Numbers

I remember when it happened for the first time. Just another day going along with the flow. It was after school and I was heading to the library like I always did. Not having many friends meant that I was alone as I walked. Looking back I consider that a blessing with what happened next.

I was crossing the street when the bus came barreling down the road. The driver had obviously lost control of it, the tires squealing as he did everything he could to stop. There was no time for me to move, pray, or even scream. I shut my eyes bracing for the impact that was sure to come.
The sound of metal scrapping against concrete filled the air. A loud blast rang off the surrounding buildings as the bus exploded.

At first the only thing I could hear was a slight ringing. Then the screams of other people. Opening my eyes slowly I couldn't believe the horror that I saw. Pieces of the bus were scattered everywhere. Some were streaked with fire others with blood. As I slowly stood from the crouched position I had fallen into my mind tried to make sense of the fact that I was still alive.

Over the sound of my rapid heartbeat I heard people began shouting orders. It wasn't until a pair of gloved hands wrapped around my arms and led me to an ambulance that my mind registered that help had arrived. Some strove to put the fires that were still burning out, others searched the wreckage for survivors. In my heart however I knew I was the only one.

As they took me to the hospital I tried to wrap my mind around what had happened? Why was I alive? The bus should have torn my body to pieces when it hit and yet there was not a scratch on me. The doctors said it was a miracle. I, on the other hand, didn't believe that for a second.
As I sat there in my hospital room the entire accident running through my mind I traced the birthmark that was splashed across my arm. To most it looked like a shapeless blob just like any other one. And normally to me it looks like that too. On occasion however when I'm stressed or exhausted it seems to become a series of numbers.

Looking at it now I saw that it had done it once again. Running my finger along it was a little surprised when I could only make it out three numbers instead of four. Sitting up I stared at the numbers as the slowly came into focus.

999

That was different. Normally the number looked like: 1000, to me. After a second however I laid back down pushing the small incident from my mind. In the face of the tragedy that had just occurred it didn't seem too important at the time.

The hospital released me into my parent's custody the next day. The newspapers were all writing about the accident and my miracle survival. I ignored them as well as the attention I got from my classmates and teachers. Truthfully I wanted to forget the whole thing.

Then it happened again.

This time it was an air conditioner that had fallen out of sixth story window. It hit me straight on the head...yet there was no pain. In fact the air conditioner was the thing that seemed to take the most damage. Luckily there was hardly anyone around who saw what happened. With my heart still pounding in my chest I ran all the way home pretending that the whole thing hadn't happened.
Later that night as I relaxed in the bath my mind went over the two events. Events where I should have died. I walked away from both unharmed and that was the thing that scared me the most. Looking down at my arm once more I focused on the numbers that appeared on my arm frowning again. It had changed. Sitting up water shedding off my skin I traced the numbers mouthing out loud.

998

The number had gone down again. But why? Then it hit me. Two accidents. Two numbers. It was connected. But what did it mean? That night I spent hours looking through articles online trying to find a reason for all this. There were a lot of articles written about people who preformed incredible feats when they were pushed against the wall but nothing like what happened to me.

It was around 3 a.m. when I found something. A man in London had been in an accident like mine. And like me he had walked away untouched. I searched for more articles about him but nothing came up. All I had was his name.

Arthur Cantwell.

It took a couple days or searching through phone books and calling numbers but I finally tracked him down. He had moved to Canada after the accident and although he was vague about what had happened to him he agreed to meet me.

When the day arrived that we were to meet I headed for the restaurant right after school. Walking in I looked around spotting him right away. Although we have never met I felt like I knew him. He must have known I was there as well because he looked up as I approached his table.

"You must be Claire," He said his voice rich and deep carrying an undertone of his former accent.

"Yes and you must be Arthur," I replied holding out my hand.

He stared at it for a moment searching for something. Confused I pulled it back and sat down. We placed orders even though neither of us were hungry. It wasn't until the waitress left that he turned and looked at me.

"So what is your number at currently?" He asked.

"My number?"

"Yes your number. That is the reason we're here today isn't it?" He watched my reaction as I considered his words.

"Um if by number you mean my birthmark than nine hundred and ninety-eight," I answered.

"I see, then that means it has only just started for you. To be honest I'm down to my last number myself," As he said this he pulled back his sleeve and showed me his wrist.

It took me a minute to see it but once I could I nearly gasped in shock. There on his wrist was the number: 1. I stared at it for a minute before glancing up at his face.

"What do they mean? The numbers," I asked as he slid his wrist back.

"They're the number of lives we have," He started to explain, "There's a legend that says that a long time ago death decided to start a game with the mortals. He would mark a select few who would suffer the experience of death many times. These chosen for his game have numbers imprinted on their skin the moment they are born. That number indicates the number of times they will die. I was born with the number four hundred."

"You've died 400 times?" I asked amazed and a little nervous.

"Yes in a way. We don't actually die what happens is that when a "death" occurs the injuries we should have received are stored away in our memories. When our number count reaches zero all those injuries come back and we die for real," He explained staring at his wrist.

"Isn't that a little cruel?" I asked fear lacing my voice.

"Yes it is but we have no choice in the matter. There's nothing we can do to stop it. Sure you could hide away and try to protect yourself but that would only prolong death's game. Lord knows I tried," Arthur mumbled into his coffee.

"So I'm supposed to just sit around and wait for my number to hit zero?" I asked unbelieving.

"That's up to you. All I can tell you is what I know," He replied.

Unconsciously I rubbed my shoulder where my birthmark was. I didn't want any of this to be real. Death. Games. It was like something out of a book. I wanted no part of it but it seemed I never really had a choice.

We said our goodbyes and I never saw Arthur again. I heard that he died not long after our meeting. Another crash took his last number. As for me I made a decision. If I was going to die nine hundred and ninety-eight times then I was going to do it the way I wanted to. I dropped out of school, took out all my savings, and got on the first plane I could find that was available. I wasn't going to sit around and wait for death to play his game with me. I was going to go out and start it myself.

People thought I was crazy the way I seemed to seek out death. No matter the danger or the consequences that most people were afraid of I ignored everything. If death wanted to play a game then I was going play by my own rules.

The number of times I traveled around the world grew and grew as my numbers steadily went down. Before I would have planned every step of my journey from the ringtone on my alarm to the last meal I would eat before getting on the plane again. Now I never planned a thing.

Some days I would camp outside under the stars. Others I would intrude on another hospitality. Most days I had little to no money. There were always odd jobs for me to do however and I was paid in any number of ways. A ride. Cash. Some food scraps. Once a man even gave me his vespa that he hadn’t ridden in years.

After I traveled the world once I did it again and again. People began to know me on sight. I made friends in countries most people had never even heard of. I was the daredevil traveler that most people were in awe of. They never believed me when I told them I used to be just like them only dreaming of doing half the things I now did on a regular bases. It was almost mystifying how my life had changed so much.

I even wrote a couple books about my travels that sold pretty well.

When it all came to an end I was eighty-six with a husband and a daughter. He was an archaeologist and loved the excitement that came with traveling as much as I did. We married in a rural village that came to be called home. Our daughter was born a year later the embodiment of our passions. She was already on her way to getting her masters in ancient cultures. Looking back at my life I knew there would be no regret in the choices I had made. So as I lay in my chair outside under the bright beautiful sun I knew when he came.

“Took you long enough.” I said through cracked lips the disease that had set claim to my last number turning my once flawless skin into a harsh dry surface.

“You did not make it easy living each of your lives as if they were your last.” A thin whispery voice replied.

The voice was neither man nor woman and I thought that fitting of the creature that stood before me. I could see no face yet I knew death’s eyes were watching me as I lay peacefully before them. A thin almost skeletal hand came to rest on my arm as death kneeled next to me.

“You are a very strange soul. Others have faced my game but none have faced it as you have. Why?” I hummed my answer at the question coughing slightly before I responded.

“Why not. It may be your game but no one ever said I couldn’t play by my rules.” I gave a small laugh when I heard nothing but silence.

“This is true,” Death responded after a moment, “You have entertained me truly mortal so I shall gift you with a reprieve. Go in peace.”

With that the hand moved up from the mark on my arm that now read zero. Moving it over my eyes I rested back against the chair feeling peace enter my soul.

I had lived.

It didn’t matter the number of times.

I had lived and that was all the counted.