Eight Steps to Paradise

"Eight minutes til 8 o'clock," Paul thought to himself, "then eight steps to end it."

The wind whipped by briskly on the morning of August 8th, 2008 in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Of course, he was standing 64 stories up. "8 times 8," he mused. Of all the buildings in the city, the United States Steel headquarters was the one he admired most. It was not only divisible by 8, it was over 800 feet tall. It was, quite honestly, as near perfect as he would get for the task.

Since he had time left to kill, he reflected - painfully - on why he was here.

Ever since he'd been little, the number 8 had been extremely significant. On his 8th birthday, he had been inspired to begin pursuing his career as a photographer. When his fortune was read with tarot cards, he got the eight of swords, batons, coins and cups in various locations during the same reading. He never lost a game of Crazy 8's. Spiders were his favorite creature. He had lived at Apartment 88 on 88th street in Pittsburgh most of his life. If questioned about his self-defining number, he would never hesitate to point out that 8 turned sideways made the symbol for infinity. There was no denying it, 8 was Paul's magic number.

Unfortunately, this realization also led him to go out of his way to do tasks in sets of eight. Good or bad, he would only take eight pictures of any given scene. As a photographer, it was often too few; on a family vacation, it was too many. His wardrobe would seem comparatively small to most, as he had eight sets of any given shirt or pair of pants. He locked or unlocked doors eight times. He took his steps in sets of eight. He couldn't buy just one carton of milk, he had to buy eight.

Love seemed next to impossible when he considered his obsession, until he met a girl named Ada eight weeks ago. "It sounds so close to eight-of," he thought miserably, knowing the only better name would've been Octavia. She first met him at his door selling chocolates for a fundraiser at her highschool. Even though he was in a different school district, the chocolates were eight to a little box, and she had brought eight boxes with her. He still remembered something she'd said that day.

"After I ate one, I couldn't stop til I ate 'em all!" She had smiled at him, an intelligent looking girl with dark hair, glasses and cute dimples. He'd bought them all on the spot, because he knew it was meant to be. He was 18 to her 16... even their ages seemed destined.

Another draft of wind brought him back to the rooftop. He didn't look at his watch again; he didn't want to see a time that was out of sync with his schedule just yet. It wasn't 8 o'clock, not yet.

Ada. He'd tried to be more normal for her, but he was too far down a road he didn't know how to walk back from; at least, in anything other than steps of eight. At first it was more quirky than anything, like only listening to 88.8 on the radio, or watching channel 8 on the T.V. But when he only met her at 8 each evening, and wouldn't go to restaurants unless he could eat for exactly 8 dollars, her frustration began boiling over. They'd had plenty of fights, 8 a week by Paul's count, until they'd broken up on two occasions and gotten back together. He thought for sure it would happen eight times, but this third time she'd given him eight definitive "NO."-s. That meant it was it.

It was his own fault, he realized. Even with an IQ of 128, he still lacked the experience and proper drive to cure himself. It ate at him constantly, never moreso than now. This was it. He'd tried psychologists, but didn't return for more than 8 visits. He'd tried medicine, but that had ended disastrously in the emergency room when he couldn't withstand the temptation to take 8 of them at a time.

He looked at his watch. It was 7:59 A.M., with 8 seconds to spare. He turned to the edge of the roof, drew a deep breath, and stepped out with feet emboldened by fear. Counting.

No one would understand, of course. He didn't even understand. He hoped desperately he would be in eight pieces at the bottom. The steps were flying by. 4... 5... 6... 7... 8.

He accepted his fate, ready for gravity to pull him downwards for his life's final flight. He waited eight quick heartbeats, feeling the wind. Then frowned. Then opened his eyes.

Somehow, he had misjudged. After all the trouble he'd gone through, all the preparation and considering, he was a step off from the step off. He'd needed 9 steps.

"But it was perfect... it can't be redone," Paul whispered. The seconds passed by; it was past 8 AM now, he knew. Then it struck him: he'd conquered it. Every iteration of the number had come at him, and it wasn't enough. It couldn't kill him. He was immune.

As a smile cracked his face and something between a laugh and a cry escaped him, he finally learned what he'd been told, even told himself, so many times. It was just a number. There was nothing magical about it. The number had not been his life, and nor would it take it from him. He stepped back from the precipice, laughing and crying and not counting anything.

Paul dug out his cell phone and hit speed dial 8... he'd have to change it later. As Ada's phone rang, he only hoped it wasn't too late to start living.

Mark Burton Wednesday, February 6th, 2008, 5:04 A.M.