How many of us will die if we stopped living for others?

How many of us will live if we stopped dying for others?

×∞ Adin

13 December 2019

Humanity died fast when the list appeared.

First came the suicides. When you see yourself at the bottom of the list that supposedly represents all of humanity, it’s hard not to lose hope.

Then came the murders. Of the people who had discovered the list. The people who kept it running. Some decided that the list was fake, and that anyone who believed in it deserved death.

Eventually, we stopped. Killing and fighting and tearing each other apart. At least for a while.

I was born with a number on my hand. I don’t remember what it was. No one can tell me, because you can only see your own number. But right now, my number is 3,425,007. Out of the eight billion people on the earth.

That’s one of the better numbers. My mom told me once that her number had dropped to 6,331,909. I thought she was kidding until I heard the gunshots. One that took my sister. And one that took my mom.

I don’t know why my mom killed my three-year old sister. I don’t know why she killed herself. And I don’t know what the number on her corpse was. Because as far as I know, your number stays with you forever. Even when the only one who can see it is dead, it lives on.

I’d like to imagine my little sister was 1 on the list. Maybe 2, for that time she killed my fish by pouring too much food into its bowl. But other than that, she was perfect. I can’t understand why the cosmic power that decides where we stand would put her at anything less.

No one else understands, either. Everyone has their own idea of the list. I guess that before it showed up, people were content with their own views of right and wrong. But now that someone is deciding for us, we’ve gotten desperate.

A few streets from my house is a church. The sign outside says “God forgives all-Numbers are warnings, not punishments”. The church three blocks away is telling me to ignore the list entirely, that it’s a construct of the devil made to deceive us and turn us away from God. And the synagogue on Bailey Cove promises a way to move your number up the list, and a better understanding of why you were ranked where you were in the first place.

My mom and I went to a church back in our hometown that told us we had to be honest with our numbers and share them with the world. The next church we tried told us the list was a gift from god, to tell us when to repent. My mom loved that answer, but I wasn’t sure. I stopped going to church as soon as I could, and mom’s death didn’t do anything to persuade me to return.

I’ve always wondered who’s at the top of the list. You’d think they’d be on the news all the time, sharing their five-step plan to being a good human being. But only one person has ever claimed to have 1 embedded in their skin. Anton Icara, famous actor, TV personality, and philanthropist. When the first rape allegations came, the woman who had submitted them had been completely ostracized. After all, this man was the pinnacle of human decency. No accusations could ever stand up to that little number on his hand.

Security cameras don’t see your number, though. All they saw was Anton’s fifteenth murder. The same woman who had tried to tell the world what he was really like lay dead on the floor, a knife in her chest.

I wonder sometimes if he really was the best person on earth. If our own view of morality fell apart somewhere along the way, and he wasn’t lying when he told us that he was the only person who understood what perfection was. It seems plausible. When I was a kid, I wondered why the Bible banned so many things that sounded perfectly moral to me. Maybe the list works the same way. Maybe that’s why giving to charity didn’t move my number up the list, but watering my houseplants did. Anton Icara might have been right.

Then again, if he was lying, why did we all believe him?

I don’t know why the number on my hand is there. I don’t know what it means, what it wants from me. I don’t know who decides our numbers. And I don’t know what will happen when I die.

All I know is when this bullet goes through my head, I won’t be looking at the number on my hand.

Two men stood, side by side, watching the most wonderful man in the world go by.

The first sighed, staring up at the man with adoration. "I aspire to be as good as that man."

The second nodded. The first turned to him.

"And what about you?" he asked.

The second smirked.

"I aspire to be better."

I just stare at the wall, numb.

Numb.

I feel... empty. I once was strong and full, birsting with love and joy... but I lost that to keep me whole.

See, I know I'm not broken. My hearts is still whole, no matter how little is left of it. I can just fill it up with love from others, fill my heart like a bowl. But, if I had let him stay he would have died, and if not, suffered. That would have broke my heart, and that would take to many years of love to even begin to heal.

I know I'm dangerous... I mean I'm not dangorous, but my enemies are. I can't drag my only love into this mess. He deserves to be normal.

I know I broke his heart when I dumped him. I broke it to save him. Or maybe I did it to save me? He could have thought it was worth the risk. It would be selfish to break his heart to keep mine whole...

Oh, I need someone to talk to! But I know I can only talk to him, and talking to him could put him in even more danger.

I have to get past this. I'm doing this for him!

I'm doing this for him.

If only he was one too, a fairy. But if he was then it still wouldn't work- eighths aren't aloud.

I know I can't love, but I never knew that not loving means I couldn't like.

Come on Lidia, move on, girl.

Move on.

Sometimes I leave my palm prints on the glass.

I watch helplessly as a stranger controls my words and my movements while putting a stronghold on my emotions.

I bleed for lovers who would not bleed for me.

I cry for friends who would barely shed a tear for me.

I accept what someone else tells me to accept and keep quiet while my soul roars with offense.

I never dance and always sing alone in an empty room.

Even in the safety of my own head, I'm still the outsider looking in.

.

I liked how he took care of his queen as I caught glimpses of him, showing her around his lands, new places of the kingdom that she hasn’t seen yet.

It was soothing to see that kind of love, full of affection and protectiveness. So pleasing to witness with my own eyes... that it wasn’t just made belief, a storyteller’s dream,

but something real, so close that you could practically feel and touch it for yourself.

I liked how he took care of his queen.

.

I’m not sure why

I trusted you

And your poisoned promises

“Don’t worry about falling,

I’ll catch you if you stumble”

But your empty words

Somehow entranced me

And imprisoned my reason

“I promise I’ll be there

With my arms wide open”

So I climbed up high

And let myself drop

As you stood with open arms

“I promise I’ll catch you,

You’ll land safe in my arms”

But I watched as I fell

And as you stepped away

And I watched your arms fall limp

“It seems like you’re falling,

With no one to catch you”

And I fell to Earth

No one there to save me

And you watched me as I fell

“Next time, you won’t fall.

Next time, I’ll catch you”

Battered and broken

You beg for my trust

But I’ll never trust again

“I’m sorry about before,

It won’t happen again”

Yet those empty words

Somehow entrance me

Imprisoning my reason

“Don’t worry about falling,

I’ll catch you if you stumble”

i wanted to be loved, i begged and pleaded. no one would liesen. so when i was on the floor bleading from my wrists why did you love me then? why did you only love me when i was broken become fixing? why was i not fucking good enough? was it because i'm to ugly? because im stupid?

you should've loved me before i tried to die, you shoul've seen a little 7 year old falling apart, you should've heard a 7 year old crying herself to sleep. but only when i was only the floor bleeding did you ask 'why?' only then did you stop for a second and look.

i am broken, i was bleeding, no hospital you just called me a selfish bitch who didn't care about the body he had to bury.

oh no sweetie, i thought about it all. i thought about Everything.

you think i was planning this for months. i've been planing this for YEARS.

but you can't see it can you? how i hate you, how i hate myself for hating you. i hate myself for the way i feel about you.

because i hate my own father, i hate myself, that is something that can never be forgotten.

I walked with my wife down the boardwalk by the river. After thirty years, we can bask in the comfort of the quiet of just enjoying each other's company. "Hey, hon?" she asks. "Hmm?" I respond, watching a flock of birds fly overhead. I hear her hesitation, "Who was Billy?" My world grinds to a halt at this seemingly innocent question. How did she know? How long has she known? Why ask me now? My mind is flooded with memories of that day.

Billy and I were walking down this same boardwalk over forty years ago. We laughed and playfully punched one another, just enjoying the summer sunshine. Billy pointed to a group of girls coming the opposite direct, "I bet you can't get that girl's number." I laugh, "Nice try. I fell for that last time. She was your cousin, and you paid her to embarrass me like that at the mall." Billy shook his head vigorously, "No, I mean it! She's really cute. Maybe you guys will click like my parents did." "What do you mean," I ask. Billy started in on his story.

Twenty years ago on this same boardwalk, Billy's parents had met for the first time. They locked eyes and immediately knew they were meant to be together. Of course, it would take them another five years to admit to one another how much they liked each other. You never admit to your crush how much you like them! His parents had kissed each other, and as they pulled away, Billy's mother had asked, "What changed you mind?" Billy's father hugged her close, "Do you remember me telling you about my grandfather?"

Fifty years ago, Billy's father's grandfather was fishing with a buddy of his on the shore that would one day be the boardwalk. There were no busy streets or bustling folk, so the area was nice and peaceful for an afternoon of fishing. His friend turned to him, "You know what. I have an idea." Billy's father's grandfather rolled his eyes, "Oh, yeah? What is it?" His friend told him, "I think we should make some kind of walkway here so that we don't have to sit in the dirt." Billy's father's grandfather laughed, "Why? That's just going to encourage people to come out here. Soon, you'll have a bunch of crap stories about people falling in love or remembering old times. Nobody like those stories."