Numinous by Mike Driver His throat clicks once; a dry sound like kindling when the flame first takes hold. He has spoken a great deal. Each oration saps his energy and always he begins at the beginning. He believes nothing can be understood without understanding the first principle. In The Elements Euclid demonstrated that only from the first postulate could the logic of the second be revealed. He must begin with the first postulate of his own life. “It began in childhood,” he whispers. His voice is soft; his parched lips barely move, the observers strain towards the speakers hidden deep within the walls to catch each word as they tumble into his chest from his bowed head. He rocks slowly as he speaks. “As a child I had a natural affinity for numbers. I wrote down numbers as soon as I could write. Each night I would add to my list, filling page after page with my infantine script.” The room is bare. The man sits on a cheap plastic chair, which is placed in the centre of the room. Blood drips from the many cuts to his arms. It runs in rivulets following the twisted contours of older scar tissue, it catches in the plastic manacles that bind his wrists and drips to the floor where it pools at his bare feet. “I remember the purity and sanctity of each numerical element. I did not know their significance then.” He pauses as if he is about to say something else and then continues on a different tack.“By the age of eight I had transcribed each and every number to one million; I had analysed their relationships, the sequence of prime numbers, the recurring complementarity and I knew each figure to be precious and beautiful. That year my mother burned my papers on the instruction of my psychiatrist. It did not matter. I held each remarkable digit in my head.” His modulated voice has not changed throughout this monologue but at the mention of the word “mother” his hand stiffens and fresh blood spatters the sterile tiled floor. Both observers are trained. They note the reaction. They were expecting it. They nod imperceptibly in silent acknowledgement and approval. “I attended a state school. I was a prodigy but I learned to conform. I learned to fail and to fit in. I gave the wrong answer when it was necessary. I was not popular but I achieved a level of mediocrity that protected me. All the while I developed my skills. I could decipher the hidden meaning behind numerical data, digital passwords, encryption codes; all these things became apparent to me. And more.” Whilst he speaks the patient conducts his own internal dialogue, he remembers the realities and details of events; their impact on all his senses rather than the condensed ersatz version he provides now. He recalls his first day of school as he walked through the ornate stone entrance to the grand hallway, the dust motes drifting in shafts of sunlight, the headmaster’s cool dry handshake, his skin like parchment. He recalls how inexplicably he felt close to tears at this unexpected change, this entry to a world about which he knew nothing. Gradually he came to understand his new surroundings. To learn that his alone was the only true existence. That all the others; teachers and students alike, were placed there to test or try him; that they disappeared like vapours beyond his presence. But these are things he cannot say. Not yet anyway. His pale blue eyes flicker briefly upward towards the two observers and for a second he makes eye contact with them through the two-way mirror. From their vantage point the observers know that they cannot be seen. They have stood on both sides of the mirror. They know it is impossible to see who stands in the observation room from the mirrored side of the glass. They also know that the raised observation platform on which they stand offers no natural eye line. It is only their misperception of reality that presumes a connection between the patient’s action and their interpretation; a natural human frailty that seeks out meaning in random gestures. His eyes hold theirs for several seconds; inexplicably they feel uncomfortable. In a somnolent voice the patient continues his tale through adolescence; there is very little that they find of interest here. They have already been to sketch out their diagnosis, words like Aspergers and Obsessive Compulsive behaviour already dance through their notebooks. They focus on the patient himself. They take in his painfully slender frame, the shaven skull and drawn expression, his white skin shining with eerie paleness in the harsh fluorescent lighting. They study his facial expression, which remains fixed apart from his eyes which alternate between looking dulled and agitated. His fingernails are cruelly short, they know this is to prevent him inflicting any further damage upon himself, but on one hand two nails are missing, the skin beneath displaying a pink raw hardness. With the bloody cuts to his arms and his painfully drawn posture he resembles a victim of a tortured confession more than a patient. The patient then becomes delusional; it is not unexpected they have been told that it may happen at this point and they have been advised to play close attention. “I saw the numerical meaning of every living thing,” he continues, his voice gaining resonance. "I read the genetic code of every blade of grass, every creature that takes flight, swims in the open seas or crawls upon the land. I can see everything, their past, their future, their defects; it is all there, waiting to be understood, all within the code, their meaning, their purpose, their number. And it can be changed.” For a moment one of the observers feels a frisson of excitement. If it were true that genetic code could be read so simply then it would change society, transform medicine, eradicate disease; the whole of mankind could benefit from such knowledge. Sadly he realises that this is a fiction. The man is unstable, prone to self-harm and sectioned in the secure wing of a private hospital. But still he allows himself this moment to imagine what might be possible. Numinous sees this. He cannot see the two figures. He has not seen anything for a long time. He reads their digitised code. He sees the constant flux and reconfiguration before him, different to the mirror, to the walls; each code unique, each bearing its flaws. He knows the one on the left will die soon. The genetic heart defect that killed the man’s father is clicking into motion and very soon will squeeze shut the artery that enters his left ventricle. The other is a curiosity, his gene make-up suggesting that he may have potential. Numinous marks and codes him for the future. He will have a use for him shortly. He will have a use for both of them shortly. Now Numinous begins the process of reconfiguration. The skin at his back parts and blood begins to well in the small fissures of parted flesh. The numbers begin to form. They are the external representation of the internal. A spewing forth of genetic data, the numbers burst upon his skin, blistering the flesh as they swell and rise to the surface. They are meaningless; internally the reconfiguration begins. The first sight of blood seeping into the patient’s shirt gives some cause for alarm. It soaks through the thin cotton, turning it from powder blue to dark crimson in moments. The observers fear that he has found some other way to damage himself, that he has suffered a form of internal rupture. They press against the steel handrail to get a closer look. Numinous begins to bleed from his hands and feet and from small indentations upon his forehead. Numbers form and dance beneath his skin. The observers stare in horror. The younger of the two turns to his colleague to ask what they should do, only to see his colleague’s face fragment in a network of spidery cracks. Blood rushes quickly to fill the fine white crevices; but not before it is clear that the cracks have bled into each other forming integers, ciphers, Roman and Arabic numerals. He turns to call for help but before a sound can be formed he is struck by the same affliction. Then he too falls to his knees before Numinous as his own flesh is corrupted. Both men writhe and bleed before His strength. Numbers rise to the surface of their flesh, burning great weal’s upon the tender skin before they erupt in bloody fountains. Numinous reaches his state of ecstasy and the numbers six hundred and thirty-four and six hundred and thirty-five are added to his configuration. Soon he will reach his apotheosis, his perfect state. Six hundred and thirty-five is left barely alive. His inchoate moaning will attract others and then more can be added to his total. Numinous recalls clearly the words he has assimilated as part of his being over the preceding years and he is close to that final reckoning now. “Herein lieth Wisdom: he that hath understanding, let him count the number of the beast; for it is the number of a man, and its number is six hundred and sixty-six.” The Apocalypse of St John (Revelations) 13:18. Thirty-one more and Numinous will be free. © Driver, 2005 Mike lives in Chester with his wife and two children, he has been writing horror fiction for a number of years but only recently has begun to submit for publication. So far this year his stories have been featured in Wicked Karnival and Thirteen magazine and online at From the Asylum, DarkfireUK and the Nocturnal Ooze.