In My Wheelchair, I Am Invisible

In my wheelchair, I am invisible. It's my superpower.

I glide silently down the street in the darkness, my wheels whispering on the asphalt. A pedestrian moves out of my way without making eye contact, or even acknowledging my presence.

Invisibility is a mixed bag as superpowers go, because I can't turn it off.

Carefully, I cross the street. Cars are always a concern.

From an early age children are taught not to stare at people in wheelchairs, and over time the constant reminders flip a switch in their brains.

The alleys and sidewalks are dark. Above, the moon is obscured by quick moving clouds.

Most people are so afraid to offend that they remove us from their perceptions entirely. It's human nature, I guess.

I hear a muffled scream from my right, down one of the alleys. There are no police in sight. I see an emaciated body crouched over a prone form.

Luckily for me, most monsters used to be human, too.

I start down the alley. The monster's glowing green eyes pass over me, oblivious, as I raise the crossbow to my shoulder and take aim.