Just an inner monologue….

It had to be important, he decided. Jung thought there should be a a quaternity, not a trinity. Order out of chaos, the male element of life, the pillars, the directions – ah, even the elements. It was a good number. Three’d been special too, a compound of one, the fates, norns, triads and triumvirates, but four was better, mystic to the north Americans, good for north America, made sense here in Canada. Were there four founding provinces? He thought so; it fit like a puzzle, and jigsaw’s have four sides.

So, then. He kept walking, generally south, vaguely pleased. There were no sirens, no dogs, no wanted posters this time. He’d done good. Practise makes better, after all. He’d only killed himself three times before, he’d been entitled to some mistakes. But this time it was easy. The kid had been young, and brash, and figured out they were one, that he was him and him was he. Everyone one person. He’s not there, you’re not here. It’s all here. Kid figured that out, so he killed himself and walked away.

Family’s be wondering where he was, but he’d buried his body in the bog, and he’d just been a drifter anyhow so no one would know; or knowing, not give a damn. ‘Course he’d have to wait a bit before he could get a car now, but no worries. Everyone underestimated kids. He had almost though he hadn’t met himself until the kid smiled. It was a good smile, cocky. He smiled it, smiling, happy. Four had been good. But five .. five would be something else. Chinese had five directions, five elements, alteration and new direction for the Greeks, and a sacred number for Ishtar, and Mary. Five fingers, five toes, five petals …. it would be good.

He turned himself east, and kept walking. Asia, maybe. Or the middle east. He’d find himself there again, the lucky number 5. But six was the creation of the world, and the mar of the beast. Six might be bad. But he was getting better at killing himself.

Seven would be fun: seven days and theosophy and Newton’s obsession with it that led to seven spectrums. Seven was the perfect number to him. And eight was the path, and the eighth day was eternity. He’d perfect his practise and kill himself for the last time then. He was sure of it, because nine wasn’t special except for the threes and three was dead and burnt in a fire.

Five more stops, and he’d reward himself with a milkshake.