Twenty-Three

“You need to go see a psychic.”

Niall holds the phone away, staring at it. “HELL NO,” he bellows.

His mom’s voice comes through the speaker. “Niall, lower your voice. You know very well when you yell it means I’m on to something.”

Rolling his eyes, Niall sets the phone before him on the dining table so he can put his head in his hands. His fingertips tap around the upper part of his forehead, looking for some hair to pull. Damn fingertips don’t even remember that his hairline has receded so far back on his head they’d need to take a bus.

Distracted by his wandering thoughts, he stops listening to his mom go on about what’s causing his depression. He wants to yell at her to stop jabbering so he can instead picture his fingertips (perhaps with Sharpie drawn on eyes and mouths) sitting in a mini yellow school bus on the journey to the back of his head.

“Niall. Niall!”

“What?!” The school bus image disappears.

“A psychic. Don’t go calling one of those 800 numbers. They’ll take you for all you’re worth.”

“I’m not going to a psychic,” Niall sighs the words out heavily. “I’m just seeing things. Numbers.” He rolls his eyes again. When was he going to learn not to tell Mom stuff like this?

“Twenty-three. Yes. You told me.” She sighs as well, a gusty sound full of long suffering. Her son is forty-six. She’s been trying for years to help him get on with his life.

“Twenty-three. Everywhere.” Niall rubs his eyes. “In the grocery store. At the gas station. Even the damn digital clock. Twenty-three. Every hour on the hour! I can’t stand it any longer.”

“Well, if you go see a psy—"

Niall’s retort is sharp and final. “NO!” He takes a breath. “Gotta go. Love you, Mom.” He disconnects the call before she can say another word.

Niall hauls himself from the dining chair. Grabbing his denim jacket, he stuffs his keys, wallet and phone in the pockets and lets himself out of the basement apartment he’s lived in for the last twenty years.

Any dumbass could figure out why he’s seeing the same number all of a sudden. Yesterday he turned forty-six. Twenty-three times two.

Plodding down the street, Niall pays scant attention to the cars going by or the fact that it’s getting towards sundown. Misery drains his awareness. That’s all this life is. Misery until you run out of twenty-three times anything. Until some sucker puts you in a box and turns up the flames.

Mom’s a good example of this. One foot in front of the other. Day after day, year after year. For what? So she can sit in that godawful heap of a house and nag her son to death?

It’s almost dark by the time Niall sits down on a park bench. Pigeons (twenty-three. He counted.) gather hopefully for some snacks but soon look as hopeless as Niall feels.

“Yeah yeah, go on, you worthless birds.” Niall flaps his arms and stomps his feet, but the unfazed pigeons take their time strolling away as if they see this sort of tantrum often.

Niall stomps his feet one more time, because now he’s cold. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

What would a psychic say? Maybe he’ll go find out. But he’ll find his own. No way he’s calling Mom back. No freaking way.

A short walk later, Niall opens the door to the small spiritual shop he found on Yelp. There was zero surprise when the address popped up: 2323 West Chilton.

A middle-aged woman steps out from behind the counter of the book store. “You’re Niall?”

Niall startles. “Wha—” he starts before remembering he gave her his name when he called to make sure the store was still open. “Yeah. Niall.”

The woman directs him to an upholstered wing chair. She sits in the matching chair, watching him intently.

The words burst forth in a rush. “Twenty-three. I see the numbers everywhere. All day. For days now.”

She smiles. “Hello to you, too. I’m Angela.” She folds her hands in her lap. “You came to the right place. I specialize in numbers.”

Niall squirms in his chair, first at his rudeness and then at the way she gently chides him. “Well, you gotta get rid of them. They’re driving me nuts.”

Angela nods, listening. It’s calming, the way she doesn’t try to interrupt.

When Niall’s spoken his peace, Angela begins.

“Twenty-three is an auspicious number. A power number. Full of hope and a way forward.” She regards him again. “I’m no psychic, but I can tell you there are better days ahead. In fact, I think if you took every twenty-three you saw as a sign that your life is just getting better and better, I do believe things might just turn around for you.”

Niall’s eyebrows go way up, perhaps also seeking his lost hairline. “Huh. Really? A good thing? The bogeyman isn’t going to come get me? Count me to death?” Despite his misery, there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Yes, I think it’s a very good sign.” Rising, Angela walks to one of the bookcases and returns with a slim volume. “Why don’t you take this home and read it?” She puts up her hand when he starts to interrupt. “I’m not selling it to you. I’m saying take it home and read it. Then come back. We can talk further.”

Somehow Niall is back on the sidewalk, the small book in his hand. He stops under a streetlight to read the title. “How to Un-Enmesh: A Primer.” Niall starts to laugh. He never said word one to Angela about how his mom tries to run his life. Maybe he didn’t have to.

Slipping the book into his pocket, Niall walks home in the dark, never once counting his steps.


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991 words

Prompt: Spiritually speaking, the number 23 encourages us to keep going on our path and maintain positive thinking. Your entry for this prompt should be about a character struggling to go on. They see the number 23 in multiple places. Finally, someone tells them the significance of the number. What happens? One of your genres must be Spiritual.