Two hundred and fifty-five reasons

When he was an orphaned boy with no money or chances, Pitman 255 tried to simplify his life by stealing a diamond necklace, and got everything he ever wanted.

Three-hundred twenty-six. And the sun died behind the hill.

For twenty-five years, his life was simple indeed.

Reduced to swings of the hammer, to keeping count. It was the one thing in his life that held any sense of progress, even if it was one reset by the end of each day. The one thing that kept him sane.

As sane as a Pitman could be, anyway. What little sleep he got, he needed to take when the only hints of sun painted the horizon. When the alarm made the sound of a hammer sound like a whisper, it was all but gone. Pitmen, the wardens said, carried all the light they deserved mounted on top of their helmets.

Day after day, swing after swing, they wounded the earth in search of crystals they couldn’t keep. Some sort of fuel bound to replace the oil rigs, he heard one warden say, Not that he knew what those were.

As for the rest of the Pitmen, he’s been in the dark for a while.

“Count?”

Two thousand, four hundred ninety-eight.

Or was it nine? Damn it!

He didn’t answer. He was trying to remember which number came last before he interrupted. Being called by his mocking nickname by a fellow unfortunates was one thing. By one of the wardens, quite another. With names forbidden to speak of, all Pitmen had acquired nicknames for themselves. It was their one sign of rebellion, however much of it remained in them. He couldn't let them take that, too.

“Down to thirty-first shaft, Count,” said the warden, then, with a hint of a smile, “and make it count.”

He’d have to. The lower levels had damp, stale air that felt like breathing glue. Finding thirty pebble-sized shards was enough to come back up and continue with the usual. Swing a hammer until the wall splits. Ignore the clicks in his knees and the cracks in his back when he knelt. Pry the shards out of the open earth and collect them.

All Pitmen, not just the Count, had to keep the number of those in their head. The wardens checked. And if anyone was off by thirteen or more, that Lucky 13 didn’t get a meal that day; better luck next time. It meant that either the Pitmen got good at keeping numbers inside their head... Or they shrivelled up to the point where the hammer swung them around, not the other way.

At that point, they were as good as dead. Most dreaded the task, preferring to go about the day with as little thinking as possible. Count thought they hoped they’d cruise through their sentence with their mind asleep.

Pitman 255 didn’t mind it.

He not only kept count of the shards, but also kept count of the number of times he swung the hammer each day. In an existence that could, at any point, become more miserable. It only took one warden with too much time and creativity. Numbers, thus, were the one soothing thing in the Count’s life, like a childhood lullaby that never changed.

Three thousand. Halfway there.

The Count had made quite a name for himself around the Pits. Mainly because he helped new commers on occasion. He’d count their shards and whisper the number to them in the morning, saving them from an empty stomach.

He got to six thousand, two hundred and fifty-five, the number which, in a life of dull terror, pleased him to no end. The finality of it also terrified him.

It was, Afterall, the last thing he’d ever need to count.

After tonight, he’d never count again. He promised himself as much. All that separated him from it was the last day of sleep. Followed by a long walk from the cellblock just twent- The cellblock they slept in over the hill. A mere fourteen hundred and fifteen steps-

Shit!

That night, as every other night, Pitman, or Count 255, dreamed the numbers. He found himself mumbling them when he woke up. Twenty-five and a half years had passed, and his sentence could come to an end.

The only pleasant memories he’d have from this place would be the times when he got to a round number. When he could stop worrying about the echo in his head that said Five thousand nine hundred ninety-seven, Five thousand nine hundred ninety-eight, Five thousand nine hundred ninety-nine, followed by a big, internal sigh of relief. Six thousand!

Count woke up minutes before the wardens rattled them from sleep with a steel pipe banging on the cells and got dressed. He said his good mornings and got them back (aside from a few Pitmen, who smiled but said back a random number without noticing). As the rest shuffled aside, Count 255 waited by the side... Counting the seconds until the Head Warden would come to announce his release.

He was at two thousand fourteen when the Head Warden showed, holding a wrapped gift in his hands. The neon-green color with the yellow wrapping jumped out of the greys of the Pits. A welcome but a sore sight surrounded by all the dark. So ridiculous it made Count near shedding tears, trying to imagine how many colours he’d see when he got out. More than...

He derailed the train of his thoughts out the numbered tracks greeted the Head Warden. The man had a grin plastered over his face and winked as he shook his hand, as if the two of them shared a private joke. Count’s heart pounded as he took the gift, careful not to drop it, not to let the colours get stained by soot and dust.

Something heavy. He imagined a big key that opened the gates wedged by the spiked fence, a big golden one, like a-

The last layer of paper gave in and revealed the hammer inside. A hammer, like the one Count used to work with every day. If it was as a joke, a trinket to remember them by, it was a cruel one.

“Congratulations, Pitman 255,” said the Head Warden. Happy number-anniversary of your decision to visit us. 7762 days, I believe? Commendable. Most don’t last half your number. If you keep it up, you’ll be at the record in no time.”

It must’ve been the Head Warden’s soft voice. He wasn’t used to wardens doing anything but shouting, so he must’ve misheard.

“Keep it up?”

“Of course. Give it a couple of years, and we’ll be back here, celebrating once more. Enjoy the gift, you’ve earned it.”

“But...” Count tried to find words that didn’t involve a number. “I’ve served my sentence. All seven- All of it.”

“Admirable, as I’ve said. Though I’m afraid, since your visit, the sentences here have gotten a slight adjustment. Three percent each year, give or take. I was never good with numbers.” The Head Warden yawned. “It’s late. We’re done here.”

Count stared at the closed gates in the distance, willing them open in his mind. He stared at them right up to the point the Head Warden stepped right in front of him to obscure the view.

The softness of his voice replaced with venom. “Any day now, 255. One, two, fourteen thousand, you know the drill.”

A familiar weight of the hammer sat in his calloused hands.

The images of numbers that start to jump from the corners of his mind, his lips moving in a practised chorus. Count looked over his shoulder into the gaping mouth of the mine, waiting to swallow him in the dark. For a single, first moment in years, he experienced a moment of total silence in his mind. A moment that could be his life, if he never went back into the Pits again. The wardens must’ve seen something in his eyes, because all took a step back.

The familiar weight of the hammer sat in his calloused hands.

Pitman 255, known as Count, did what he knew best.

He hardened the grip on his hammer and started counting.