I've always seen numbers. No, not phone numbers or street numbers. People's numbers. Everytime I would gaze upon someone, their 8-digit number would display itself upon their forehead. It could not be ignored.
I didn't now what this meant. I would always tell people their numbers, even my family. They would laugh and regard me as a queer child with a liking for sequencing. It never clicked to them, nor to me.
Until Paps died.
He was always very sick, fighting cancer in his lungs. I would always joke with him and tell him that his number was smaller than anybody else's in the family, so that must have meant that he was special. Little did I know. It wasn't until we lowered Paps six feet under that it hit me.
The numbers on his coffin matched the numbers on his forehead.
The digits were dates. Death dates.
What did I do when I found out? I did what any seven year old would do. Tell my mother.
That was mistake number one. She called child services, claiming I was crazy and possessed. I couldn't change being able to see the numbers, and she knew for the longest time that I could see numbers. The only thing that changed was the fear in her eyes. The fear when she saw me.
The fear that I was a monster.
YOU ARE READING
The Numbers Don't Change
Mystery / Thriller"Why are you avoiding me Ria? Look me in the eye and tell me what you see!" I couldn't bring myself to meet his gaze. I know what would be upon his forehead when I look at him. The numbers would be there, etched in red. The numbers that tell more t...
