“Oh, what fresh hell is this,” I grumble, climbing down the concrete staircase with a wrinkle of my nose.

The apartment parking garage has never exactly been a particularly appealing atmosphere, but the cramped space isn’t exactly conducive to the artistic endeavors indicated by the smell of wet paint.

I reluctantly continue my descent.

The sight from the lower landing has my feet freezing in place.

My hand barely registers the cup of coffee in its grip, luckily maintaining it and preventing further tragedy.

The drip, drip, drip, of the paint punctuates the passage of time as I take in the new addition to the garage.

There, on the horizontal support beam, a large number three has been depicted in red paint.

Fresh, wet, red paint that is currently defiling the hood of my white car as though perverting its virtue.

I have no words.

Well, I do, but cussing probably isn’t going to help.

On a deep inhale of fume filled air, I exhale the contaminant as I relent, “At least I was right. It’s fresh. And this is hell.”

I numbly shuffle to my ruined car and slide in the drivers seat, slamming the door hard enough for the pooling paint to disperse further over my hood in splayed rivers of red.

“Perfect,” I determine aloud.

It only takes a few fruitless turns of the key in the ignition for the laughter to start.

I let it overtake me, resting my head on the steering wheel that is apparently taking me nowhere.

I finally wipe the only tears I’ll allow myself to shed over this and climb out of the corrupted car.

It’s a beautiful day to walk to work, I decide.

My uncomfortable shoes carry me toward the exit, halting me once again in warning before I’ve even registered it.

There, in the archway, another three is painted.

As if anyone could’ve missed the first one.

I scoff at it as I pass.

It seems to melt under the heat of my derision.

A block later, I register a blooming blister.

Tsking, I stop to fix my sock, resting my palm on the corner of a brick building.

Wetness drips down the back of my bracing hand and I can’t help but flinch.

_What the… _

I slowly raise my eyes to whatever new nightmare I’ve entered, only to find I haven’t left the last one.

A glob of forsaken red paint has stained the back of my hand, the horror forcing me to continue looking up.

My breath catches in my throat as I find yet another three illustrated on the wall, right there, directly above my head.

Numbly, slowly, I retreat like the art could attack. Never giving it my back until it’s entirely out of sight.

I continue the next block in a trance, only returning to earth at the warm comforting voice of Mr. Magri, my favorite bodega owner.

“What’s wrong, child?” He prompts in familial concern.

It’s not the first time he’s asked me that, but it’s the first that I find myself unable to form the words to answer.

His warm brown eyes and smooth dark skin gradually come into focus.

My tears almost emerge at the fear in his expression. Fear for _me_.

I then realize what he sees.

Raising my red hand, I explain, “It’s paint.”

He nods slowly, slipping the damp rag off his shoulder and taking my hand in his to clean.

I have to look away from the kind gesture in order to maintain the feeble grip on my emotions, but that only diverts my attention to the new special painted on the storefront window.

And the price.

Three dollars & thirty three cents.

Tightly gripping my lukewarm coffee, I ask, “What’s your new special?”

Mr. Magri brightens, pulling the rag away to reveal my fully cleaned hand.

“It’s this new drink that’s supposed to add whole days to your life,” he confides with a gleam in his eyes as if his open advertisement is our little secret.

I can’t help but smile back at the man who has been the only constant in my life, actively looking out for me these past few years.

“I can’t wait to try it,” I tell him.

His returning smile is a flash of white before the warmth of his large palm presses between my shoulder blades.

“Don’t be late for work now,” he chides.

I sigh dramatically and drag my feet onward, propelled purely by his chuckle at my back.

Two more blocks brings me to my high end bank receptionist job, where I strangely find a large crowd gathered out front.

The ringing in my ears intensifies when I find the source of their attention.

A large red three is painted across the first two glass stories of the entryway.

Cold coffee splashes my legs.

My hands thread through my hair.

_What does it mean? _

_Is it following me? _

I trip over my_ _uncomfortable_ _shoes as I stumble backwards as if I can escape the thought.

My manager’s muffled announcement to the crowd about closing for the day holds no bearing on my decision to sprint back home.

I rush inside and toss myself under my covers, hiding from the stalking monsters taunting with the unknown.

The next day brings no relief.

In fact, the futile hope that it was all a dream is only worsened when I ready myself and return to my still ruined and useless car.

While I’m relieved that the three is no longer painted above it, I’m not so thrilled about the big red two that has taken its place.

I allow my fear to form into fury, my bandaged feet storming out of the garage, middle finger raising passively to the second painting at the exit.

The three there now turned into two as well.

I spare a glance as I pass the graffiti that had dripped on me, refusing to address my panic at the same descending number appearing there.

It’s when I pass Mr. Magri’s store that my body fades into static, heart descending into my stomach.

The advertised price of his special has changed.

Now, it’s two dollars and twenty two cents.

He peeks out when he sees me, wide grin faltering at my expression. Looking between me and the storefront window, he asks, “What is it?”

I raise my finger accusingly at the price.

“Why did you change it?”

My voice is hollow.

He just shrugs his large shoulders and runs a hand over his cropped hair. “It just felt right.”

I nod slowly, allowing my feet to drag me to work. Mr. Magri’s called out words of concern barely penetrate my shocked state.

_What does this mean? _

The glass front of my office still has bits of red paint on it.

I force myself to ignore the fact that the remnants are in the shape of a number two now.

My coworkers are congregated in the lobby, our bosses boss waving us all in his direction.

Once the clock stops at the top of the hour, he announces, “It has been advised that we shut down for a time.”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd.

The man who pays us, yet has only visited this branch twice, raises a hand and receives his summoned silence.

“How long?” Steve’s snide voice asks from a cluster of accountants to my right.

Our boss narrows his eyes on Steve, seemingly reconsidering not making this meeting an email.

“Today and tomorrow. So, two days,” the suit booms.

The whispers in the crowd don’t dull out the amount.

_Two _

_Two_

_Two_

The number echos in a loop within my mind as I head home on autopilot, grabbing a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine from the kitchen before returning back under the covers with my bounty.

I intermittently awaken to note the fading and returning of daylight.

Maybe I’ll just stay in my cocoon, I think, as morning dawns, the light unbearably warming my semblance of solace like a threat.

_But then the graffiti would win_, my inner voice says, making the strangest point to date.

I don’t want to let the stupid graffiti win, but it sure does seem hellbent on success.

Because when I relent and head down to the garage, planning on at least assessing the damage done to my car, the painted number above it is now a one.

“Nope,” I tell it, turning on my heel and marching right back up to my apartment.

Panic overtakes my day.

At one point, I find myself staring wide eyed out my windows, scanning each building I see in search of hidden graffiti, yet finding none.

It only confirms that the numbers are meant for me, somehow knowing the exact path I take.

The same one that I brace myself before taking the next day, finding no relief in the lack of paint above my car that still won’t start.

The massacre on my hood remains as proof it happened, the complete lack of reason crippling my composure.

I stride to work in a pace just shy of a jog.

My discomfort informs me that I’m wearing two different shoes, but I don’t stop to assess the situation until I reach Mr. Magri’s bodega.

Mr. Magri’s _closed_ bodega.

I release the curses I’ve been containing for days.

Even his window is now blank.

My fist raises to bang on the glass door hard enough to rattle the closed sign hanging on the other side.

“Mr. Magri?” I call out.

These numbers have driven me crazy, and he’s the only stable thing that can save my sanity.

I bang on the door & call out his name again, casting a furtive glance in the direction of work before repeating my pleas.

If he wanted, my boss could see me here from the front sidewalk.

I’m late, but the numbers know where I work.

They know!

It’s not safe!

_Not safe. _

_Not safe. _

_Not safe. _

My fist frantically rises once more, ready to punch right through the door, just as it swings open wide.

Mr. Magri’s large arms loop around me, pulling me inside with so much force that we’re both sent to the floor.

The impact so harsh that I swear there’s a resounding boom.

But then he’s covering me with his body as the front windows shatter, raining shards down upon us.

“Wha-,” I start to ask, but as Mr. Magri sits up, I suddenly find myself having more pressing questions.

He looks down at me benevolently, his entirely white eyes emitting an otherworldly glow.

When he speaks, it’s as though a collective of voices is intoning through one body.

“I tried to warn you,” they say.

I swallow hard in acceptance that I’ve officially gone insane, but at least Mr. Magri is a resident of Crazytown as well.

“Warn me?” I can’t help but ask.

He nods gravely.

The creepy voices speak.

“The explosion at the bank would’ve taken you today. I foresaw the countdown at least creating a delay.”

We’re rhyming now.

Alright.

Wait…

“That was you?” I hiss.

The sheepish smile doesn’t fit the omnipotent aura.

I open my mouth to scold him until his words fully process. “The bank?!”

I rise and weave through broken glass, stumbling out front to find smoke roiling from the entrance to work.

_Oh my gosh… _

_Are they all…_

A familiar hand clasps my shoulder.

Back in his normal voice, Mr. Magri says, “Unfortunately, yes. An employee was bribed to bomb your work in order to save his family. Some guy named… Steve?”

I’m only surprised that he has a family.

I turn to say as much, freezing at the new red paint staining the brick bottom half of his bodega.

It’s in the shape of a seven.

Overlapping screams emanate from the direction of work.

Mr. Magri grabs a broom from the ether with one hand and pats my back with the other.

“You have a busy week ahead of you.”