Page 6 of Seeing Grayscale

Voices are an illusion in a world where currency is the only agency. Power is forged by blue-blooded individuals with wallets deep enough to build the tallest towers so the stink of the underground doesn’t reach their windows.

I think the only reason I can see this smoke show is because I’m casting a version of my own.

I don’t necessarilywantto go into politics, but the more I see, the more my eyes open, I wonder if it’s the right choice. The poison dripping down from those ivory pillars is rapidly choking the life out of everything and everyone. I’m one person, one man, but what would happen if I could rock the boat?

It’s stupid even to consider.

I can’t even rock the boat within my own family, let alone an entire state. That vastness is too wild to comprehend.

Driving through a particularly poor part of town, I spot countless people needing hope—something to cling to. There’s a dark cloud of exhaustion hovering over everyone; at least, that’s how I’m viewing it now that I’m out of the sunlight. I keep thinking about the gas station on 2nd Street. I keep thinking about the kid with that limp.

Did he take the money?

Did he get somewhere safe?

Maybe I should’ve given him more.

I tried to spot any signs of a hangover or the glossy eyes of an addict. Not that it should count against him. Not that it should take away his worth as a living person needing somewhere soft to lay his head. I grip my steering wheel tighter, frustrated I even have this line of thinking.

Am I like my dad? Worse?

How do you separate the fallen apple from the tree? Is there even an analogy for that case? Does my father’s approval outshine the raw truth staring me in the face?

I don’t know what I expect to find when I pull into the gas station and park my car. The kid didn’t trust me, which I can’t fault him for. On the off chance he took the money, I hope wherever he is, he’s safe, at least for a while.

Scanning the people moving in and out of the convenience store, I sag against the leather seat, scrubbing a hand down my face. It took over two hours to get here, and I’ve waited a few days in hopes that I could put those glacial blue eyes out of my head.

I can’t.

Was it his dirty clothes? The holes in his shoes? Or was it the knife he held in his fist, ready to cut me if I got too close? If there is a reason at all, I can’t place my finger on it. This fascination—intrigue—has a mind all its own, and I’m following the gut instinct that's telling me I will find him right where I left him.

Fuck it.

I grab my peacoat off the passenger seat and sling it on before leaving my car.

It’s colder this evening; the snip of the wind feels like tiny pinpricks against my cheeks. Popping the collar up to block some of it from going down my neck, I slide my hands in my pockets and round the store. I purposefully walk louder so I don’t sneak up on him. Somehow, I know he is there. It’s a sensation I can’t ignore any longer.

If he needs more cash, I have it. I made sure to bring more.

If he needs help finding a place, I can help him. After I left him a few days ago, I hadn’t considered just how many hotels require some form of ID or credit card. Does he even have identification?

Grinding my teeth, I catch sight of the dumpster and a single socked foot poking out. Slowing my pace but making no less noise, I approach. The breath clogs in my lungs as I try to keepmy expression neutral. It’s not possible for longer than three seconds.

The kid is slumped over, one of his eyes is swollen shut, and he's missing the few things he had with him last time: no backpack, shoes, or jacket.

A shallow breath leaves his lips as he slowly squints up at me. “Fuck off,” he croaks before trembling.

My coat is already off my shoulders when I crouch before him. I offer it to him, but he shakes his head. “Please. It’s forty degrees out and only getting colder.”

At this level, I spot the dark stain on the ass of his jeans. Maybe he sat in something… “I saidfuck off!”

I reel back, knowing I should do just that. Without his jacket, though, I see just how thin he is. Tattoos cover his left arm and the top of his hand. A large hoop that I don’t know the name of hangs from his nose and that bleach-blonde hair is tinged pink on the left side of his scalp.

“I want to help you,” I say, softening my voice.

“No, you fucking don’t,” he growls, folding in on himself, toes curling in his socks. He winces, clearly in pain, and continues, “You are a fucking stalker, is what you are. Whatever debt you think I owe you ain’t happening. I don’t have anythingleft.”

He pants through his anger, the cold making him shiver uncontrollably despite the sweat clinging to his forehead. “At least take the jacket,” I try again.

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