Being invisible was awkward.

There are some who might revel in being unseen. They could – and most likely would – sneak around into places they really shouldn't go. Vaults. Bedrooms. Bathrooms. They could – and to be sure, would – move things around, such as hairbrushes or food, to confuse, burying their mouths in their arms to try and muffle the sniggers that would build like bubbles in their mouth, desperate to pop in a burst of laughter.

They could – and some probably would – kill. When no one can see you commit a crime, isn't the temptation almost unbearable to do just that? But stealing some money, spying and petty crimes such as those are nothing when compared to taking a life. Whether that life belongs to an animal or a person, murder is murder.

Slipping a knife in to see how it feels when it slices through flesh into the juicy organs beneath. It quite makes you lick your lips, doesn't it?

If one were the sort to enjoy such things, of course.

He wasn't. The thought tempted him, but only for a second, as it would perhaps anyone. Then he shuddered and tried to refrain from vomiting. He wasn't a killer. Far from it. He was timid. He suffered from almost crippling social anxiety that made him close to being a recluse. When he was around other people, he felt like an outsider. He didn't know what to say. Felt isolated even in a room full of people. Felt ignored.

But he had a heart. His heart was as big as a Lig, the lemon nosed variety. Ligs lived in the swamps just north of... well... everywhere. They were huge, monstrous looking creatures that lumbered along slowly, struggling to control their immense mass. If one should become unsteady on its five legs, it could easily fall and, being far too heavy to either get up itself or be helped up by other Ligs, it would have to be left there. As Ligs needed only a little sustenance to feed their overly large bodies, due to metabolisms that crawled slower than they could walk it took a Lig a long time to die. It took less time for the other swap dwelling animals to decide the incapacitated Lig was a source of food.

This was why, it's believed, legends told that the swamps were haunted. It was actually the plaintive cry of fallen Ligs, waiting to die.

Timid but friendly, he would make small talk. He'd try to join in. No-one particularly ignored him, but he was so shy of interaction. They had their cliques. He'd left it too late to be a part of one. He was, effectively, invisible.

Once, there was a party. It was boisterous to the point it made it look like the hall they were in was shaking enough to dance also. He was standing in a corner, sipping his drink, watching the ripples on the surface recede. Wishing he could disappear along with them.

"Hey," said a voice.

He looked around, surprised. Someone had spoken to him? Really? Did they realise who they were speaking to? He was a shadow that existed only in the spaces between people's attention.

"Hello," he responded.

She was tall. Slender. A thick, swept back mane of silver hair that seemed to shine even in the subdued party lighting. Her eyes were large and they seemed to draw him in, growing the longer he stared. She had a small, pointed nose atop perfectly carved lips.

He felt as if he died a little inside at the thought that this breath-taking woman would forever be beyond his reach.

"You've got the right idea," she said smiling.

"How so?"

"Hiding out over here." She joined him against the wall, leaning next to him. "I don't blame you."

Say something funny. Intelligent. Suave.

"Yeah."

OK, don't.

He stood even more awkwardly, her proximity making a swell of tension move across his body leaving him struggling to contain the urge to bolt. He could smell her. He wanted to continuously breath in without having the need to exhale. He was suddenly greedy for her odour. There was nothing extraordinary about it, but it had an earthy tone that seemed to give him support for the inner turmoil he was constantly battling with. The more he breathed in, the less exposed and intimidated he felt.

He knew who she was, then. What she was. He knew he should leave and quickly. He should warn the others.

But he couldn't.

She was an If. When he looked sideways at her, he could see the traditional signs. The way her eyes, though primarily round and inviting, sharpened at either side. He could see the slight upturn at the end of her nose and the even slighter way her cheeks dimpled when she smiled.

As she was, looking at him looking at her.

There were few beings more dangerous than an If.

They seemed innocent and that was, perhaps, the worst part. You didn't notice the fury inside. You didn't see the facial traits that all of their kind had, not until you were intoxicated. Not until you were won over, as everyone was in a heartbeat.

Not until it was too late.

He didn't believe he was under her spell. He'd only heard the stories. He thought you would be fawning around them or hanging on every word as if to let go would have you falling to your doom, though you were doomed as soon as they spoke. He felt himself, apart from the way she being so close to him was giving him strength.

"Are you feeling alright?"

Was he? He wasn't sure. He felt as if he could walk into the crowd and actually start interacting. Speak to someone. Not have them ignore him and maybe even be interested in what he was saying. Laugh at one of his jokes. He felt empowered. But that wasn't him. He was the shadow in the corner that everyone ignored. Looked past and through.

"I don't know," he said, quietly.

The If held up her hand and moved to touch his shoulder. In his mind, the world slowed down. He saw the hand, fingers devoid of knuckles, nails so pale and translucent they almost didn't exist and fingerprints a fractal that sucked you in if you stared for too long, move with a sort of glow trailing after.

He knew what that glow was.

He didn't want that glow to touch him.

Before contact could be made, he stepped forward.

The If froze and everything appeared to return to its normal speed. She stared at him, fear darkening her features.

"You!" she exclaimed. "You're a..."

She didn't finish. She backed away from him as he took an uncertain step towards her. The wall stopped her retreat.

"What?" he asked suspiciously. Never trust an If. Never. "I'm nothing and nobody. But you! You're an IF!"

He hissed the last word to avoid being overheard. It would cause a panic. He wasn't confident enough to be the centre of attention for whatever reason.

He took a step. He didn't even notice his feet had moved.

"Get away!"

"What are you afraid of? You're an If! We should be scared of you!"

"Get away from me!"

Again, his feet had taken him closer.

"Tell me!"

Ifs were stealthy. They slid up to you. Enveloped you with a yearning for nothing in particular. A need for something though it could never be voiced. They were silent and sneaky, only ever exposing themselves to their victims. Once you were in the presence of one, it was unlikely you'd be heard of again. If you were found alive you would be incoherent, mumbling nonsense. If you were found but not alive... It was unclear why they would only consume that part of the body.

One

More

Step

The If reacted. Her hands were brought up and slammed together, the palms connecting loudly. It was less a clap and more an explosion of skin on skin.

There was another explosion then. One of searingly bright light that seemed to pierce the eyes of everyone about. It was quickly followed by a blast that expelled the blaze with a complete absence of light. The abrupt change felt as if everything had suddenly ended. Sound. Sight. Sensation. All had ceased in an instant.

Existence seeped into the building, cautious as if stepping over a rubble strewn battleground. It expanded, filling everywhere with colour. And death. No, not filling. Not bringing. It was showing. It was revealing what the If had done.

The bodies lay where they had fallen. Drinks were spilled. Glasses were shattered. An eye was punctured by the stem of a wine goblet. A couple were still wrapped in each other's arms, their gaze devoid of the love it had held moments before.

The If lay among them. In death, she was a grey husk, the spells that gave them their particular appearance failed. Her skin was cracked. Her hair black with a pure white streak running from down the left side. Her eyes still kept their shape, but they were no longer pools that you would wish to dive into. They were dull. Empty. Dead.

A voice in the carnage.

"Hello?"