Twenty-three. Sometimes I lie in bed at night, stare up at the ceiling, and repeat that number in my head. Twenty-three. I hate that number. Despise it. I try to make it go away. But it won't. It's got a hold on me.
At night, I think I see their faces in the mists, watching with pleading eyes. Through the rush of the automobiles and shuffling feet, I hear their voices, calling my name, begging for my help. The number follows me. Everywhere I go, it's there. Teasing me. Goading me. On my punch card. In the broadsheets. On the calendar. Every month. Twenty-three.
It used to be one. I was young then. Innocent. I miss those days. It hit five by the time I turned twenty. Then ten. Then twenty. I'm thirty-three years old now. It doesn't seem right.
People tell me to let go. To forget. That they'd want me to move on. I can't. I won't. Someone has to remember them. Love them. They deserve to be mourned. I make something for them, y'know? For each one. A little ornament, cast from metal. Something they would've liked. Something that would've made them smile. For those with families, I give it to them. The rest I put on my mantle, to soak up the warmth they'll never feel again. Twenty-three figures I made. Twenty-three.
Twenty-three names. Twenty-three faces. Twenty-three men that I called friend. Twenty-three friends. Lost to the factory.