I can't see myself in the mirror

Magenta Wise wrote this story, included in her 'Kill and Cure' collection, to illustrate how women are viewed in the patriarchy.

"Women have so many talents," says Magenta, "yet all too often are judged by how we look, rendering us invisible, especially as we get older. It also seems relevant regarding the covid virus, and how more isolated we have become as a result. I never thought I would write fiction, but one day I got an idea for a story, then another and so on. They are all in different genres and voices, some uplifting, some challenging, but hopefully all entertaining. In addition, I have published two collections of poems, a book about Archetypes and human consciousness, and I am working on another collection of stories. I use my own artwork for the covers."

Pay a visit to Magenta's author page author.to/MagentaWise

I’m Invisible

I can’t see myself in the mirror. On the occasion when I can get the attention of other people, I ask them if they can see me. They act as if I’m mad and say of course they can see me. But to my eyes, I’m not there. I look and there’s never anyone there. No matter how many times I peer and squint into the glass, whatever time of day it is, or the size, angle and location of the mirror, I see nothing but my surroundings. I’ve tried wearing different outfits, dresses, jeans, different coloured tops, but it makes no difference. As I’m told I do have a reflection, I suppose I’m not a vampire. I don’t feel like a vampire, I’m not one of those people who fantasises about them and wants to fall in love with one and drink blood and become one. In fact, I find all that kind of thing distasteful, and of course other people say they can see my reflection, so I’m definitely not a vampire. What am I though? Most of the time I’m invisible.

Sometimes I don’t care, but at other times I have what you could call a panic attack. I feel so scared, I want to cry and shout and scream, but I can’t catch enough breath and the sound of my thumping heart would probably drown me out anyway. You see, in spite of what people say, I’m not entirely convinced I’m actually here. I know that sounds insane, but for years now I’ve noticed that people ignore me. It really is as if they can’t see me. I can be standing in a shop waiting to be served and the sales assistants always attend to other people and leave me standing there. The other customers don’t seem to see me either. It’s the same in restaurants, I seat myself at a table and the waiters take orders from people at other tables and don’t notice me. In the past I would shout really loud to get attention, and so I must become visible when I try really hard, but these days I avoid going anywhere that necessitates other people seeing me. It’s too much like hard work. I’d probably have starved to death if it weren’t for those serve-yourself tills. I can go round the shop, whisk the barcodes through, enter my money or credit card, pack and leave without the stress of having to make myself seen.

I’ve always been like this. I was not what you would call a pretty child, with my mousy thin hair, small brown eyes and skinny body. The cute girls got all the attention, particularly the blonde blue-eyed ones who knew they were pretty because people were always telling them so. I noticed how they made the most of it and got more attention as a result. I wonder if they’re invisible too now, or have they retained some visible glamour? I had no choice but to fade into the background because I was so plain and uninteresting. My brain and any talents I might have never got a chance to develop because no one saw enough of me to care. Sad to say, I was not a late developer. I remained thin, mousy and uninteresting all through my teens and into adulthood.

Now I’m getting older I’m fading much more. Men had never found me attractive, so I didn’t get married and have children. The office work I did before I retired demanded little interaction with other people. They treated me like a machine, depositing piles of paper on my desk as they passed by, without so much as the minimum greeting, never mind a please or a thank you.

A few weeks ago I had one of my attacks in the street. It was not far from where I live and a neighbour actually saw me and took me to the local doctor. It was a pointless exercise, he wanted me to go on some kind of pills but unless they were magic make-me-visible pills, I didn’t think they’d do me any good. I thought the sleeping pills might come in handy though. There were years when I scrimped and saved every penny I had, which wasn’t very much because the rent, bills and food used up a big chink of my wages. Even so, I managed to accrue a decent amount, but it was never enough. I wanted cosmetic surgery, you see. I was sure it would help me to be seen. I wanted breast implants, a bit taken off my nose and my eyes widened. I have nice legs which I keep covered most of the time, but I intended to bring them out of hiding when I was glamorous. I dreamed of having a makeover once all the swelling had gone down and learn to apply makeup and get my hair dyed blond and permed to give it more volume. That’s a lost dream, and I’m worse off now than before as far as being invisible is concerned.

I can’t be bothered to look after myself at all. I stopped caring once I no longer had to go to work. The flat was a mess, which didn’t matter, seeing as no one ever visited me. I have no friends and I can’t blame people for not wanting to know me. Who wants to be seen with someone who’s invisible? Haha. That’s funny. It amuses me. I barely bother to eat anymore, I have no appetite. I have the occasional shower, I haven’t lost all my self-respect quite yet. During the last few weeks I’ve been getting everything in order. I’ve had a clear out, I’m getting rid of almost everything I own and I’ve made a will, which is with a solicitor. You may wonder, what does someone like me have that’s of any value to anyone. Well let me tell you, you may not be able to see me now, but you will come to know me very well once I’m gone altogether. You will wish you had known me and will yearn to see me.

This is because I have a secret. For years I’ve been writing novels and short stories and they’re very good. I might go as far as to say they’re a works of genius. Before you decide I’m delusional, let me tell you that I belong to several online writers’ groups and I’ve had superb feedback, and no, they weren’t just being nice. I’ve been approached by three different agents, all begging to represent me, with publishers lined up ready for a bidding war. I’m told that hundreds of thousands of pounds will be involved. Why don’t I grasp the opportunity you may ask? Well these days it’s not just about the work, it’s also about the author. They would want me to have my photograph taken and do book tours, signings and appear on radio and television. Once they see how insignificant I am, if they can see me at all, they’ll either drop me or try persuade me to allow someone else to pretend to be me. Someone young and attractive. They play these tricks. They’re only interested in money and exploiting people.

So I’ve decided to leave my work to a local animal sanctuary because I think that animals are so much nicer than people. Those who run it do such good work and are always struggling to keep going. My bequest will allow them to expand and to keep going for a long time. Along with my will, I’ve deposited my manuscripts and the letters from the agents to prove that my work is valuable. I know they’ll make a fortune. These will be handed over to the sanctuary on my demise. I’ve also written to the agents informing them of the whereabouts of my work. It’s up to the sanctuary which one they choose.

My being dead will fuel curiosity and make my work increasingly precious, as there won’t be any more. Artists are always worth more dead than alive. There will be no photographs of me, nothing at all to indicate who I was. I’ll be the mysterious woman who kept her gift under wraps and left no trace of herself, other than her name. It pleases me to think of other creatures benefiting from my slight presence here, only possible because I wasn’t born pretty.

I’ve had my shower and soon I’ll be ready. Most things are packed up and ready to go to charity. A van is coming today to collect the furniture and the few other pieces I own. The rest has gone in the bin. I’ve sent a letter to my doctor, the police and my solicitor, instructing them to come to my flat tomorrow with the greatest urgency. I mean to keep unpleasantness to a minimum. I do hate maggots and flies. All that is left is my bed, a pretty nightdress which I bought specially for tonight, a glass of water and the pills.