Nap.

Phone rings. Brriiing, brriiing. (Brriiing, brriiing.) Wake up. Open eyes. See…nothing. Blink. Once. Twice. Three times. Panic. Brriing, brriing. (Brriiing, brriiing.) Reach for phone. Not there. Where? Brriing, brriing. (Brriiing, brriiing.) Get up. Yawn. Feel missing sock on ground. Pull it on. No more brriing brriings. (Brriiing, brriiing.)

Nap.

Phone rings. Brriiing, brriiing. (Brriiing, brriiing.) Wake up. Open eyes. See…something. Blink. Once. Twice. Three times. No more brriing brriings. (Brriiing, brriiing.) Reach for phone. Tetris update. Get up. Yawn. Stretch. Feel missing sock on ground. Pull it on. Unlock phone. Last game loads. Press play. Flip it over. And over. And over. Oops. Game over. Mistakes piled up. Five digits, accomplishments not there. Where?

Try to forget. Remember anyway.

In a way, nothing had changed. We breathed the same air, played the same games; we spoke, slept, lived and died the same way as we had since the beginning, only now everyone wore a number, floating above their head. I was one of the few people who tried to ignore the numbers. The way I see it, they are just irrelevant details like eye colour.
One morning it was just there when I looked in the mirror. A blackish mist over my head, forming the number 17. With my 17th birthday round the corner, I was sure it was a practical joke but that was quickly debunked when I saw my mother sporting a 1567 above her head.

I was waiting at the bus stop when I was tackled and hauled into an isolated alley. A knife came and rested on my throat, make small incisions when I swallowed. I stammered, ‘Take whatever you want’ and held out my hands. The woman holding the knife, 103 it looked like, grasped with her free hand at the air above my head but the 17 only scattered into a grey gas and reformed within seconds. “17, I've got you now,” she muttered. She pulled back her sleeve to reveal a string of numbers inked in, some faded and others fresh.

“Please, don’t” was all I could say with the knife at my throat, waiting for death. I heard a dull thump and the grip on the knife loosened. The women fell to the ground and a boy my age, 20, stood behind her with a bloody rock in his hand.

“I think I killed her,” he said. I felt her pulse and told him that he didn't. We turned her over and saw that every bit of her skin was covered in numbers and every number was prime. I heard 20 say, “That’s so messed up,” but I blacked out before I could agree.

Nap.

Phone rings. Brriiing, brriiing. (Brriiing, brriiing.) Wake up. Open eyes. See…everything. Blink. Once. Twice. Three times. Panic. No more brriing brriings. (Brriiing, brriiing.) Reach for phone. It must be 20. Won’t turn on. Press harder. And harder. And harder. Nothing. See… reflections. Of 17. And 103.

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