Day 318

It was an old building.
The kind you saw in those old movies, all dilapidated glamour and faded rose wallpaper.
Lovely as it was, few people stayed for long, it was more like a hotel really.
They never complained about the place though, never said why they left at all.
I reckon it was due to the building's little... quirk.

Every time someone moves in, a new set of numbers appear on the bannister.
That number always meant something important to the new tenant.
For some it was their birthday or their spouses birthday, for others it was less pleasant.
The date their mother died, how many hits they took that night.
How old she was when that car struck.

I used to write down the new numbers and the names of their humans.
Call it creepy, call it a hobby... call it evidence.
They always say what the number meant to them, one way or another.
Sometimes they tell me over lunch, wondering how it got there.
Other times it is pried from their cold, rigid hands.

They always tell though, always.
So many relate to death, so many relate to pain.
I wonder if that's what the building picks up on, feeds on.
For those of us who've stayed so long, it whispers to us.
Asks us about our numbers and gives hints at who will be coming next.

It creeps Mr. Terrance in 42 so much that he hasn't left his room in nearly nine years.
Were it not for online shopping he'd have died after a week.
Ms. O'Neillson loves to hear the building talk, they have conversations late into the night.
The Groye family treat the building like and old relative.
As for me, the building is my friend and tormentor.

Everyone else's numbers are on the bannister.
Out in the open and accepted.
Mine isn't, never was.
I wrote mine myself, made up a date, a happy one - my first kiss.
The building wasn't happy, likes to remind me what my numbers really are.

Sometimes it is kind and tells me that they rest in peace, that I'm forgiven.
Other times I feel nails scratch the numbers into my legs.
Good thing I'm in a wheelchair, nobody can see them through the thick blanket.
As bad as some of the numbers are, mine could put me in prison for life.
17, 5, 13, 2, 64 and growing... that's how old they were and how old they'll be forever.