Numbers

In the end, what does it mean to be human? Nothing good. Humans are fragile, timid things that hold the capacity to become great, but rarely do people achieve that potential. Their weakness is deep within their heart-- the fear of their own darkness.

 Desperation was liquid fire in her bones, fueling her anger and the need to destroy everything within her grasp. She caught glances of herself in the mirror, and the wild madness sparked fear in her chest—although not nearly enough to extricate the madness. If anything, it exacerbated the situation.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

 She kept up the steady stream of obscenities flowing from her mouth as she picked up a hair dryer and flung it at the wall. The bathroom she had barricaded herself in way decaying anyways, even without her destructive madness. The yellow wallpaper was peeling in the high corners, and tiny cockroaches scrambled across the floor and into tiny nicks behind the toilet. Mildew was spreading on the damp floor and she felt it squelch under her foot. She felt her throat choke up with disgust. Tears welled up in her eyes.

 Heaving herself over the porcelain sink, loud sobs wracked her body, shaking her from the core. Her chest trembled and when she took a steadying breath, her whole body shuddered.

 Her beat up, silver Razor began to vibrate within the sink. She scrambled to grab it and press it to her ear.

            "Shit, Thirteen, where the hell are you? The Numbers are dwindling. Six is down, Five is injured," he rattled off numbers with a fervent whisper, "The Alliance is taking them down one by one. We gotta meet up."

            "How can I trust you," her voice was hoarse, shaking on every syllable, "You have a Number too."

            "Thirteen, darling, they're on your tail. You can't refuse my help." This was true. She ground her teeth and her tongue ran over her dry lips.

            "Don't draw it out, darling. You're in trouble. You need me," he chuckled morbidly.

            "I don't need you," she snarled, yet her heart was ready to break through her ribs.

            "Oh really?" his voice whispered in her ear, his breath hot on her throat. She whipped around,

            "W-When did you--?"

His hands came up and caught her stilettos before they could catch him in the chest. He smiled lazily, spiked white hair touching the ceiling of the room. His other hand tugged at his thin white, collared shirt. A button popped off. His hand wandered down and hung his thumb on his jean's pocket.

            "Well, don't you look ravishing, darling?" She was wearing a skimpy blue dress, a tan braided belt hung loosely on her hips. She pushed him away and backed up against the wall. Whimpering, she said quietly,

            "Shut up, Liam. What can we do? We can't run away."

            "What shall we do indeed," his voice purred.  He grabbed her wrist and flipped it over. The Number 13 was tattooed on the outside of her arm. She squirmed uncomfortably.

            "Do you think this number is lucky, or unlucky?" he muttered to himself.

            "Let's hope for the both of us, that it's lucky."

She eyed him suspiciously.

            "Why'd you come for me, Liam?"

            "Why'd you run away?" he countered. His grey eyes glimmered with pools of hurt. "I thought we were a team."

            "I only slow you down. If they catch you…because of me…"

            "The Alliance is tracking down everyone, regardless of we're together or separate, they'll find us. Our chances are better if we stick together." He had lost the playful timbre to his voice. The words soothed her fear and he put a hand on her shoulder to steady her, sweeping blonde tendrils down her back. She caught a glimpse of the number 7, tattooed on his arm.

            "Seven," she whispered, "Do you think we can do it? We can win?"

Thirteen, the Game is starting.

Our only objective is to stay alive.