The music swirls, rises and falls, like autumn leaves caught in a cool breeze. On the train platform, the violin player sets the melody free with his callused fingers. Besides the musician, Pete sways and watches the faces of people walking by; concerned, hurried, impatient, stressed. Suckers.
Absorbing every note, Pete runs his fingers over the ridges and patchwork on his face where the acid had made contact. An accident at the chemical plant years back. With a sizeable settlement he could live off for a while, he quit the job. There was no more time for work, or other inconsequential things like relationships, with his newfound ability: invisibility. Sure, the funds dwindled and he had to resort to stealing, but he always remembered that old tale: steal from the rich and give to the poor.
Streetlights illuminate the cars and trains rolling by. Pete surveys the train station. No one stops to listen to the music. He shakes his head. Suckers. He closes his eyes and thinks back on the day's events.
That morning, his stomach rumbled so he stopped at a convenience store to grab a chocolate bar. He was sure he was invisible, having clenched his fists and scrunched his face like so many times before, but the clerk looked right into his eyes, then quickly looked away. Having secured the chocolate in his pocket he stepped out of the store.
“Outta my way, punk.” A big goon plowed into Pete's shoulder, sending him reeling to the ground. The large man looked down at Pete’s face, then his mean mug went blank, like he had seen a ghost, and he hurried down the sidewalk.
Pete got up, brushed himself off, and ducked into the alleyway by the store. Nestled between two grey dumpsters, he saw an old worn pair of boots. He made his way over to the old shoes and got down on one knee.
"Bob, my man. Can you see me?" Pete considered Bob his only real friend. At least he hoped they were friends. It was sometimes hard to tell with street folk.
"I can't see you, man. I can't see you." Bob had a silly grin spread across his face while he clutched a bottle of mouthwash.
"Of course you can't see me, Bob. That's my gift."
Bob jerked the bottle towards Pete.
"You know I don't drink the stuff. I gotta keep a clear mind to pull this off." Pete got up, dusting off his knee.
“I-I can’t see you. I can’t see you, man.” Bob was splayed out on the cardboard floor, laughing. Pete couldn't do anything but smile back at that dirty, rotten, gap-toothed grin.
"I can't see you, man. I can't see you." Bob’s voice and laugh bounced against brick walls as Pete left.
He walked the streets. Then he saw her. She was reading a book at a bus stop. He had been spying on her the last few weeks. She wore tight black pants and a small leather jacket. Her hair was dark, thick, and gently ruffled by the wind. Pete clenched his fists and scrunched his face. He crept up, looking into her big green eyes then down to her lips. A magnetic force pulled him in. Just a little peck. She screamed. Dropped her book. Everyone looked at Pete. He booked it. He ran till he reached the train platform, gasping for air. Right by the violinist.
A train screeches to a halt. Pete opens his eyes. The melody swells, building into a crescendo. There’s a gap in the music, then the violin player drags the bow against the strings: the final note, the big finish. This guy really knows how to play, probably classically trained and all. But the people, they don’t pay attention. They don’t care. No one stops. The violin player starts a new song, getting lost in his art.
At least I can choose to be invisible.
This is my entry for the Fictioneers Writing Contest - Man vs. Society.
A big thank you to the fine folks at the Writers' Block who made excellent editing suggestions to aid this story.