I only realized that other people could not see the numbers too when I was five. When I was fourteen I finally began to understand what they meant. Most of my friends ranged from a two to a three. A four if they were pissed off. At sixteen I saw my first seven, they had a concealed weapon. Those with guns usually were automatically a five at least.
I was older now, more skilled at gauging the differences. I could easily distinguish the reasoning behind the numbers. My boss was a seven, she did control my paycheck, after all. Though she was a sweetheart. The man at the cubicle next to me was a three, he was a bitter man. All bark and no bite. I assured my other coworkers of that every time he opened his mouth.
It was a Wednesday, my favorite day. Work usually slowed towards the middle of the week, it was never as hectic as Mondays or as stressful as Fridays. That day was different, though. A tugging feeling in my gut kept me on guard. It started that morning, it was noon when I understood why. My father had always told me I had a great intuition.
He walked in, a curly mop of hair on his head. A crooked, withdrawn smile on his face. He was new, you could tell by his demeanor. He kept his arms tight across his chest, he was dressed overly formal. He had on new shoes. I had gotten good at judging based on looks, it was necessary to avoid paranoia.
I focused right above his head, I always checked the number last. A dark black ten appeared. I immediately went into panic mode. I had only ever seen eights and nines, even then they were only on television. Mass murderers held bright red nines and gang members dawned a yellow eight. The depth of the black drew me in, it was the deepest shade I had ever seen, similar to that dye or whatever that had gone viral online awhile ago.
I directed my attention back to his face. Freckles dotted his tanned skin, his gaze seemed distant. This man had probably murdered. He could have pillaged an entire village. Skinned the bodies of children and eat the meat, even. Each scenario grew darker, more gruesome than the last.
His hand stretched towards me. āHi, nice to meet you. Iām Owen. Todayās my first day on the job. Uh, can you point me to the head office.ā His voice seemed firm, a little hesitant though. The black light made me squimish under itās glow. I nodded, I couldnāt stand being in its radiance much longer.
āIām Elizabeth, Liz if you will. Itās right this way, follow me.ā I headed towards my bosses office. In ever window he passed I could see his black light trailing behind my blue. I was a two usually, a little less than most people. I could feel his stare digging into the back of my head. Gnawing at my nerves. As soon as we got to the office I turned to walk away, but my employer called me in.
āI see you two already acquainted yourselves with each other. Thatās swell, given that you will be training our new member for the next few days, Liz. Donāt worry, Owen, sheās one of the most efficient employees. Youāll be a pro in no time under her advisory.ā Her white teeth shining in the fluorescent light of the office.
Friday came quickly, and Owen caught on fast. He seemed to know exactly the right questions to ask. It seemed that he had previous computer-based knowledge. The insignificant feeling of being under his glowing ten did not dissipate. I prepared myself for the worse each passing day.
Friday the tugging feeling returned. Owen walked in, more withdrawn than usual. Halfway through the day he briefly rolled up his shirt sleeves. I noticed a bruise taking up half of his left arm. It was red and purple, fresh. He quickly noticed me staring and rolled his sleeve back down. He made no effort to comment.
That night I was getting into bed when my phone lit up. āOwen (work)ā scrolled across the screen. I was at a loss for why he would have called me. I quickly picked up, perhaps he had a question. I was in horror at what I heard on the other end.
A female voice came across the line. She was screaming and yelling. Her sentences were scattered with profanity and derogatory phrases. āYouāre useless.ā She yelled.
āPlease donāt do this. Please I didnāt mean to, I promise Iām trying. I got a job for you, we can make this work.ā Owen replied to the girl, his voice shook. He was crying.
A loud slap could be heard. A punch probably. āYouāre a waste. You might as well die.ā Her voice sounded furious. Owen sobbed, but attempted to stop himself from crying. I felt frozen in place, my body aching.
The sound of a door slamming made my ears ring. āOwen? Owen, are you okay?ā His shaky breaths stopped. I could hear him scrambling to get the phone out of his pocket.
āI promise whatever you heard isnāt what it seems like. Iām fine, Iām fine.ā He was panting, his speech slurred. A quiet āoh shitā sounded through the phone. I could hear him get up from what I assumed was the ground.
āWhatās your address?ā I didnāt know what I was thinking in that moment. I knew he was not fine, but I did not know how to help.
āSheāll be back in a bit, Iām sure she just left to blow off some steam. Itās fine itās my fault. I forgot to bring home dinner I shouldāve known better. Itās fine, I need to go make some food and sheās not too fond of guests.ā He stammered and tripped over his words in haste. I remembered I have the address of all the employees saved on a document for mailing reasons for work. I slipped on a coat and ran to my car.
āGet some shoes and a coat Iām on my way.ā
He sat on my couch, still. I made no effort to start a conversation. I did not need to ask about the cut on his lip, bruise on his cheek, or the bruise I had seen on his arm. I glanced up at the ten above his head. It radiated blacker than ever. He stared ahead at my television, though I did not turn it on. His eyes were glazed over.
āIāll get you a pillow and blanket, or do you want to use my bed?ā I spoke, as gently as I ever could.
He snapped his head towards me. āNo, no, no, I canāt stay here I need to go home. Veronica wonāt be happy, I need to go.ā He made an effort to stand, but I grabbed his arm. He flinched under my touch. I let go immediately.
āPlease, stay. Iāll help you get your stuff in the morning. You can stay here until she gets her stuff out of your house.ā He snapped after that, completely breaking down. He tumbled back onto the couch, head in his hands. āIāll be right back.ā The black of the ten that had previously consumed the room dimmed.
I made him stay in my room, I was worried heād try to leave if I let him stay so close to the door. He could make his own decisions, but I knew this was a more intricate situation than he could comprehend. I had texted Veronica, his girlfriend, off his phone last night. I told her to get her stuff, she needed to be gone in the next week.
I woke up early Saturday, as always. I set the table; it felt odd to take out two plates. I heard the sink in the bathroom run. Soon enough I felt Owen walk into the kitchen, but I did not feel the cool, black radiance of the ten. I shivered, but continued to have my back to him as a wiped the counter.
āYou donāt have to do all this.ā He sighed, pulling out a chair. His voice was weak, groggy from sleep and anguish. āYou barely know me and she wasnāt wrong.ā
āShe was extremely wrong, no person should be treated like that. Youāre welcome to stay as long as youād like or need.ā I grabbed the pancakes I made from the microwave, I wanted to keep them warm. āI want to make sure youāre safe.ā
āThank you, I donāt know if I said it yet. I am so grateful for your help. Iā¦I donāt know what I was capable of doing before. To myself, I mean. I was going to do something, and I think it wouldāve been the wrong thing to do.ā He was crying again. I turned around, but as I put the pancakes down and went to hug him, something caught my eye. A white number one glimmered over his head.
I never before had thought about the danger someone could be to themself.
āYouāre safe now. Youāre safe.ā
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