They call me in different names— weirdo, lunatic, psycho... When the truth is, I'm just obsessed with numbers. While most students despise Algebra and Calculus, it is the other way around for me. I appreciate how I could easily solve a complex problem and arrive with the simplest solution. While the others would knock their brains out just to pass in those subjects, I could effortlessly excel in class as formulas are like the back of my hand.
I'm not bragging, but I must admit that numbers are the only thing that matters to me. While the others would say that grades are just numbers, I oppose. As for me grades is the summary of how you performed well in school.
I also have this fascination with anything that links to one, first, or any description for being the topmost among all. For this I believe, everything is all about numbers.
When I won first place in brain master, there are numbers in scores.
When I graduated as top 1 in class, there are numbers in the overall grade.
Whenever I count my certificates and plaques of achievements, there are numbers of awards.
You see? Numbers value so much. And here's the catch— you can be best or be nothing. That's the golden rule. No one will remember the third or second's best, it's always the first or the winner who matters. Because numbers listed after one are irrelevant. They are easily forgotten.
Waving her hand in front of my face, she successfully caught my attention. I raised my head and looked to her direction.
She grunted.
Well..guess I space out again. Didn't I?
She cleared her throat. Her lips in thin line maintaining a calm posture despite my lack of interest.
"Now that you've finally come to your senses, please honestly tell me who you are." Her eyes are carefully observing my every move.
"I'm Beatrice Hatton. 23 years old. I'm a professor in a prestigious university with a degree in mathematics and I'm currently living alone in my apartment. Surely, this discussion will bore me. If you'd like, we can talk about derivatives, theorem, statistics, integral, instead? So we could predict what lead us to hypothesize this impossible occurrence of my mental instability and plot the arithmetic sequence of your pointless interrogation regarding my identity? What can you say about that, doctor?" I frankly said.
Mrs. Graham— my 53 years old psychologist, looking disappointed, shooked her head.
She sighed heavily.
"This is not working. We've been doing this for a year already, and I didn't saw any progress, Lily— Beatrice! Whoever you are. We kept on running in circles over and over again!" she blurted in frustration.
"How long is that circles' diameter that it took us a year to jog?—"
"No! You can't use your sarcastic-math-wizard card defying my humble observation right now," she ranted.
I simply smiled.
"But what do you want me to do?"
"Bring me back Lily. Lily Samson. The sweet girl," she commanded.
I shooked my head.
"No! No! She's too weak for this. She needs to stay quiet. She needs me," I said convincingly.
"Beatrice, let me remind you, Lily needs saving. She isn't weak. She just needs to heal. Aren't you going to help her? Will you let her fade away?"
"If only I could do that! That girl is naïve and oh God, I hate how she always fail her math exams!" I blurted out almost hysterical.
Mrs. Graham remains composed.
