Ashes are Waiting

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to anyone, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author owns exclusive rights to this story.

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Ashes were waiting for Barton. That was the only thing he could count on every day. He could never be sure if he would eat, not making enough money to trade for day-old bread. Working ten hour shifts wore him out, but Barton knew he couldn't stop. The ashes were waiting.

Barton never asked where the ashes came from. He didn't think he would be able to do the work if he knew. Somewhere, in the back of mind, he had an idea of where they came from. He hadn't seen the Johnsons from down the street in at least a month. They certainly hadn't planned to move – their newspapers were still delivered daily. But he didn't want to consider that possibility.

Counting the scoops kept him from thinking about it. He shoveled the ashes from the large furnace, cleaning out the huge pile of detritus. Barton didn't mind the mindlessness of the task, as long as he was able to manufacture something to think about. As long as he wasn't thinking about what was going into the barrels he filled every day.

Despite his best efforts, maintaining the illusion indefinitely simply was not possible. He had known that, but Barton could never have been prepared to face what his shovel revealed as he lifted the next scoop of blackened soot into the barrel at his side. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist before he turned back to the ashes. What he saw shattered his delusion.

Even though he had known, somewhere inside of him, Barton still couldn't stop himself from yelling loudly. No matter what he suspected, he hoped he was wrong. But staring at the tiny chips of bone that hadn't been destroyed by the flames, glaring at the gleaming metal pin that must have once been in someone's leg, Barton could no longer deny it.

Footsteps rushed toward him, shouts asking if he had injured himself. He couldn't bring himself to answer. A hand landed on his shoulder, turning him. An arm slipped behind his back, words spoken to him not penetrating the buzz filling his ears. Barton was moved to the side while the area was cleaned up. He didn't really pay attention to what was going on around him. The image was imprinted behind his eyes, and he couldn't make it disappear.

Getting away from the furnace became a priority. Barton stood, pushing his way past the hands that reached out to him, forcing himself to keep walking. Finally getting outside, he dropped to his knees. For once he was grateful that he hadn't eaten before coming to work, bizarrely happy that he wasn't able to afford anything of substance so that he wouldn't have to see it wasted on the ground before him as he dry heaved.

Hysteria began to set in once the retching stopped. Tears streamed from his eyes, forced out by the laughter bubbling from his throat. Sobs soon followed, his body shaking as he mourned the unknown dead. He could not help but wonder how many had died in the furnace he cleaned out every day. Whatever the measure was for the ashes produced from a human form, didn't matter to Barton. He had already made a decision.

It would be better to starve than to shovel any more ashes.