He had a bizarre knack for deceiving other people. Sometimes, he even deceived himself.

Graceful and cunning, he hid the flesh-wounds in modest fashion. Long sleeved shirts and leather gloves, open wounds that never healed, callused by cloth.

He always opened a window before he went to bed. It was so that the dark could come inside of him while he slept. Through his mouth and nose, every orifice on his body would signal the void to fill.

He was strange, in many ways, but not so to many people.

Four two six was the number he kept in his heart. Four six six seven was the number that he kept in his soul. 42646674264667. Number of what?

He would call again and again, the number, until his fingers bled. It was a phone number, was it not? He couldn't remember. His mind wasn't too clear, it reminded him of nothing. The night ate his brain.

The void.

He is a machine. He doesn't need to think. 4264667 is the only thing he needs to concern himself with. Crack and bleed, the flesh opens on the plastic keys. No one answers.

Outside the wind picks up, and pushes clouds across the sky. Trees sway back and forth in unison. The sun is hot, it is always hot outside and the boy does not like it.

It is perfect, it is a perfect picnic day. The boy turns from the phone and goes to pack a lunch. Isn't it a perfect day, he thinks to himself.

He steps outside with his basket, and sits outside of his house. The blanket is red and white, and cliché against the cool grass.

Children stop to watch him, and he smiles and waves, the fingers cut and torn down his arm. They step away to the other side of the street. They have such little shoes, he thinks. Watch out for cars, he yells to them. And waves. And smiles.

The sun beats down on him, turns the back of his neck red hot. He turns to stare at the sun, the brilliant light penetrating his cornea.

4264667. He's back at the phone again. The bone skins plastic, skin skins floor, floor skins shoes much too big. The stands, watching the day turn to dusk, to night. The steady dial tone to keep him company.

This isn't a phone number, he thinks. And then the dial tone picks up again, and his fingers collapse around the plastic keys.