A blessing, is what they called it.
Ha. That's laughable.
A smile tickles his lips.
A blessing to one can be a horrid curse to another. A blessing can be your friend or your enemy. You have to choose which side you want it to be on early, before it turns against you.
He waited too long.
So there he was.
Because he had been too blind in his silent misery. Look where it's gotten him.
Leaning against an alley's barrier, thin slivers sunk into your chest. Blood--your supposed 'blessed' blood--pours. Stains his shirt. Stains his pants. Stains his soul and everything with it.
Damn. You hadn't seen his face. He just came out of nowhere. Screaming numbers at him. Supposed random numbers, but to the blessed mind spelled a message.
Die. That is what it said. The message that had been spat at Charlie before the man who uttered them yielded his knife--a single flicker of reflected light in the smooth air midnight brought upon--and took stabs to his liking. Taken by surprise, Charlie failed to attempt defense, instead lurching in pain at the sharp impact, blood leaking between his lips.
Defenseless.
An earlier case had been his doom. A formula of simple numbers caught a man who had took lives. It did not catch his partner.
So there he was, Charlie Eppes, prodigy and genius. Some spoke words, he spoke numbers.
Look where they landed him.
Don. His brother. He could help.
Charlie reached for his phone. Right. No damn batteries.
His vision spotted. He wished he had some paper. At times like these, he could've really used some numbers. His friends. His blessing.
Ha. Not a blessing. A curse.
The little suckers stole from him. His childhood. Time with his mother.
His life.
An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.
He didn't see how it applied to his situation. Perhaps that was how his attacker saw it. His partner for the thirty-year-old genius who caught him. Imagine his social life.
Blood pooled around him. He slid to the floor.
His bag. Blood on his bag. Leaking into the material.
Charlie reached inside, fingers clasping something familiar. His paper. His pen.
Numbers to send him off.
But no such luck. His blood, supposed life source, had soaked the paper. It crumpled in sops in his hand. Excess liquid dripped when he squeezed.
So he made due with the pen.
The smooth cement beneath him allowed the ink to barely show on it's gray surface.
So he solved problems.
P vs. NP.
Amita…what would she do? Move on or grieve? Either? Neither? Both.
His thoughts swam, no longer to keep themselves straight and logical. Except for the numbers.
They stayed with him. They allowed him peace.
Larry. His best friend. Was he the suck it up type, or the cry and whimper type. Charlie couldn't remember. God, did he smash his skull in?
Blood loss. That tended to cause confusion. Maybe. Charlie didn't know.
All he knew was the numbers.
Don…Dad…they'd be sad. He didn't like them sad. They were sad when Mom died. He didn't want to think of their faces.
39. Variable of 13. A simple statement that he had learned at age five. He wasn't dying. He was going backwards in time. Until he was…nothing.
Nothing.
Numbers weren't nothing.
But he was?
Charlie didn't know.
Megan and David and Colby. It wouldn't matter to them. He was Don's kid brother. When it came down to it, he was nothing more.
Just a kid who passed math.
Heaven would have numbers, right? The answer to P vs. NP, perhaps.
Or maybe his blessing has condemned him to hell.
Blood continued to pour down his face and chest. He lost feeling in his arms. With his toes, he kicked away the discarded bag. His pen still stuck to his hand, with both wet and drying blood. No use in it now.
Pain--a sudden outburst--overwhelmed him. How had he not felt it before? Had his body been too preoccupied with self-pity? Or numbed by his own preexistent depression?
No more thoughts. They gave him a headache.
He was depressed. Truly, he was. Perhaps--
Perhaps this was his salvation?
Misery would sink his friends into a hole, but they'd climb back up. His soul might find happiness when it wasn't active. He wouldn't burden anyone anymore.
These were the reasons he should die.
With this closure, he allowed all thoughts of blessings and Don and Dad and Amita and this whole damn business to depart. They were replaced by numbers.
They'd be searching for the killer. He did hope they find him.
34562937688832.
They would get closure. His soul would already be resting.
8792745218737685.
Don't cry. Please don't.
87456263230847.
It had started out as an evil deed that he feared.
958436364579684837.
Ended with a final, red-stained smile.
P vs. NP.
Thoughts swimming.
8437453264.
He died.
A\N-So terribly sorry that sucked, or was confusing, but it looks like I still have some angst left in me. Had to do it, my thing is introducing myself to new story forums by killing off a favorite character. Ask anyone. Should I repost it with something about finding the body? Yes, no? I dunno. I'm a generally low-self-esteemed individual, so be aware if I get a bad review there is a distinct possibility I'll kill myself. Kidding…? Review.