5:00 A.M.

Shawn

I was six six six six six six when they told me I had OCD.

It started when I was four four four four. I used to sort things by color, by shape. At first my mother thought I was just smart but then I started to get worse. I'd spend hours in the bathroom, washing my hands till they were bloody. I'd count my steps till I got to three thousand five hundred fifty nine. I was six six six six six six and they sent me to shrink after shrink, trying to suppress my anxiety attacks that were caused by anxiety attacks, but nothing could cure me.

My mother would try to keep me occupied, maybe turn on a movie but movies made me angry because they went so fast I could never count how many people there were wearing blue.

I was ten ten ten ten ten ten ten ten ten ten when my mother sent me to a group home for kids with "physiological disadvantages." I'd never been to school, concentrating on anything other than the feeling of my shoes on my feet—was a difficulty. In my group home I sat every afternoon with a woman in her 60's she taught me to read by teaching me to concentrate on the words. The words became my obsession. I used to count the syllables in every sentence. It took me four months to finish a single two hundred page book but that was okay because I didn't get anxiety attacks anymore.

I was seven seven seven seven seven seven seventeen when they sent me to a specialist in NYC, in an attempt to keep me from killing myself, because I couldn't bear to live if all I could do was think about the smallest details. I wasn't sleeping. How could I sleep when the bed sheets get wrinkled when I lay on them.

I don't like things that are wrinkly.

I was eight eight eight eight eight eight eight eighteen when my mom passed away. My dad left us the moment he found out about my sickness so all I had was her. I tried to get a job so I could pay for my therapy, but no one likes to hire someone who's an hour late for the interview because they had to check to make sure the door was locked six six six six six sixty five times.

I was nine nine nine nine nine nine nine nine nineteen when I became homeless.

How ironic is it that the streets of NYC are covered in germs. They are covered with cracks and cars that could easily crush me. They are covered in swarms of people wearing blue. But they also contain her.
Her smile like Mona Lisa's. Her hair was the one thing I could stand not being perfect. Though, she was perfect.

She ran a book store, how poetic. I used to watch her every morning as she went into the store, scribbling furiously in a journal. I knew she liked to write, how could she not? I also knew that she was stuck, without an idea. I'd heard her frustrated yelling over the phone to her mom once. She shouted about how wonderful she was doing in NYC and how she didn't need her. She cried for an hour afterwards though. Every day without fail she'd come in at 5:00 am and work herself to death. For months I stood in the shadows afraid that I'd mess up, until one day I threw caution to the wind, because all I could think about was the way those three freckles on her cheek made a perfect triangle.

Three times I opened the door before venturing into, until then unknown territory. When she came around from the back of the store, four books in hand, her hair tangled up in wavy ties, I was enchanted. It seems cliche, I know but I spit words from my mouth, for ounce without having to redo them, run them over forty five times in my head. I just spoke.

"You need my help"

It came out accusingly and I found myself panicking. Six six six six six sixteen times I brushed my hands back and fourth against the fabric of my jeans, an itch I'd developed after obtaining the idea that if I didn't do it while nervous than I'd end up in an even more of an embarrassing situation.

As if I were a cartoon, I could feel the lightbulb appearing from thin air above me. A way I could get her to spend time with me. A way I could fix the appalled expression on her face.

"You need something to write about and I think I can give it to you."

For a moment I couldn't tell if what I'd said was worth her thought, she seemed a bit shocked until eventually her mouth curved up at the edges and her smile lines wrinkled.

I don't like things that are wrinkly but God I could look at that smile for the rest of my life.
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