"You're still on the fastest route", Siri's voice echoes in the silence.
Silence: a rare thing.
Something that doesn't exist, Greyson thinks.
Silence, to him, is just the sound of his tires on the wet tar. It's the white noise on his TV, back at home, when there's nothing to watch.
Nothing: a rare thing.
Something that also doesn't exist, Greyson thinks.
Nothing, to him, is nothing. It's the act of something ceasing to exist, and yet, it's not. Because it's nothing. It's not even something not existing, but it is.
Greyson feels something from his brain fall down his esophagus and land in his chest. His organ thumps. He takes a deep breath but something doesn't come back up and leave through his mouth through misty puffs. Instead, it travels back up into his head, clouding that area instead. Greyson wishes he could rip the cloud maker out and store it somewhere.
Somewhere: a common thing.
A place that I'm going, Greyson thinks.
Greyson wishes he weren't going somewhere. He wishes that the road in front of him would last another thousand miles. He wishes that his head was filled with nothing and the air was filled with silence. He wishes he were driving nowhere.
"You're still on the fastest route", Siri insists, breaking his thoughts.
Thoughts: a common thing.
Something I'm having, Greyson thinks.
Thoughts, to him, are like icicles. They're fragile yet they can pierce through anything. They're clean and transparent at first, yet all melt into a pool of dirty water when the correct heat and pressure are applied. They can be messy but as sharp as ice.
Ice: a common thing.
A silent killer, Greyson thinks.
Ice, to him, is a platform that he crunches under his truck and parks on. The breaks squeal.
"Arrived", screams Siri, through the car speaker.
Greyson's left foot hits the ground and his other quickly follows. The night slaps the car door shut for him. His legs feel like water and there is still something stuck in his head, reining him back. Wind grabs Greyson's ankle and pulls. The tall man flips onto the ice and spits red liquid onto the frozen surface. His stiff hands shake as he pushes up and continues forward. His hair and face grey by the second.
Seconds: rare things.
She doesn't have many left, Greyson thinks.
Seconds, to him, are almost nonexistent. Seconds, to the men in reflective gear pushing on her chest, are almost nonexistent. Seconds, to her, weren't common either. They were high frequencies and blasts of air. They were spinning stars in the sky while she got one last glance at the moon.
Now, seconds, to her, are quite common. Her eyelids shield her beautiful eyes from the dwindling seconds and the fading moon. She feels days pass by while Greyson watches in seconds, alone.
Alone: a common thing.
What I am, I guess, Greyson thinks.
Alone: Greyson.
Alone, to him, is his own reflection in the bloody tar. It's the way he stands while several men zip her up. It's the way something ripples out of his head, finally, in clouds of white, bitter air into an even more bitter night. It wouldn't be alone if it were her. It wouldn't be alone if it were no one. But Greyson is alone, and it is him.
Him: Alone.
Alone: Him.
Him: Alone.
