…sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five…
That pretty much sums up my daily life. I can’t stop counting. I’ve been this way ever since I can remember. As a kid, I used to count sets of items within my surroundings, road signs on streets, and words in books. My mother would get annoyed whenever we’d have to stop walking until I could finish counting the tiles on the pavement. She’d get annoyed a lot.
…sixty-six, sixty-seven…
She’s been dead for over two decades. Seven-thousand-fifty-one days to be precise. I’ve never lost count. She died of natural causes, but not before placing me in a psychiatric ward. She said it would help with my counting. I didn’t like it there. The only good thing about that place was the schedule. I knew exactly when the nurse was going to pass by my door and precisely when the lights would be shut off for the night.
…sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy…
I didn’t stay there long. My counting had proved to be useful enough to help administer medication to other patients, so after about a year of unpaid labor, I was free to go.
…seventy-one, seventy-two…
I didn’t have a wife, nor kids, so there was nobody to look after me in my old age. Well, I’m not that old. I’m not even sixty yet. Friends are hard to come by as well. Most of them can’t stand my counting. I told them I could keep track of their money, taxes, anything they wanted! But they said they found it too distracting.
…seventy-three, seventy-four…
That is, until I met Bennett. He was a kind soul. He told me he’d been sent to look after me, but I’ve never heard of such a service. He’s young, maybe about twenty-five years old, but not nearly as good at counting as I am. We would go grocery shopping together, play chess, and take the occasional stroll.
…seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven…
This morning was different though. Bennett came over early and we had breakfast in front of the TV. The show we were watching was about deep diving. Bennett then told me, that he could hold his breath for two minutes. I bet him he couldn’t.
…seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty…
I was right. He’d gotten to one minute and ten seconds when he started struggling. I was counting the seconds aloud and shook my head when he signaled he was about to give up. And that’s how it happened.
…eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three…
I don’t even know what came over me. When Bennett exhaled sharply, I was only at one minute twenty-five. I couldn’t let him give up. I seized him by the neck and pressed down, counting the seconds. He struggled under my grip, thrashing about, and flailing his arms.
…eighty-four, eighty-five…
I was going to let him go when I got to two minutes. But I couldn’t. Two is unlucky; three is the perfect number. He wasn’t struggling anymore and was just lying limp on the carpeted floor.
…eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight…
I let go when I reached one hundred and eighty. But Bennett wouldn’t rise. His eyes were half-open, and his chest was still.
…eighty-nine, ninety…
At first, I considered calling an ambulance.
…ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three…
Then, I decided against it.
…ninety-four, ninety-five…
I took him out into the field behind my house and started digging.
…ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight…
I wondered how many shovelfuls it would take to bury him.
…ninety-nine, one hundred.