Sudoku

Four. Three. Seven. Eight.

 

Enclosed within four walls, boxed up, grid after grid. It was not true what people said, about the comfort in numbers. There was more comfort in randomness, and how all that randomness fell into place. Numbers one to nine in every box, every row, every column. There was more comfort in deciding where to place a number.

 

Three. Six. Five.

 

Four. Two.

 

Grid after grid. Like boxed-up words, tamed or buried, depending on how you looked at it. Quiet. Like a room with the curtains drawn. Like the table lamp on his desk. Like his father’s voice, telling him dinner’s ready, even though he knew better. Like the sound of his mother’s voice at night.

 

Six. Five. One.

 

Shoelaces. His mother’s hands over his, turning, twisting the shoelaces, slipping them into the loop, over, under, inside. A firm tug. He was good to go.

 

Eight.

 

Eight. An evil number. A birthday just past, that ended with him crawling into bed, pulling the pillow over his head. Eight is evil, evil like the air that crackled through their house that night. Evil like the words spoken aloud. Silence was best. Silence was safe. Silence made people stay; words made people leave.

 

One. Two. Nine. Eight.

 

His first bicycle, now resting in the storeroom. They promised to teach him how to ride.

 

Five. Six.

 

He was fond of six. Six reminded him of rain, of sleeping in the backseat of their old Toyota, while on the stereo Bon Jovi competed with the roar of rain outside. His mother hummed along, but soon his father joined in and they both started belting out the lyrics. He lay in the backseat with his eyes closed. He’s a sound sleeper, his mother said. Sound sleepers have busier brains, his father replied.

 

Seven. One.

 

Two. Three. Five.

 

One row completed. No sleep tonight. His stomach growled, clenching. His eyes grew blurry.

 

Four.

 

Six.

 

The sound of a door slamming shut. She was not coming back. The truth rang and rang. It was still ringing. He could only hear the scratch of pencil against paper. His eyes grew blurrier, and something wet landed on the page. He blinked.

 

Nine. Six. Two.

 

He dragged a hand across his eyes. Blinked. There was no magic formula. No magic words. Just grid after grid. Box after box. Numbers waiting to be packed and buried. He sent the all the sixes in. Then the eights. The nines. Another box complete. Another column. Another row. Just fill in the missing number. A firm tug, and you’re good to go.

 

Five.

 

He waited. A knock on the door.

 

"Sam. Dinner. I’m not saying this again."

 

Again. Taking a step back. Undoing, redoing. The game he played allowed no steps back - he could only go forward. One mistake and everything stalls. Randomness wins. Wrong numbers in the box, wrong keys to the house, wrong words in the open.

 

Three. One. Seven.

 

Four.

 

A week had passed. He could still hear the ugly rise and fall of their voices. The silence now was a relief. Like a bated breath. Like the bicycle still waiting in the storeroom.

 

Final answer.

 

Two.