Three

Found dead on the third hour, of the third day, of the third month of the year, my older twin brothers, the first born of three sets of twins, my hatred of the number three began. What remained of my twins brothers were found sprawled everywhere, at the bottom of a really tall skyscraper, the one that used to be my third favourite in our city. After a police investigation that took three days to be completed (which, to me, didn't seem like a very thorough search), and after three hours of interrogation, it was declared that Jack and John were depressed, and both had jumped off the top of the building together.

After their funeral, which just had to be held at 3:00, my parents' minds scrambled. Suddenly, the twinkle in their eyes, which once had been so beautiful, had dramatically dimmed. Despite all their efforts to keep their family from the harms of alcohol, they resorted to drowning their sorrows in the foul stuff. Becoming more and more violent, they let out their abuse on my older twin sisters, the second born of three sets of twins, Macy and Maree. I remember they'd come home, frightened they were going to be beaten, and knowing very well it was going to hurt.

Things didn't improve due to what happened the following year. It was the same scenario again; the third hour, of the third day, of the third month of the year. Macy and Maree, having become frail from all the constant beatings, were found at the bottom of a ditch, with their bones sticking out and blood everywhere. I didn't dare ask how long the investigation took, because I already knew it was that cursed number, which was causing us nothing but pain. My parents had been declared unfit to care for their children, and my twin and I were taken away to an orphanage.

My twin, Condolence, and I, Sara, were the third born of three sets of twins. We lost all contact with our parents, who had told us repeatedly that we were pointless, and should die. The only items Condolence and I had to remind us of our parents, were an envelope opener (a blunt blade) and a necklace. Whilst at the orphanage, Condolence (or Ollie, as I called her) and I kept to ourselves, and tended to frighten other children. Due to all that happened in the past, and my strong belief that our family had a curse involving the number three, I had an intense fear and hatred of that number.

Smarter children started to pick up on my fear, and would often poke fun at me for it. I remember one case in which I was talking to myself about how much I hated my life, and an older boy, who I had never seen before, approached me.
"Who are you talking to?" he asked.
"Oh," I said, "U-um, nobody."
He replied, "Are you talking to a ghost? Do you have a third eye?"
My eyes widening, I screamed, "FUCK YOU! NO! I DON'T!"
"Hey, that's not very nice!" he huffed, leaving.

Another time that didn't end so well was when a bully in the orphanage was questioning me about the number three.
"What's your favourite number?" she asked. "Let me guess, three?"
Ollie hissed, "How many have you had sex with today? Thirty-three?"
She scoffed, "What's with you girls and the number three? Is that, like, an OCD or something?"
"OCD is three letters!" I exclaimed. "So we don't have that!"
"But," the bully pointed out, "You hardly say sentences with three letters in them."
"I..." I said. "I just hate it..."
"Three freak," she laughed.
All of a sudden, I wanted nothing more than to wring her stupid, laughing neck, and within a few seconds, I realised my hands were trying to squeeze the life out of her.

Luckily, she didn't lose consciousness, as I was not nearly strong enough to leave much of an impact, but naturally, the girl exaggerated the situation, and I was deemed a danger to others and was confined from everyone else, including Ollie. The saying 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' kept whirling through my mind during the time I was away from the only person who had been with me throughout the whole ordeal known as my life. Whereas I could hear her sweet voice just outside the isolated and cold room I was trapped in, she seemed so far away, so distant. Filled with worry that she was forgetting about me, and filled with pain from the past, I took out the envelope opener and dug it into my skin. It was a lot sharper than I had imagined it to be, and it didn't take much effort to push it until it eventually pierced my skin. A trickle of blood seeped out of the wound, and I would have found it beautiful, had it not hurt so much. Failing to care, I took the blade out and let blood drip onto the floor, and quickly stabbed it into my leg again, causing my leg to have two strange-looking holes in it.

When I was finally trusted again, I ran straight to Ollie and fell into her embrace. Her warmth on my freezing skin had never filled with me such security. It was obvious then that I would do anything for her, and that I loved her with all my heart. The only thing that frustrated me was when Ollie tried to get me over my fear of three. She'd do things like talk about the 3 Network, which made me despise phones, and go through multiplication tables with me.
"2 times 1 is?" she asked.
"2," I replied.
"2 times 2 is?"
"4."
"2 times 3 is?"
"...6."
It continued like this until she got to the three multiplication tables.
"All right, you went well there, now let's continue. 3 times 1 is...?"
Droplets of sweat fell from all pores in my skin, and my breathing became shallow. I tried to force that stupid word out of my mouth, but I couldn't without squealing in fear. Ollie had to wrap her arms around me and whisper that it was OK to calm me down.

Over the course of the few years we were at the orphanage, I soon came to realise that even though the staff were trained and paid to care for all the children there, the atmosphere was almost filled with tension, and there was no love. The only person I could trust, the only person who ever listened to me, the only person who truly understood me was Ollie. It frightened me to no end that someone would come and take her away from me. The thought of that happening often kept me awake at night, and I could do was cry. Ollie seemed to read my mind, and she'd sneak under the covers and hug me to sleep. It didn't bother me much that she'd often give me three hugs, which I noticed, but she was so good to me, it didn't cross my mind twice.
"Sis," I said, "I love you. I'd do anything for you."
"And I to you, Sara," Ollie answered. "And I to you..."

Even though the orphanage staff tried their best, the children there were often unhappy, and I was often devastated. The family we once had plagued my dreams; memories of our hugs, birthdays, conversations, holidays, everything. Soon the pleasant dreams turned to nightmares; images of my sisters and brothers dying, and the number three. It amazed me that Ollie was able to stay so calm about it, and she always seemed so positive, which is probably the reason I was so shocked that fateful day.

Early in the morning, when it was still dark outside, I woke up to find Ollie standing next to my bed.
"Come on," she whispered, "we're getting out of here."
Without hesitation, I took her hand in mine, and followed as she gently lead me outside. Luckily for us, everyone was fast asleep, and we were able to leave without waking anyone. We walked for seemingly hours, barefoot in the freezing snow, the harsh winter winds threatening to blow us off-course. Despite the fact it felt like there were ice crystals pushing into my skin, I faithfully followed my sister with little conversation. We finally got to our destination, which was the middle of a dark and depressing forest.

"What are we doing here, Ollie?" I questioned, looking around nervously.
"Hey," Ollie whispered, "don't be scared."
She pulled me closer to her and hugged me, rubbing her hands against my exposed skin in an attempt to make me warmer.
"I don't want you to be cold for this," she said.
I asked, "Cold for what?"
Reaching into her pockets, Ollie pulled out two silver guns, stained with blood and with long barrels.
I gasped, "Where did you get those!?"
"I've been keeping them," Ollie replied, "Dad gave me them when he was drunk..."
Discomfort swept across my mind as I started to realise what Ollie wanted.
"Oll," I stuttered, "t-they d-don't have b-bullets... Do they?"
"Each has one, Sara," she replied, "and we're going to use them."

Tears sprung to my eyes as she passed me one of the guns. I ran my finger down the long, cold barrel and visions flashed before my eyes. Suicide seemed to be a reoccurring theme in our family.
"On ourselves?"
"On each other."
I squealed, "I-I can't kill you, Ollie!"
"We're going to be together forever, Sara," she said, crying.
I whispered, "It's the third day of the third month... And probably the third hour..."
"Yeah," she responded, "and we'll be the third pair of twins to do this."
Knowing I couldn't refuse to do something Ollie so dearly wanted, I parted the hair from her face and gave her a huge hug.
"Thank you for always being there for me... Condolence..."
She kissed my forehead and said, "And I'll still always be there for you."
Raising the gun to my head, she encouraged me to do the same to her, which ended up being one of the hardest things I've ever done.

"On three, we pull the triggers," Ollie demanded.
I cried, "Why three, Ollie!?"
Smiling, she said, "Three's going to be our lucky number this time, Sara. I promise."
I nodded.
"One..."
We cocked our guns, ready to shoot.
"Two..."
We said our farewells, then shut our eyes, preparing for that dreadful, yet wonderful number...
"Three."