I used to think of myself as the original Invisible Woman. I was like water or wind; by the time anyone noticed me, I was long gone. Like water or wind, I kept moving.
Did you ever see the Visible Woman that used to be in the biology textbooks? She was made of pages of clear plastic, with a different part of the anatomy on each page.
First, you’d see a picture of a naked woman, hands open at her sides, a blank look on her face. You’d turn a page, and her skin would be gone; she was stripped down to red muscle fibers and purplish organs. You’d peel back page after page of muscles, organs, blood vessels, nerves, until you were down to nothing but bones. I liked to flip the pages back and forth: now you see her, now you don’t. There she is, there she isn’t.
Those clear plastic pages with the colorful pictures are like my memories. If I can remember enough, I think I can bring my body back. If I can bring my body back, I can be my invisible self again, and I’ll be able to walk away from here.
I know my courage is hidden in my memories somewhere.