A Life Transparent Read Online Free PDF

then vanishing entirely for an instant before reappearing as solid matter.
    Donovan pushed open the shower door and returned to the mirror, staring in abject horror as his own reflection dimmed and faded.
    “Donna,” he muttered. It was low at first, then grew to a trembling plea. “
Donna!
”
    He staggered down the hall, leaving a trail of damp carpet in his wake. The alarm clock on the nightstand read 6:40—just five minutes shy of Donna’s alarm.
    “Honey.”
    She stirred beneath the blankets. Frightened, Donovan’s eyes darted between his fading self and his sleeping wife. Beads of water rolled down his forehead and fell to the floor.
    “Donna?” He nudged one of her exposed feet.
    She grunted. “What, Don?”
    “Honey, there’s something wrong. I—”
    Donna sat up, squinting at him. “Where’re your clothes?”
    Her question seemed strange to him. What did it matter where his clothes were? He stared at her, held out his fading, flickering hands, and frowned. Water dripped onto the bed.
    “I was in the shower, and—”
    “And you’re still wet. You’re dripping all over the floor, Don. Go get a towel. Jeez.”
    Donna pulled back the blankets and gasped when her feet met damp carpet. She glared at him. He stood there, naked and soaked, with both hands held out in a gesture of confused apology. His stomach lurched again as his skin flickered into a transparent state.
    “Don’t you see this?”
    She looked at him, groggy-eyed and puzzled. “See what?”
    “
This!
” He held out his arms. The pull in his abdomen settled down. His skin returned to normal, as if to mock him.
    Donna covered a yawn. He watched her in disbelief. How could she not see? Was this some sort of weird head game, a throwback to their previous evening’s argument? No, he realized, that couldn’t be it. They’d known each other for too long to sink to such petty levels. Besides, he knew she loved him too much to ignore something as serious as this.
    “I
see
you making a mess I’ll have to clean up. And,” she fought back another yawn, “I
see
that if I don’t get some coffee soon, I’m going to bite off your head.”
    Donna pushed past him, uttered a small sigh when she saw the soaked trail to the bathroom, and went downstairs to the kitchen. Donovan stared at his hands again and flinched as his flesh began to deteriorate once more.
    I have to be dreaming
, he thought.
I have to be—
    The second alarm startled him. He reached over, turned it off, and fanned out his fingers. They were there, and yet they weren’t, fading from opaque to translucent, from flesh to nothing and back again.
    You ain’t dreamin, hoss.
Hopper again. He cursed his imagination for breeding a Southern detective, and cursed himself for letting the character become the voice of his inner monologue.
    More water dripped from his arm. He regarded his hands once more with caution before retreating to the bathroom for a towel.
    •  •  •
     
    After a couple of ill-fated attempts, he decided to skip shaving. His flesh vanished every time he began to drag the blade across his face. The last thing he wanted was to misjudge and leave a large, unshaven patch of hair across his chin—or worse, to slit his own throat. Getting dressed was just as difficult. His leg would waver, dim, and vanish each time he tried to put on his trousers. Once clothed, he found his shirt and pants flickered along with the rest of him.
    When he finally made it downstairs, Donna watched him with mild irritation. An empty bowl sat before his place at the table along with a box of cereal. On most mornings he ventured downstairs to find a hot breakfast waiting for him. Today he took the hint. She was still angry, but for God’s sake, couldn’t she see what was happening to him?
    Donovan ate his cereal in silence. Mr. Precious Paws traveled into the kitchen and sat at his feet. The cat looked up at him with wide eyes, ears perked with attentive curiosity. When Donovan lifted