Count by Three

The burning on the underside of Maslow’s wrist was enough to wake him from his dreams. His body jerked forward in his bed, sweat running from his forehead down to his heaving chest. The dark bedroom slowly swam into view, but the intermittent lights streaming through the blinds only made his surroundings more unreal. He shook his head wildly and pressed his palms into his eyelids, trying to squeeze the room back to its normal shape. He began to try to remember what he had been dreaming about, but then he thought better.

“I’ll remember it tomorrow morning,” he thought. “I always do.” A sense of dread rose into his throat at the thought of it. And then he remembered what had woke him, and a new, stronger sense of dread overtook the other. He gently ran his fingers across the raised skin on the underside of his wrist; his skin was still hot to the touch. He hesitated to turn his wrist over. He already knew what he would see there, but when he saw the red, raised skin, snaking and twisting into a crooked number 8, he just stared at it, as if it would go away. He closed his eyes for a few moments, telling himself that when he opened them, the number 8 would be gone, and he would see the pale, faded number 7 that had been there since he could remember. But when he opened his eyes, the number 8 was still there, perhaps glowing even hotter than before.

Almost simultaneously, he heard a cry followed by hurried footsteps from the room next to his, and then his bedroom door burst open. Had Maslow not known the man who careened into his room, he probably would have turned and jumped out of his window. But he did know the man. Tall but slender, Maslow’s Father stood in his doorway with a bewildered gaze fixed on some unknown object. He ran his fingers over the underside of his wrist, just as Maslow had done moments before, still staring blankly at the floor.

“Get your brother, meet us downstairs” he said. He made to move closer into the room, but seemed to reconsider. “I’ll...your mother...she’s...” But he didn’t have to explain the rest; Maslow could hear his mother’s sobs through the paper thin walls.

Marek was already awake when Maslow got into his room.

“It says eight” he said, throwing his wrist out in front of him. When Maslow just stood there, Marek felt the need to reiterate. “It says eight!” This time his voice rose and his eyes seemed to threaten to pop out of his head.

“Dad says we have to go downstairs”

“Soon it will say nine. They say when the number changes, it always changes in two.”

“Shut up,” replied Maslow. “You don’t know.”

“Neither do you!” retorted Marek, a sly grin spreading across his face.

It was true; Maslow had not even been alive the last time the number had changed — not many people had. Fifty years it had been, to the very day. They were reminded every day, to the point where he could recite the number of days without giving it a thought.

“Just shut up and get downstairs.” Marek’s smile died, and even he seemed to suddenly realize the anxiety building up in the air. He seemed to hear their mother’s sobs coming from across the hall for the first time, and he rose from his bed, his face stone. As they passed their parents’ room, their mother’s sobs grew louder. He expected to hear his father consoling her, consoling her like only his calm, wisp of a voice could; but instead he heard his father speak with rushed, fearful stammers — he had never heard his father talk like that before; he had never seen his father fearful of anything.

“It will be okay,” his father’s muffled voice repeated over and over. “Be calm,” he said, almost as an order. His mother responded with poorly bated sobs that made her lips tremble and shudder.

Maslow no longer felt a sense of dread; a cold fear had crept into his veins and locked his legs into place. He stood there, a statue, with Marek tugging anxiously on his sleeve, until the sobs finally stopped. The man who emerged from the room moments later was not his father; his father stood tall with his shoulders pinned back and chin tipped towards the ceiling, but this man walked as if on a tightrope, his eyes wandering here and there. When he saw Maslow frozen there, his brow furrowed. Maslow thought he might yell at him for a moment, but instead he smiled a rigid, impostor of a smile and placed a hand on Maslow’s shoulder.

“Take your brother downstairs.”