Author's note- I have OCD. It's not as bad as this, but I took some facts out of my life and into this story. Please review with comments, complains, or questions.. Constructive criticism is always welcomed with open arms. Thanks for reading.

Wake up one day. Wake up and get out of bed but your toes touch the wrong side in the wrong order so you have to go back, reset your alarm, and pretend to sleep until it goes off again and you can get off on the right side and have your toes touch in the right order. Once you can finally do this, you go into the bathroom and brush your teeth evenly, so that every brush stroke is equal. You don't have enough time to take a shower- it's five forty two. Has to be written out, not digital. You're running late because of your toe problem this morning. You need to be eating one cup of cereal with one cup of milk for breakfast, and then you need to go upstairs and do twenty seven push ups and twenty seven sit ups (twenty seven is three to the third power because three just didn't seem like enough.) Then you need to run one third of a mile and then you need to come inside and take a shower. When the shower is done, you can go into your mother's room and wake her up and she'll smile at you and ask in the same tone, "how on earth did you become such an early riser?" and you'll just smile and shrug as you go downstairs and wait in the car for her to get up and dressed. While you're waiting, you tap tap tap on the dashboard, over and over again, three times each. When she finally gets in the car you carefully take your feet off of the ground and let them hover there until the car has left the driveway and the garage is fully closed and then even for three more seconds. When you finally pull up at the school, you kiss your mother on the head three times (thank goodness that she hasn't noticed that this is abnormal) and carefully open the door and step just right way onto the pavement. It's a good thing there aren't cracks in the newly paved pathway to the school or else you would have to count them and hop onto every one of them three times. You walk into the building and are immediately relieved to see your friends all standing there, and you walk over to them and they greet you cheerfully and hug you tight. You realize that each other them didn't hug you three times but just breathe breathe breathe through the anxiety. They know about your little 'quirkiness' as they like to call it, but they just put it off as you being you and don't make you stop or yell at you. You all walk to the lockers together, and yours is arranged in piles of threes, and you take out your books for class and the homework that you did and checked over three times. The teachers love you because you almost never get a bad grade because you study study study and check check check because what other thing can you do other than that? You grab your books and three pencils and three pens and walk over to the pole where most of your friends have gathered. You wait for the last one and walk arm in arm to class, and you're laughing so hard and talking so much at this point that you don't even realize you're not stepping on the tiles the right way and that you're not doing things perfectly in threes. But by the time you get to class, English, there's a pop quiz and you're back to your routine of switching off your three pens and three pencils off equally between three lines. You hate it every time a pencil breaks, because you have to break the other two and go sharpen them, and somehow you're still unsure on what to do about the pens when this happens. You finally finish the quiz and look it over three times, and when you're sure that you haven't made any mistakes, you pass it in. The teacher smiles at you and you smile back, immediately thinking of three and wondering how you would fit that into the smiles. You walk back to your seat with careful, measured steps and sit back into your seat. You breathe a sigh of relief when you realize that you did everything right and don't have to get back up and do something again, but still can't shake the feeling of anxiety that always seems to be there. The bell finally rings and you walk to your next class that you have with all your friends and luckily this time you're so immersed in the lab you're doing and talking and laughing you don't realize that nothing is in threes anymore. At night when you think about what's wrong with you you always are relieved that science is with all your friends because if you had to do all of the carefully measured experiments with dangerous chemicals in threes, you wouldn't know what you would do without blowing the entire school up. The class after that is French and you're too focused on trying to only speak the language without any English seeping through that you don't remember three. The final class before lunch is World Studies, and you're so caught up in the lesson about Greek mythology and the Iliad you don't have to put a number to anything. The only problem with it being a good morning is that you have to worry about after lunch you have a study where you're left to your own thoughts and then you have gym which is absolute torture. But for lunch you're okay, with the occasional food separating into equal piles of threes and feet touching the ground in the wrong way but mostly just you and your friends that you could not survive without talking and laughing. But the bell rings again and you're ushered to your study by the rush of people, and you're left to listen to the clock ticking, constantly reminding you that the rest of the world was normal and didn't have to think about three three three all day. The only thing that comforted you about the clock was that there were sixty ticks in a minute and sixty divided by two was thirty and thirty divided by ten was three. You just do your homework, working with your perfectly sharp pencils and unscathed pens, alternating between three. After you're done with it all, you check it over again three times and finally the bell rings, noticeably not on the exact minute it's supposed to on the ignorant teacher's clock. You really wish you could tell your teacher about this, but he wouldn't give a damn. You gather all your books and take them downstairs to your locker and take out your gym clothes. You walk the short way to the gym, stepping on the tiles perfectly each time and finally getting in and changing self-consciously. You walk out and start the exercises and stretches that they always make you do, worrying like usual on how you're going to pull it off. You try and do twenty seven push ups in the time they give you, but it's always too hard and you have to cut into the stretching time and when you're still doing push ups you're sure everyone's looking at you and mocking you because you can't stop. You finally get those over with and turn over to start the sit ups. You do twenty seven of these quickly and start stretches. Always evenly in threes, you don't know how, but you manage to do it. When you're done you walk in your certain way over the tiles to sit down in front of the teacher as you wait for the day's instructions. You wish you had friends in this class, but you're left sitting alone, and it reminds you of three. The teacher tells the class that since the grades are in for this semester, they can't really do much and to just play basketball or get some form of exercise in. You run around the gym three times, over and over again, until finally the bell rings for the end of the day and you sprint around one more time and change as fast as you can, and go out to grab your backpack and walk with your friends to the buses. When you get on your bus, you always take an empty seat and place your backpack on your lap and sit in the direct middle of the seat. When it's finally your stop, you get off and run as fast as you can, through the path in the woods that leads you to the street. When you get home to an empty house, you put your backpack down and absently walk over to the gun that you know your mom keeps in the locked cabinet above the fireplace. She keeps it there because it's just the two of you and you never know what could go bump in the night. She doesn't know you she keeps it there, but you know and you've always known, ever since your father left. You know where the key is, too, and you walk upstairs to your mom's bedside table and open the drawer and take out the jewelry box that once held her wedding ring. You touch the silk-like material that once held love in the form of diamonds and silver, and take the small cushion out even though you'd love to crush it, just like he crushed you when he left. The key is still remaining hidden under there, and you take it back downstairs, not even bothering to put the box of pain back into the drawer because somehow, you know it won't matter. You unlock the cabinet and take the gun out and the bullets out and load it without a thought. You sit and look at it for a while, and you vaguely remember how you found it in the first place, back when he had first left and the wounds were still fresh and nothing was in threes, and remember how you had gone upstairs to your mom's room because she wasn't crying there and you wanted to take out what you used to be in awe over and dream about having. You opened the drawer and grabbed the velvet box and took a deep breath before you opened it, but it wasn't there and you almost broke down into tears, right then and there. But you were desperate to hang on to the hope that it was still there, and love could still be forever, so you took out the cushion and found the key. Somehow, even in the grieving process you were going through, you were determined in an eleven year old way to find where this key opened up to because it held mystery and drama. When you found the gun, you weren't sure what to think but still knew you should get away from it because you were young and needed protection. You closed the cabinet and ran back upstairs to your mom's room, putting everything in its rightful place and going back into your room and pulling the covers over your head and crying for what was lost in that day. You realize now that a single tear is dripping down your cheek and finally onto the metal of the gun, and you carefully take a piece of paper and write, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." on it. It has to be three times, it always has to be three. You're just floating through the motions right now, not really imagining what you're preparing for, and not noticing that it's real because nothing has been real since it started. You take the pen, not even thinking about three pencils and three pens and three lines and write your entire soul onto that piece of paper, for everyone. You lightly touch the trigger and find yourself having to touch it over and over again (three times) until it feels right and then, that's when you realize that you have to end it because you can't keep on living like this. You put the barrel to your heart and slowly wrap your fingers around the trigger. As you pull the trigger and the shot goes off, you absently notice that you don't have to pull it three times and smile faintly before falling to the ground.