Living by Numbers

The human heart has four chambers. There are four horsemen of the apocalypse, four gospels, four points of the cross. It is considered as unlucky in Oriental cultures, as it sounds like the word “death”. In the English language, it is the only number with the same number of letters as its value. There are four movements in a symphony, four seasons in a year, four suits of playing cards. It is the smallest prime and the first positive non-Fibonacci number.

Four, eight, twelve, sixteen.

Four. The only thing that makes sense in this mess. My back aches and my eyes sting, but still I stay folded over the table, numbers pouring through my head and rice pouring through my fingers. I am hungry and I am tired, and yet I cannot be sure that I counted right, I cannot be sure that I did not make a mistake, that I am not putting someone’s life at risk through my actions.

Forty eight, fifty two, fifty six, sixty.

I am stuck in this loop, caught in the thick, sinking dread and drowning in the anxiety that fills every tightened muscle, every chewed fingernail, every wrinkle of worry. I have been promised a way out, I have been entranced by the magic pills that they throw at me, by the tricks of the mind that they try to show me, but at the end of the day I know that this is it.

One hundred and twelve, one hundred and sixteen, one hundred and twenty, one hundred and twenty four.

A self pitying sob catches in my throat and I hold my breath, sucking in the toxic thoughts that seep through every pore, the waves of concern that radiate from my frazzled mind, the shards of shattered beliefs and the pungent stench of doubt that surrounds me. I am nothing but a shell, a stage upon which the catastrophes and terrors of the world perform their well-rehearsed dances of despair, and yet still I count, pulling the numbers around me like a safety blanket.

Two hundred and ninety two, two hundred and ninety six, three hundred, three hundred and four.

They want me to let go, to release the last, fraying piece of power that I hold. They tell me that I am not responsible for them all, and show no gratitude for the protection that I offer. They tempt me with tales of unthinking frivolity, they lure me with talk of a future, they entice me with wonderful snippets of a reckless existence, and yet for them I grip tightly, refusing to let go. For them, for their own good, I let the numbers soak through my skin and into my veins, I let the rigid rules dictate the structure of my life. I hear their desperate pleas, and yet still I count.

Three hundred and eighty eight, three hundred and ninety two, three hundred and ninety six, four hundred. There.

And yet still I count.