heard anything ab-bout my r-request?”
I was in her line of sight, so I shook my head. “Sorry, Ann.”
She set her mouth into a tight frown. You see, Ann had been told as a kid to shoot for the stars and she had taken that literally. Before her accident, she had been well on her way to a dual degree in Astronomy and Physics. In another life, I have no doubt Ann would have become a renowned Astrophysicist, but in this one, the only one who would see her brilliance was me. Which is a waste, since I only understand half of her science talk…. And that’s on a good day.
She’d had her sights set on a meteor shower a couple months away and had put in a request to be wheeled out to watch the sky. It was a weird request, but I thought it was manageable. The only issue I could really foresee was the shower being visible from 3 am to 5 am. Odd hours for a resident to ask for fresh air, but I had hoped that they would grant her this one thing since she rarely asked for much.
After her initial disappointment had passed, we got to talking as usual. We smoked another cigarette, not really saying anything too substantial until I’d remembered the box on my porch.
I’d joked about my Amazon addiction, not even remembering what I’d ordered, and Ann had a strange look.
“You s-s-said you ordered c-c-c-c- “
“Contacts?” She doesn’t like when I finish her sentences, but I’d already been in her room for half an hour. If I stayed much longer someone was bound to come searching. “Well yeah, but next day shipping isn’t that fast.”
Ann rolled her eyes. “Just s-saying.”
“I’ll come back on my lunch break and prove you wrong.”
So, with those words, I grabbed my cart and set out on my cleaning route.
I went about my day until about noon, then clocked out, retrieving the box and my lunch, before going back to Ann’s room. Interestingly, there was no shipping label on the cardboard. It was perfectly blank.
“Not Amazon,” I thought to myself as I walked to her room.
After I had befriended Ann, I started eating lunch with her as opposed to in my car. Eating with her is something I now realize I took for granted. Just having someone to talk to as you have a meal… it’s not something you really think about until you don’t have it anymore.
“Starting to think this is a prank,” I told Ann as I grabbed the fold out tv trey from behind the door.
“The b-box?”
I nodded, sitting at the edge of your bed. “There’s no shipping label and someone really overdid it with the tape. Could be the neighborhood kids. Maybe they shoved a dead bird in a box or something.”
“Th-that’s your f-f-first thought?”
“Trailer Park kids are weird, man,” I told her as I clawed at the tape on the box. “Wow, they really didn’t want me getting into this.”
“W-want me to help?” She asked, sarcastically.
Finally getting one of my short fingernails under the tape, I ripped it open and out fell contacts.
“What is i-it?”
I groaned exaggeratedly. “Well, you were right. It’s my contacts. Still weird that it came so early and there’s no shipping label.”
“T-trailer park kids?”
I just frowned and said: “Maybe.”
I examined the box, trying to see if there was any indication it had been tampered with, but the cardboard was smooth and unmarred. I knew from the tape that it had been sealed well.
“Well, whatever,” I said, standing up. “I’m going to go put in the new lenses.”
I went to Ann’s bathroom. Each of the rooms on death block have a small one attached, but of course Ann’s is perfectly clean. She can’t really use it. I washed my hands in the sink and then tore open the box. The packaging looked exactly like my brand as did the inside. I opened up on of the contacts and rubbed it between my forefinger and thumb. It felt the same.
I looked into the mirror and popped the contact directly onto my pupil. Half expecting it to burn, my eyes were watering up. I glanced up, down, and then blinked to ensure the contact sat correctly. When I opened my eyes, I could see normally. I discarded my old contact into the sink and popped a fresh one into the other eye as well.
I grinned at my reflection, thinking that I’d finally found a way to circumvent my annual eye exam.
I left the bathroom to deliver the good news to Ann, but she wasn’t there anymore. Especially after befriending her, my manager’s words have echoed through my mind. I’ve always been worried about one of my coworkers sneaking in and hurting her. I mean, if I can spend hours in her room without anyone questioning or really even noticing, what’s stopping someone with bad intentions from doing the same?
“Ann?” I called her name.
“Sc-scammed?” She replied at once, the sound of her voice emanating from her empty bed.
When I looked closer, I could see the indention of a head on the pillow, of the sheets wrinkling under the weight of something unseen. I took a step forward, and there Ann was. Her pale skin was translucent, I saw the white of the bedsheet more than I saw her.
Being very eloquent with words I said: “Holy shit.”
I remember thinking: “Is this from the contacts? I mean it had to be, right? One moment I see Ann normal, then I put in some new contacts, and she suddenly goes transparent.”
Ann was starting to panic, asking questions that I vaguely registered to be about burning and blindness. She thought I’d hurt my eyes or something.
I don’t know why I didn’t tell her what I saw. Maybe if I would have said something I could have prevented what was coming.
I saw the alarm in her near see-through face, and I felt the need to reassure her. I’m an only child and I’m hardly eight years older than Ann so it’d be weird to say she’s like a sister or child to me. I don’t really know what it would feel like to have either of those. Still, I’ve always felt a distinctly familial bond with Ann. I don’t want her to worry over me. There’s this unfamiliar feeling of overprotectiveness that settles over me when I can see Ann frazzled. I felt it in this moment. I didn’t tell Ann about her being see-through, but it wasn’t just due to my need to quail Ann’s anxiety.
I also felt, from the pit of my stomach, that I absolutely was not supposed to tell anyone about the strange affect the contacts had on my sight.
Ann was staring at me. I made up something along the lines of: “I just can’t believe I didn’t get scammed. These contacts work great.”
She made that face at me. The one where she scrunches up her nose and her mouth is drawn so tight her lips disappear. It’s her way of calling bullshit, but she didn’t say anything.
“It’s really nothing,” I said. “Just happy I didn’t get scammed.” Her gaze burned, I felt sweat drip down the nape of my neck. I shifted from one foot to the other. “Anyway, you hungry?”
I’d brought some fast food for lunch that day. She smiled brightly as I shared some cold, greasy fries with her. To me, they tasted pretty bad, but I guess it’s good in comparison to the mush she’s used to. I’m not supposed to share food with residents or really give them anything, but I do, and not just Ann.
You might tell me I’m soft, but when a raspy old woman says from death, asks you to snag her some sugar free butterscotch candies… Well, why wouldn’t I say yes? That’s pretty doable as far as last requests go.
So, after lunch, I went back to cleaning. As I did, I noticed that most of the other residents of the death block were in similar states of transparency as Ann.
It all came to a head when I got to the last resident, Mr. Brown. He was a nice old guy who’d been on death block a little over a month. Telling stories was his thing and I enjoyed listening.
Mr. Brown’s room appeared to be empty when I entered.
He’d been in horrid health the day before and when I’d seen the empty bed, I’d thought the worst. I began sweeping the corners until I heard somebody quietly pass gas.
“Sorry, boy,” Mr. Brown’s voice grumbled. “Was trying to hold that in until after you left.”
I looked all around, no one else was in the room.
“Well, if it smells that bad,” my attention was drawn to the bedside chair. There was an indention in the fabric as if someone was sitting there. “No need to look for an exit. Just open the window and come back after.” There was a hacking cough. “After… after it… airs out.”
“Sorry, sir,” I said looking at the chair. “I just didn’t see you there at first.”
He made a noise of understanding. “Yeah, I’m wasting away. My arms ain’t been this skinny since I was a boy.” He coughed again. “Son,” he said shakily. This time when he coughed a spray of mucus red erupted from nowhere and painted the floor. “I think I need a nurse.”
Immediately I hit the button on the side of his bed and then sprinted to the front desk, grabbing the RN who was sitting there filing her nails. Later I would reflect on how every resident I had seen that day were in various stages of transparency, but the nurses all seemed perfectly opaque. I’d think about all that later, but that was the farthest thing from my mind in that moment. Mr. Brown was all I could think about. I dragged the nurse to Mr. Brown’s room, explaining what happened as we went.
When we got there, I could see the man again. He was face down in front of his chair. The nurse asked my assistance in turning him over. As soon as I saw his face, I knew he was gone.
Those eyes weren’t the eyes of Mr. Brown. His eyes were so black that you couldn’t tell the pupil apart from the iris, but they sparkled with mirth. There was a crinkle to the crow’s feet that lay beside them that told a story of Mr. Brown’s life. Of the hardships he had faced and the joy he’d felt in spite of it.
The person in front of me had dull black eyes devoid of even the smallest glimmer and his face was smooth, the wrinkles seemingly taken by death. Several more nurses ran in, pushing me out of the way as they worked to resuscitate him.
I already knew the outcome. Mr. Brown was declared dead at 4:06.
Death isn’t uncommon here, so it’s not like I got to go home early. I finished up my shift and stopped by Ann’s room once again. I told her what had happened with Mr. Brown, leaving out the part where he had been completely invisible.
“I’d give you a h-hug if could-d,” she said. “I know you l-liked him.”
I nodded, not telling her what I was actually concerned about. I nudged her hand with my pinkie, half expected to phase through her, but despite her translucent body, she still felt solid.
“Hang in there,” I told her, not knowing why I’d said that.
When I got home, I investigated my porch, looking for any sign of the delivery man who had dropped off my package. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was expecting to find. An invoice from the Illuminati? But nope, my porch was empty save for a trash bag full of cans I needed to take to the recycling plant.
I checked my PayPal account, but the purchase hadn’t posted. I tried to look for the site I’d purchased the contacts on:
Thealls33ingeye.com
But I couldn’t find even the smallest trace online.
I went to bed with an uneasy feeling.
Over the course of the next two weeks, I continued my routine. Each morning I would stare at my contacts, looking for any abnormalities before sticking them in my eyes.
The residents on death block slowly grew increasingly translucent while the nurses stayed opaque. I realized after the next death, Mrs. Hamilton, what I had suspected from Mr. Brown was true:
The contacts showed me when someone was going to die. The more transparent a person becomes, the closer they are to death.
Mrs. Hamilton was completely invisible the day she died, just as Mr. Brown had been.
I scoured the Internet, even dropping a question on the likes of Quora on if anyone knew about contacts that let you see when someone was going to die, but to no avail.
I don’t know why I received these and honestly, I wish I would have just gone to the eye doctor now.
After another week, watching the residents fade away, I finally told Ann about my contacts.
She was hardly there anymore. Each day since Mrs. Hamilton I’d paid close attention to her health. I’m sure I violated a bunch of HIPPA regulations by going through the nurse’s clipboard, but I was getting anxious.
As far as I could tell, Ann was stable. Her condition was the same as when she’d brought, and she wasn’t complaining of any discomfort.
“A-Are you playing a p-pr-prank?” She asked hesitantly.
I shook my head. “No,” then immediately asked. “Do you believe me?”
She looked away, her eyebrows nearly touching as she furrowed them. “I-I am a woman of sc-science. But you h-have no reason-n to lie.”
She caught me looking at her strange.
“A-am I invisible?”
I lied. “As solid as ever.” I scooted a little closer and took her limp hand into my own. Again, I was surprised that I could even touch her.
She made that face and I’m pretty sure that she knew. Instead of saying anything about it she instead said: “M-Make me a prom-mise.” Not a question.
“Of course,” I said, gripping her hand. I’d heard that tone before. “Just don’t make it sound like a last request.”
“Next-t m-month, the m-meteor shower. C-Come to shady O-oaks? W-Watch it with m-me?”
And I could feel tears stinging at my eyes. When was the last time I’d cried? “Of course. I promise.”
The next day when I went into Ann’s room, pulling a cigarette out of my pocket to share as we did each morning, she wasn’t there.
Grief hit me. It me harder than the day my mom passed, harder than the moment after I was sentenced and realized my youth was gone, harder than anything else I’ve felt in my life. I stumbled backwards, the cigarette box softly landing on the tile floor.
Then I heard her voice call my name. “D-Did you tr-trip?”
And I felt tears rolling down my face.
“Ann!” I shouted. “You’re here?” I practically leapt to the bed in one step. Other than some wrinkles on the sheets, there was hardly any indication that Ann could be there.
“Of c-course.”
I reached forward and felt that, yes, she was there.
“H-hey!” She scolded. “D-don’t mess up-p my hair! If it f-falls in my f-face, how am-m I sup-p-posed to m-move it?”
“Sorry,” I said, still keeping my hand where about the top of her head was. “I just- I thought that…”
“I-It’s o-okay,” she whispered.
And I sat down, lighting up a cigarette as usual. After we’d finished our smoke, I went and grabbed a nurse. I made up some story to him, said that Ann was complaining of a headache, and he sat in the chair beside the bed, taking her vitals and talking to her about a headache she, thankfully, pretended to have.
I left the room trying to convince myself everything would be alright.
But of course, this was useless. I could feel the dread creeping up on me like a spider to a trapped bug.
A little before my lunch break, I heard a commotion. Nurses rushed down the hallway. I followed them, a heavy feeling setting into my stomach.
They went straight to Ann’s room.
When I got to the door, I paused feeling sick to my stomach. There was Ann. She was staring up at the sky with the same smile she wore when I’d shift her bed to look up at the stars. Nurses gathered around her, busting themselves with saving her, but.
I knew what would happen next.
I couldn’t get into her room, the doorframe too crowded, but when I looked, I saw her. Those blue eyes staring up at the sky and there was a smile on her face, as if she could see through the white ceiling and finally gaze at the infinite above.
I spent the rest of the day in a daze.
“Pulmonary Embolism,” that’s what the lead nurse said. “She’d had a blood clot in her leg and it had traveled up to her heart.”
Part of me wanted to get mad. To yell at her, anyone, really, but I didn’t. I just nodded and let this emptiness spread over me.
Ann didn’t have a funeral. Her father had showed up once several days after she passed and rifled through her drawers, looking for anything of value, but Ann didn’t have much. As he was leaving, I was outside smoking. I watched as the first stars of the evening appeared.
This was two weeks ago. I don’t know why I called out to him. I couldn’t even be sure he was Ann’s father. “Where’d you put her?” Is all I asked.
He wheeled around; an upset look on his face. “Are you talking to me?”
I put my cigarette out, taking a step towards the man. “Where’d you put Ann? I’d like to visit her grave.”
He just dogged in response, about to sidestep me, but moved to stay in front of him. “Grave?” He scoffed. “Do you think she left enough to afford that? You want her so bad? Come on!”
I followed the man to his car. I realized I didn’t even know his name. Surely, Ann had mentioned it at some point, but I’d forgotten.
Now didn’t seem like a good time to ask.
After rooting around in the backseat, the man produced a small, silver urn. He shoved it into my chest roughly. It took me a moment to realize he’d just handed me Ann’s ashes.
“Frankly,” he snarled. “I don’t give a fuck what you do with her. I was just going to dump them into the river.”
I clutched the cool metal of the urn to my chest, watching as he backed out.
That night I set Ann beside the end table on the couch. I don’t usually watch the news, but Ann always had me turn the tv on as I left, diligently keeping up with a world she could hardly participate in. “At least I saved you from the ocean?” I whispered. “Figures the girl who loved the stars would be terrified of sea monsters lurking in the depths.”
One of the top stories on our local channel was about the coming meteor shower. Fast approaching, there was going to be a viewing party in the town square with vendors and drinks.
I looked at the urn, remembering my promise to Ann.
“We’ll still watch them together,” I assured.
I almost clicked the tv off as I went to bed, but then I looked at the urn. I knew that Ann was gone, but I’d always left her room dark with the exception of the low glow of her box tv. It didn’t feel right to turn it off now.
That night I slept uneasily, I kept waking up to find my body shaking, sobs wrenching their way out of my throat and my face wet from tears and sweat. The thought that I could have prevented this was prevalent. I kept denying what I saw. If I would have told someone, maybe they would have caught the blood clot before it came free from her leg. Maybe Ann would still be here.
This kept me awake until my alarm clock went off.
Out of habit, I’d hit snooze, but I got up. I went to the bathroom and the person looking back at me from the mirror was a sad sight. He was all puffy eyes and chin stubble.
I’d been wearing the same pair of contacts for about a month and a half. The brand I buy are monthlies, but I usually stretch them out to last at least two months. They weren’t ripped. There was nothing wrong with the contacts; no reason why I shouldn’t wear them, but I dumped them.
When I opened the contact box to get a new pair, I noticed that a scrap of paper at the bottom. I wasn’t sure if it had been there before or not.
I took the paper out and it had a date on it. Nothing more. The date was marked less two weeks away.
Today’s date.
I folded the paper, placing it in the pocket of my scrubs and tore open the new contacts.
At work, I clocked in, gathered my cleaning supplies and cart, and then I went to Ann’s room. I was moving on autopilot, thumbing the cigarette box in my pocket, but then I opened the door to an empty room.
“Oh,” was all I could say.
Still, I went in and sat on her bed. Instead of perching on edge, I lay down. It was uncomfortable. The mattress a little too hard even by my standards, but the pillow was nice. It smelled like cigarettes and the vanilla shampoo Ann used.
I lit a smoke, staring at the popcorn ceiling above. Ann had lain like this for over five years. Sure, sometimes they’d roll her outside if she requested and there was a tv she could see if propped up, but this ceiling… I wondered how many hours she had spent staring up at it.
I don’t know when I fell asleep, but I woke up to the cherry of my cigarette dropping onto my collarbone. I immediately shot up and shouted out a couple profanities, patting out the burning ash.
This attracted the attention of a nurse. The same one I’d asked to watch Ann days prior. When he walked in, I thought I might yell at him, blame him for what happened, but I couldn’t.
It was my fault.
Also, the guy was translucent. He looked about the same as Ann did when I’d first put the contacts in. At this point, I had to be honest with myself about the strange ability the contacts possessed. They let me see when a person was going to die. I don’t know how, but they do.
This man that stood before me, I knew he couldn’t have more than a month left if he was lucky.
“You we’re close to her?” He asked and I could see that look in his eyes. It was the same one I saw in my reflection. He felt guilty.
“Yeah,” I said, taking the ashtray from the drawer in Ann’s nightstand. I snuffed out my cigarette. “You know she could tell you where all the constellations were? Even if she hadn’t been outside in a year, even if it was daytime, she just knew.”
He faltered in the doorway, looking backwards, but then he came inside, shutting the door behind him. He sat on the edge of the bed. He rested his elbows on his lap and tangled his hands into his hair. Suddenly it struck me how young this kid looked. He was broad shouldered, but his face was unlined and youthful. He must have just gotten out of college. For a moment, I thought he was going to cry.
“How,” he asked, voice cracking. “How did you know?”
I stayed quiet.
“She wouldn’t have had a headache from the clot and when you left…” he trailed off. “When you left, she said her head didn’t really hurt. That you were just worried. I got up to leave and then….”
“There was nothing you could have done,” I told him, patting him on the shoulder. And I knew it was true in the same way Ann knew the constellations. “There was nothing you could have done.”
He looked up at me and through his wide eyes I could see the bed and the tile beneath the floor.
“Look,” I said. “Don’t blame yourself for what happened. I think you need to take some time off. Go be with your family; you never know how much time you have left.”
Maybe I should have said more, but those words felt right as they left my throat.
The nurse didn’t smile, but the corners of his lips twitched.
“Anyway, I’ve got to get to work before someone notices how long my break has gone on.” I switched the tv on, out of habit and said: “The morning news should be on in a few minutes.”
Then I went about my day. As I did so, I started to wonder about my new contacts. The reason being that every single soul I encountered was translucent. Every person, regardless of if they were a resident or staff was as see through as the nurse I’d talked with earlier.
I looked at my own hand. I still appeared solid.
Over the course of the week, everyone slowly faded until today. Today when I went to work, I didn’t see a single person. Everyone was there. I heard them, some especially loud nurses chatting excitedly about the meteor shower happening tonight, but none of them were visible.
I did my job as well as I normally do, stopping by Ann’s room at the end of my shift to smoke a cigarette.
When I got off, I went to the grocery store. There were aisles and aisles full of noise, but completely empty. Carts seemed to roll themselves, and bags of chips and cookies floated. The baskets and carts were filled with items like: beer, hotdogs, frozen pizzas, and sandwich meat. As I walked through, I overheard people buzzing with excitement about the meteor shower. Children were excited to break their curfew. Adults were hoping they’d be able to stay awake long enough to see it after a hard day of work. I listened in, feeling as if I was hearing a conversation between ghosts.
When I got to the bread aisle, I noticed an old woman. She was the first person I’d actually seen the entire day.
Without thinking, I approached her.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
She looked up at me with fear candidly shining behind her coke-bottle glasses. I realized that, as a large man who reeks of cigarettes and cleaning chemicals, it’s not exactly socially acceptable for me to suddenly stomp over to an elderly woman and demand things of her.
“Sorry,” I said. “I just thought… um. You look so much like my grandma. I had a long day and well. Sorry.”
The tension in her shoulders relaxed a little.
“You were reaching for this, weren’t you?” I asked as I grabbed one of the loaves from the top shelf for her.
She inspected the best by date carefully and then smiled up at me. “Thank you.” She added the loaf to her basket. “The top shelves always have the freshest food.”
“It’s no problem,” I smiled. She was about to turn away, but I needed to know why I could see her, but no one else. “So, do you- Are you getting ready for the meteor shower party tonight, too?”
She eyed me suspiciously. All I had in my basket was a six pack of cheap beer and some pizza rolls. I don’t know what those items say about me, but for a single man in his late mid-30s, I assume it doesn’t say upstanding citizen. Still, she smiled.
“No, I have to catch a flight in,” she looked at her watch. “An hour and a half. I’m just doing some shopping for my husband.” She jerked her head towards the benches at the front of the store. I saw a cane standing upright. No person was there, nor the clothes of a person, but there was a cane. I nodded in that direction, pretending I could see someone. “He can’t get around as good as he used to, so I wanted to make sure he was okay. It’s my sister’s 60th and we’re all going to Venice.”
I nodded in understanding.
“That old fool,” her eyes sparkled with affection. “He’d try to go out and end up stuck. I’m just making sure he’s set up for the week.”
I helped her carry her things out to the car. Again, I wondered if there was something more that I should say. I wondered if I should tell her about her husband appearing to be invisible. I thought about suggesting that he should go with her.
But it felt wrong.
I drove home, passing cars that had no drivers nor passengers.
Now, I’m at my computer, typing this out. I don’t really know who’s going to read this, but I felt compelled to write it out.
Something is going to happen today. When I turned on the local news, they were talking about tonight’s meteor shower. They had shots of vendors setting up booths and people donning shirts with sparkling stars.
Interestingly, the contacts don’t work over camera. I discovered that even through the lens of my camera, I could see people as they were. Solid.
The news cut to the meteorologist who commented on the meteor story.
“Folks, isn’t it amazing how our atmosphere protects us? If it wasn’t there, the space debris that’s going to create a beautiful light show for us tonight would instead be terrifying. Now, onto the weather.”
And suddenly it clicked. Maybe this wouldn’t be an extinction level event. The little old lady from the grocery store was proof that at least some would survive, but the reason why everyone was invisible wasn’t because these new contacts were different from the last pair. They were still showing me when people were going to die.
It was just that everyone was about to go.
Well, everyone in town at least.
I wondered if there was anything I could do; if there was any warning I could send that would save them… and, well, even if there was a way I could evacuate my whole city, maybe my entire state. Even if people listened to me, the thought of trying to do so left a sour taste in my mouth.
It felt like going against fate.
It’s nearly midnight as I type this out. The meteor shower will start in just a few hours. I could get in my car, pick a direction, and speed away. I might even get away from whatever is coming next.
But I made a promise to Ann.
After I post this, I’m going to take my six pack, place Ann’s urn in the passenger seat of my car, and then drive to Shady Oaks. I’ll sit on the trunk of my car with Ann beside me and we’ll share a cigarette just like we always do.
I’ll look up at the sky, waiting for the meteor shower to start.