Submitted for the December 2023 prompt: Treasures, Brightly Wrapped

On the morning I faded, I stared at my translucent hand and swallowed a scream.

I forced myself to look in the mirror and inspected my transparent image, like we were instructed decades ago when the fadings first became accepted as normal. I repeated the refrain we were taught in first grade: fading is nothing more than an alert to an upcoming trip. I just didn’t know where.

 

At the office, my co-workers asked where I was heading. “Visiting your folks?” or “Finally planned that trek into the mountains?” They never seemed to mind how the fading looked. I suspected I had Fading Abhorrent Syndrome, something I’d read about, but never bothered getting a formal diagnosis. When I told my colleagues I had no destination, they scurried back to their desks. My supervisor overheard the exchange and came over to squeeze my hand, telling me not to worry. She just knew everything would be fine.

She could be right. My trip could easily be my sister planning a spur of the moment engagement party, or my friend in Drebay inviting me to housesit.

 

It is common knowledge that the unknown destination of a person experiencing fading is revealed within twenty-four hours of first symptoms. But that day and then a week passed, and I was no closer to knowing. On the bright side, through unavoidable exposure therapy, I was becoming more familiar with how I looked while faded, and my appearance became somewhat tolerable to me.

 

I remained faded for nine days, thus far longer than any known person in our city, a doctor informed me as I sat on the examining table. Just as the doctor was declaring, “Your condition seems indicative of—”, she faded before my eyes. I felt my face grow hot. My fading must be so extraordinary that it had become contagious.

 

A nurse burst in, faded as well, and beckoned the doctor to the lobby. I had nothing to do but follow. Patients and staff were all translucent like me. On the screen above a wall of nutrition pamphlets, the fading broadcaster was saying, “unprecedented” and “not to panic”. The mayor was saying, “We’ll find out what this means together.” She was faded too.

 

Had I caused this? I made a mental list of places to hide in case anyone came after me, somehow the culprit of the citywide fade. But the broadcasters weren’t mentioning a cause, didn’t say my name. They started bandying the word ‘pandemic.’ Maybe I was patient zero, a victim. But since when did we pathologize fading? That ended before I was born.

 

I felt nauseated as I left the doctor’s office, while everyone stood around watching the news. I wasn’t only repelled by my own fade, but other people’s as well. Seeing them en masse? I kept my eyes on the ground, avoiding any public transport. Then the ground beneath me seemed to fade too, blurry and imprecise, but solid nonetheless. I ran the rest of the way to my building, fearing my delirium had made me perceive my whole world as fading.

 

At home in my apartment, I lay on the bed until my neighbor, Allegra, used the spare key to come over unannounced and turned on the news. I sat next to her on the couch, thus far as close as I’d come to a faded person.

 

“Your body predicted this.” Allegra turned away from the TV to glare at me, impressed.

 

There was the faded mayor again, taking questions from faded reporters. The message along the bottom read: Lockdown orders. No one is to leave their home. This was followed by a list of all the other cities that were in lockdown. The screen showed a worldwide map, the bigger cities themselves fading, the blues and greens depicting our land were nearly see-through, as if the map were made of the lightest tracing paper. The mayor declared, “Everyone remain calm and in your homes. Remember, fading is nothing more than an alert. We will confirm the alert shortly and proceed with the next steps.”

 

* * *

In first grade, one of my classmates was going on a trip. Since some of us were unfamiliar with how the fading looked, we had a lesson about breathing deeply and repeating our refrain. To avoid imagining myself ever fading, I raised my hand and asked, “Would the buildings ever fade? The land?” The other kids laughed, pretending the ground was fading beneath them and they could see through to the core of the earth. The teacher smiled and said that was very unlikely. Then she winked at me. I always wondered if I’d really seen that gesture or if I’d made it up. After today, I understood my memory was true.

 

In the weeks that followed that day in the classroom, my teacher praised me and handed me extra stickers and treats, nominated me for classroom awards. I loved her. But on the final day of school, she faded, and I could barely look at her, let alone say goodbye. I never saw her again. When I packed up my cubby hole, I found her note. It read: If the buildings or the land under your feet ever fade, leave. Go as far away as you need to until the fading stops.

 

That night after Allegra left, I packed a small bag and repeated: fading is nothing more than an alert to an upcoming trip. I hoped it would be a good one.