Sometimes, when the silence stretched on for too long, the whispers of conversation that only he could hear would grow louder. They would be interrupted by his numbers, fired off in his head with a desperate ferocity. They would be non-sequential nonsense, just words he pulled from the whiteness to fill the space, to keep out what would otherwise be there. Numbers were impartial and had no deeper meaning. They were intangible and only represented something that had been created by man. They couldn't connect to some distant metaphor like real nouns could. Four. Six. Two thousand and seven. A long and lonely night--a hundred. Thirty-nine. Forty. Ninety-nine. Three hundred. A voice on the wind, breaking his silence.
The hybrid flinched for one reason or another, and it was followed by a shiver and a shudder. He didn't turn in the direction the voice had come. He didn't pretend he could see him. He didn't breathe in the scent. He didn't try to analyze the tone or the voice itself, didn't try to see if he knew the person that was there. He stared straight towards oblivion and thought about not replying, thought about more numbers and silence and the snow. But his slim jaw parted and a voice came out, rough and monotone. Do I,
he felt his throat vibrate, I've got no one to wait for.