A Numbers Game

Chapter 8

Okay so. I had lots of fun writing this chapter and tried hard to make it accurately reperesent how my characters would act.
How am I doing? Are you enjoying the story as much as I am? Some feedback please! ~Lots of love, BB

Carter doesn't look over at me, doesn't make a sound, doesn't react in anyway.

He just waits for an opening in the road to slow and pulls over to the side. I clench my jaw in anticipation. When he does set his eyes on me, they are surprisingly clear.

"What now?" He asks almost disinterested. My body warms with a mix of frustration and nervousness. I clear my throat and straighten in an attempt to look more serious.

"I see numbers above everyones head-one through ten. I always have and no one can tell me why and I...I believe its an indication of...how precarious they are. " I try to say as steadily and confident as I can. He blinks.

"Uh huh. And I'm see percents over my food telling me my chance of getting food poisoning." A familiar form of discomfort cloaks me as I feel myself drawing inward. But

I'm risking a lot by telling him this. I need to explain myself completely before he tells someone and word gets out that I'm 'sick' again. Nothing would please my mother more than to have another excuse to place me under her watchful eye.

"I'm not kidding..."

"Of course you are. You can't really expect me to believe that." He says crudely. I can't help but flinch at his tone. I think I see regret flash in his eyes but it could just be wishful thinking.

"I know it sounds insane but give me a chance to explain." I take his silence as allowance and choose my next words carefully. "I realized that people don't actually have numbers when I was six. I didn't think anything abnormal about them being there and everyone else just thought I was talking childish gibberish. But than I started insisting on it. Telling my mom not to go places because the angry man at the register was a number five. She got mad at me and told me I was too old for that nonsense and condemned me every time to the point where I would just stop telling her but would freak out whenever I saw someone who I knew was bad news."

I take a deep breath and pick at the lint fuzzies on my pants. The memories unbox themselves in my brain and pop out at me. "Mom decided it was time to get some help. I went to psychologists, children mental hospitals, and eventually psychiatrists over the next two years. They all gave me some BS diagnosis when they really didn't have an answer for us. They tried to treat me with drugs and therapy but it didn't work. Just made me more weary of saying anything. I don't know how but she knew. She knew it wasn't working. One day, when she picked me up from school, I noticed a small box of my things were in the back seat next to me. My toys, my clothes, shoes, everything. She said we were going on a trip...I was dropped off at BrightSide Mental Hospital a hour later. I was eight when I was admitted." I feel like I should feel something but I just feel empty. Hollow. " I didn't get to say goodbye to my sister or dad or anyone. I didn't even get a chance to play with my new doll I got for my birthday until she came back to see me a month later. I didn't see my home for the next four years after I cooperated and told them the numbers had gone. That they had fixed me. I constructed a perfect little cover and been biting the bullet ever since. It was exactly what they all wanted." I look up and Carter stares at me with sympathy pooling in his eyes. It was better than pity and laughter but still unwanted. I try to give him a smile.

"It's not that bad, really. It hasn't been that much of an issue since, well, before you came to town." I ramble out. "Your different. Your number is higher, the highest I'd ever seen. You're a nine. And I don't know why. I'm trying to understand but sometimes I just...psych myself out. I want to trust you but it's hard when I'm constantly reminded not to." I feel a vulnerable now that I put it all out there. I close my eyes and lean back in my seat, bracing myself for some type of strike but it never comes. The quiet makes me antsy.