Numbers.

Rattle.

Snap.

Jonathan squirmed out of the bushes as quietly as he could, the ejaculation on his right hand smearing on the ground as he pushed himself up. He grabbed his zipper, pulled it up, and buttoned his pants. He noticed that his Perfect, his girl, was now sleeping. He had been watching her for at least 15 minutes, crouching in the bushes, as she masturbated to a pleasant climax.

He'd matched her every movement, masturbating as well. Climaxed when she climaxed, and nodded off for a minute or two, also.

Wiping his hand on his pants, Jon proceeded down the sidewalk. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, noticing how cold it was. He'd forgotten his shirt at home.

The number today was 2. 2 was Jon's favourite number. Today had been a good day, and he thanked 2.
He thought about the little rhyme he'd made up for 2 and for his perfect.
"Two of me,
two of you,
four of us,
will make two."

Jon mumbled the rhyme to himself as he walked the few blocks back to his house. He couldn't wait to find out what tomorrow's number was, to see if he'd have a good day or not.


When he arrived home, he climbed the tree to his second story window, slipped in quietly, and sat down in his bed. He noticed the small pile of papers on the nightstand next to his bed. Homework. He'd only done the work for Math 5, with Mrs. Bonlahard. He had an A in his accelorated math class, which he was extremely proud of.

He walked over to his closet, feeling the dried leaves and dirt sticking to the bottom of his ankle-high white socks. He slid the door open, and pulled out a black shirt and a pair of skintight jeans out for school tomorrow. He folded them and placed them gingerly on his chair.

2:46.
AM.

From his desk, he pulled out a small drawer on the left side. He picked up a little, red tin box. Placing it on the desk, he pulled out his small bag of meth. Putting a few rocks in the crook of his thumb nail and skin, he snorted. Blinking a few times, he pinched the bag back together, and placed it back under his deck of baseball cards. He licked his thumb nail.

Jon had been spun for a few days now, and enjoyed being able to stay up for weeks at a time. It gave him more time to think. To think about Perfect, and what she was doing. To think about numbers, and what they were saying.

Stepping swiftly over to his stereo, he put in a CDR with a blank face.

"In truth..
it may seem like a stretch..
but it's thoughts like this that
catch my troubled head,
when you're away..."

Such Great Heights, performed by Iron and Wine.

Laying on his perfectly made bed, he hummed along to the tune. He folded his arms back behind his head, and looked down over his body. He was notibly skinny. The people he associated with at school called him "crackhead-skinny", which he happened to enjoy, even though he denied the shit out of it when they said it. His hip bones poked out and rubbed against the inside of his skin, making a little slit between his flat stomach and the waist of his jeans, where his pubic hair was in view. His sternum bone was indented, and made a shadow on his chest; the light from the moon shining through his window and slightly illuminating his body.

"... you will hear
the shrillest highs
and lowest lows,
with the window's down
when this is guiding you home..."

Silence.
Skip.

Guitar.

Wish you were here, by Pink Floyd.

If Jonathan had ever cried, it would have been to this song. The song he sang to himself whenever he knew Perfect would be away.

"So...
so you think you can tell...
heaven from hell..."

His leg twitched, and he knew it was time to get up and walk around. He couldn't stand to wait for a while, and needed something to pass a few hours with.

He opened his bedroom door quickly, as to not ignite any curiousity of a family member who might hear it squeak. He walked down the dark hallway to the stairs, his socks making a swoosh sound on the wood floor. He ran down the stairs on his toes, quietly as possible.

2:58.
AM.

2 is almost over. Soon a new number will arise, and Jon hoped it wouldn't be 3, because he'd only have an hour with 3. He'd hoped it'd be a higher number, maybe 14, or 8, so that it wouldn't end until the next morning, or night.

Jon found his mom's cellphone on the island in the kitchen, and starting playing Tetris.
Yellow square.
Blue L.

Squeak.

It was morning, mother was awake. How many hours had passed?

Jon set the cellphone down on the island in the same position it had been in, and swiftly ran up the stairs into his room.

5:30.
AM.

He slipped out of his jeans, which were now stretched from wear. Jon pulled off his boxer briefs, welcoming the slight breeze on his naked body. He sat down on the bed and took off both of his socks at once; he hated taking them off one at a time.

He opened the top drawer, pulled on some boxers. Blue. White. He hopped and wriggled into his jeans, and put on his shirt. Looking into the mirror, he saw the dark circled under his eyes. He reached into his sock drawer and took out the make-up he'd stolen from the local Walgreens, and touched his face up. He hadn't gotten any comment on his disheveled looks from his family, so he figured he picked a good colour, and that it matched his face well.

Combing his hair neatly over his eyes, he was ready for school. He grabbed all of his homework off of his nightstand, shoved it in his patch-covered bookbag, and headed out the door.

Mother waved.
Jon waved back.

He hopped on his skateboard and began pushing swiftly. He couldn't wait to see Perfect today.

One, two, one, two, one, two.

He counted the cracks in the concrete as the wheels of his skateboard bounced and rolled over them.

Today's number would be 12. A good number. A safe number.

Stopping at a light, waiting to cross the street, Jon put his headphones in.

Comfortably Numb. Pink Floyd.

His little iPod spewed out a theme song of so many into the small ear pieces, and Jon was lost for a moment.

Little walking man.

Jon proceeded to roll across the road to his school.

There she was.

Her short brown hair gelled and teased perfectly. Her white, flowered shirt showing just enough skin on her stomach to excite Jon. Her pants tight, revealing, showing her every curve.

He stayed several paces behind her, hoping she wouldn't notice. He watched her adorable little bottom jiggle and sway as she walked through the hall. He recalled her last night, her hand between her legs, her hips bucking.

Pulse.

He swayed, and walked quickly into the boys restroom, taking one last look at her, he was huffing, having trouble breathing.
Walking into one of the stalls, he put his finger down his throat and forced himself to vomit into the toilet.

Only bile.

How long had it been since he'd eaten?

He unbuttoned his pants and pulled them halfway down his thighs.

He felt the heat between his legs.

Hot enough to burn.

A chain around his neck held a razor. It was the high fashion at his school, though you had to keep it under your shirt, as not to get caught. He figured nobody ever used theirs.

"12. Twelve. 12. Twelve..."
Jon said quietly to himself, yanking the chain off of his neck.

He put it to his thigh, in an already healed, but noticeably deep scar, and began to cut and shred.

This doesn't stop



_-I'll be adding a new addition soon, read it and rate it, sugarlumps.-_