Sunlight streams through the window, unfazed by the patterned curtain that hangs in its way, and settles calmly on my face. I open my eyes. Some birds outside take up a song, singing sweetly and softly like they hadn't a hope in the world. I envy them; they probably didn't. None the less, I lie there a while, imagining so hard that I was part of this beautiful melody that I almost grew wings and fluttered out. Out into the free world. I would stand, perched on a branch, tweeting my heart out with such power, not thinking about the joy I brought to people in the morning. I would be next to another bird just like me. I would live a care free life in the clear blue sky. But I'm not a bird, and so I turn onto my side to see my wife, angelically asleep, a glistening number three hovering above her silky dark hair. My lips naturally stretch into a smile, and carefully, so as to not wake her, I ease myself out of bed. Glancing up at the clock, I see that it is half past eight. Half past eight! Rapidly, I shove on a short sleeved shirt and trousers, check up on my snoring one-year-old son (with a number one hovering above his head), gulp down a banana, and set off, into the sunlight.
My name is Michael, I am thirty three years old. I have lived in Manchester all my life, and as I drive across the familiar streets I spot the old lady who goes shopping every Monday with a number one above her head. The man who walks his dog is catching up with his bounding joy. He has a number five above his laughing face. The corner shop is just opening up as usual: the guy changing the sign with an unshaved beard and scruffy hair and clothes has a number six between his upstretched arms. I sigh. I love my home. Who wouldn't? A quick look at my wristwatch informs me that I should be in the office by now, so I swerve into a free parking space and run into the building I work in. The elevator is busy, so I fly up the stairs before reaching my office and collapsing on my chair. When I have enough breath back, I pant to my fellow office workers with a cheesy smile:
"I was – here – all along."
"Yeah right," Emily mutters back (a four bobbing above her forehead), "you should be glad the boss hasn't showed up yet either."
As if on cue, Mr Grey (as we call him) sweeps into the room, his seven flying to keep up. His stony eyes scan the room, searching for one out of place object or dusty desk. His grey suit stays immaculate as he punches a pillow in search of dust – without success.
"Hm," he says under his breath after failing to spot anything out of order. Mr Grey does this every time, so by now everyone is used to these spot-checks in the mornings. Clearly satisfied now, he congratulates everyone on their hard work, and practically skips out of the classroom.
"Well done everyone-like you guys do any work AT ALL," Emily fumes, smoke practically billowing out of her ears. In fairness to her, she does do all the work, and she stays back every day specially to clean after us. I feel guilty I guess, but to be honest, I've got too much work to do. And personally, I'd rather be watching Star Wars with my wife than cleaning gum off the desks.
The day drags. The minutes feel more like hours, days, even years! My mind can't help wondering off to an ideal Monday, where I wouldn't have any work, and I'd give my toddler a chance to grow up with his dad. Tediously, I type out letter after letter after letter, until it all becomes a block of fuzz on a screen. 12'o clock. Woohoo! Lunchtime. Like everyone else, I get up, chuck my chair under my desk, and catch the elevator down to lunch. John (a five), my colleague, gets in with me, laughing at my eagerness to have food.
"What?" I say in protest, but I laugh too. Together, we step out into the sunshine, where a few people sit on benches to eat. Clusters of people hang around, catching up on the silence that had preceded. Me and John joke about Mr Grey, a typical source of laughter. Apparently today he stormed into John's office, red in the face, yelling about a late worker. The thing was, he had read the wrong name, and the worker was in fact on time. What was even funnier was Mr Grey's reaction: he went purple, coughed awkwardly, and walked out of the room, muttering about how he would never set foot in the office again. By the time John had finished explaining everything, I was dying of laughter (it was all too easy to imagine). Finding our usual bench, and spot Dave (a four) who had saved me a seat next to him, so I sit next to him. John follows closely behind, and we all begin eating, complaining about work and the struggles of having Mr Grey as a boss. That is, until I catch sight of Bob, the clown of this office.
"Hey," I nudge David, "look at what Bob's wearing." He has a three above his head, and today he's wearing a bright pink tutu with sunglasses and a shirt on. As each person sees him, they burst out laughing, and soon the garden is filled with the noise. High pitched, low pitched, all sounds mingling together. 1 o'clock, screams my watch. Wearily, we all trudge upstairs. It looks like it's going to be a long day.
After hours of work, I sit in my car, relishing the taste freedom after a day of torture. The sun is sinking slowly but surely, inching its way down below. It will be the sunset soon. Driving home at seven after work, I feel that the streets are emptier, the cars less and the people few and far between. Because of this, I reach home in less than the time it takes me to get to work in the morning. As soon as I turn the engine off, silence hits me like a slap in the face. One that I've gotten used to quite a lot. I step out, inhaling the fresh breeze, and I unlock the front door. The soft aroma of strawberries wafts up to me, and I know instantly that it's my wife. She smiles, her dimples beautiful on her face.
"Hey," she says. I walk across the hallway to our living room, and sag onto a sofa. She settles on one opposite.
"Hey," I reply
"How was work?"
"It was work I guess. Boring." She chuckles slightly at this.
"As per usual then. Do you want something to eat?" Knowing the answer already, she rises, and within five minutes I have a steaming plate of chicken on my lap and another on hers. It is so nice to have something hot after surviving on snacks for the past ten or so hours. Clearing my plate in a whizz, we talk, exchanging jokes and laughs, serious looks and funny faces. All of a sudden, she gasps, and exclaims:
"I almost forgot! Tommy took his first steps today!" I reflect her beam.
"That's great! How could you have forgotten that though, that's what I want to know?" We laugh a little together, before switching on the TV to watch Star Wars. Old, I know, but still great.
Utter darkness fills the bedroom, yet I still can't get to sleep. Unintentionally, my mind drifts off to the numbers I encounter every day. You see, I'm not normal. The numbers I see are invisible to everyone else. But they have a meaning. And this meaning can change people's lives. They determine how dangerous someone is, with a scale reading from one to ten, one being harmless, and ten being extremely unsafe. These numbers can change as you grow or change. For example, my toddler is at a one, whereas my boss is at a seven. One of the reasons I chose my wife was because she has an unusually low number for her age, a 3, and all my friends have numbers 5 and below. I guess this is a gift, but I have no idea where it came from, or if it will ever go. As the night settles across the land, I relax, and let the soft breathing of my wife lull me to sleep.
The morning dawns a little too early for my liking, and, yawning, I make my way to the office and slump onto my seat. Emily gives me a look, as if to say 'like you have a reason to be tired'. I give her a smirk in return. Logging in, we all await Mr Grey, knowing he would come any minute now, and quietly get on with our work. Minutes pass, then half an hour. We all glance quizzically at each other; it's not like the boss to be late. In fact, I doubt he ever was, in his entire lifetime. 10:45. A colleague breaks the silence, asking the question that was in all of our brains:
"Where is he?"
When no one answers (there isn't an answer to give), we all go back to our work, and the silence stretches on. I had begun to think that something had happened to him, when he finally marches through the door, the seven glowing bright above his head. And behind him, a man walks in, his hands clenched around a suitcase similar to the one I have. I look instinctively to the top of his head, and my heart skips a beat. Mr Grey introduces him to us, saying how he is the new guy here in this office, and that his name is William, and that we should teach him EVERYTHING about staying neat and tidy. Typical. And yet...
As Mr Grey leaves, everyone greets him and tells him about the office. John offers to show him around, and he agrees. No one seems to notice... but I guess they shouldn't. They can't. That doesn't make me any less uneasy, but even more so. BRIIIIING! There goes the lunch bell. As Will (which is what everyone is calling him) walks out, smiling, I try to find something bad in him, but I just can't. He seems normal, happy; just a new guy. A new guy... with no number.
~~~
Here's the first chapter for you all! Hope you like it. Critiques are always appreciated, as are comments and votes!
YOU ARE READING
No Number
Horror' You see, I'm not normal. The numbers I see are invisible to everyone else. But they have a meaning. And this meaning can change people's lives.' ~~~ Me...
