Short Story Spotlight: The Numbers

Instead of linking out to my blog at Reedsy.com, I am going to reproduce the stories here, moving forward. It will reduce the number of clicks you have to go through to read the thing.

Today's story is called The Numbers and it was written in response to the following prompt:

Write about someone facing their greatest fear.

Here goes. . .

The Numbers

Carol shut her eyes to block out the ten glowing numbers, laid in front of her in exactly the right sequence for the dreaded ritual, but she knew that they were still there. For months, her excuse had been that she didn't know the numbers, couldn't find them, they were hidden, but now they had been revealed to her and she couldn't put it off any longer.

Do it now, do it now, DO IT NOW. That was Anxiety, screaming that the world would end if she didn't get her act together and do what needed to be done.

"It won't," Carol whispered to herself, eyes still firmly closed. "Will it?"

Who cares, either way? Depression, joining the conversation.

It will, it will, it will!

Yeah, but what can you do about it? Why does it matter? Trick question; it doesn't.

Why can't you just get your act together and DO THE THING? Everything depends on this...

You can't do anything, that's why. You're too pathetic to get anything right, to get anything done.

They always started off disagreeing, Anxiety and Depression, but it never took them long to agree on one, simple thing.

Carol was a failure who couldn't perform the simplest task, even to save herself.

Anxiety, convinced that everything would go wrong, always, no matter what, it's sharp claws reaching for her from behind, intent on ripping her heart out.

Carol's back arched and her eyes snapped open.

Nothing, of course. No monsters, just Carol, alone, with her thoughts.

And the numbers. The numbers were still there.

Depression took its turn. It started with her feet, filling them with black, heavy goo that rose, and rose, and rose until her whole body was consumed by it, hardly able to move.

No! Anxiety, lashing out, driving the goo back. For now. Always fighting, always at each other's throats, always making it IMPOSSIBLE to do anything at all.

Real monsters couldn't get in; not with the seven locks on the door and the closed blinds that made it look like no one was there at all.

You have to do this! YOU HAVE TO!

It won't matter. There is nothing you can do to end it. Nothing at all.

They were both right. They were both wrong. They were both. . .awful.

She was powerless, but she was also the only one who could do anything. How was that possible? How was that fair? Why were the numbers left in her hands?

"Because this is one of those things you have to do for yourself. It won't work otherwise." Mother's voice, from across space and time, mother who had always done her best to understand, even when she couldn't.

Carol strained to remember, wanting to get the words exactly right.

"Give them names," mother had said. So Carol had. Anxiety and Depression, once a confusing ball of ugh but now clearly distinct creatures, each leeching the life from her in their own terrible way.

"Give them form." So Carol had, the clawed monstrosity always just out of sight and the shapeless goo beast that lived in every pore.

"Now, see them for what they really are."

Carol hadn't understood that step. She still didn't, not fully. Mother, doing her best with the limited tools at her disposal in a world that wasn't designed for softness or care, had tried to explain.

"They're like your pets," mother had said. "It wasn't your idea to get them, but now that they're here, you're stuck with caring for them. They're not all bad. Sometimes they frighten away the scary things. Sometimes they alert you to a problem that needs solving. You've even come to like their company, not because they're pleasant, but because they're familiar. Does that make sense?"

It hadn't, not then, but Carol had said yes, anyway. Depression was insisting that the conversation was pointless, and Anxiety was terrified that Carol would never get it, never be able to do what mother wanted her to do, and all she'd wanted at the time was for mother to stop talking.

It was too hard.

"Good," mother had said with a loving smile that Carol didn't deserve. "The thing about problematic pets--they are our responsibility to care for. We have to do our best with what we know to keep them safe from the world and to make sure that everyone else, including ourselves, are safe from them. Right?"

"Right," said Carol, out loud, in the present moment.

The numbers glared at her, like they had evil eyes peering out from between the simple strokes that gave them form.

It's the only way! Anxiety insisted.

It will never work, Depression countered. You are not capable of doing what needs to be done.

Depression was right. Carol couldn't do it. Nothing filled her with more dread then being handed a set of numbers and told to act. Why didn't people understand? Why, for the important things in life, was this the only way?

But, what if you can do it?

The third voice, the one who hardly ever appeared. Mother had told her to name this voice too, but it had never seemed worth the time. Hope, maybe, or Determination. Neither name seemed earned for the tiny flicker of fire that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"Don't ignore the quiet one," mother had said. "That's the one that needs the most attention to thrive."

What if, said the third voice, you can do it? What if there are no downsides to trying? What if it works?

"It's all What Ifs, Carol." One of Mother's favorite phrases. "What if it's good is just as valid as What if it's bad. They're the same thing, after all--an unanswered question."

Slowly, Carol reached for the glowing numbers.

Now.

Anxiety, pushing her like it always did, sometimes for good sometimes for bad.

Carol's finger tapped the screen.

Ringing.

"Crisis line, how can I assist you today?"

The voice filled the room, the being summoned through the number ritual appearing as if by magic, invisible, but nevertheless terrifying. She could banish it again, as easily as it had been summoned, but. . .

What if?

"Hello? Are you alright?" Concern and care.

"Hello," Carol whispered.

"There you are! I'm so glad that you called. Would you like to share a name with me, to make talking easier?"

"Carol."

"Hello, Carol. What do you need?"

What did she need? Where could she begin?

"Take your time," said the voice, kindly. "It can be hard to put it into words, can't it?"

Carol couldn't speak. Her tongue was frozen in place, the fear instilled by the voice, as kind as it was, filling her every pore.

"It's pretty big then, huh?" said the voice. "Well, how about this. Tell me one thing, no matter how big or small it seems, and we'll take it from there."

It's all big! Anxiety.

It's all irrelevant. Depression.

It all matters. Hope.

Voice cracked and hoarse, Carol took a deep breath and said, "My mom died. And I can't turn on the light."