Just Another Number?

"I've done this a hundred times before, maybe even a thousand.", he thought as he mechanically went through his morning routine. Paying little attention to anything really and completely lost in thought. He cleaned himself up, ate breakfast, and drove himself to work. 

"There it is," he sighed out loud at the site of the plain brown building, which slowly crept into view and rounded a curve in the road. Without being fully aware he parked his car and made his way inside. Going through his tasks, as he did any other day, he knew today was anything but. All the while he still tryed to convince himself otherwise. 

"Try and think of it as just another number, that's all. So what if it was mine. Would it have mattered if I had ran into any of the others before?", he still struggled with his thoughts. In the back of his mind, behind his concious thoughts, memories started to fill the space in no particular order. He tried not to notice he had started crying. The few others present, co-workers, pretended not to notice either as he passed them by. He approached his station and completely broke down. He was a pet-cremator, and today was the day he would cremate his own. 

He wanted it to be this way, if not himself Who? Who else would feel what needed to be felt? Who would remember what needed to be remembered? Who would cry? "It has to be this way, to anyone else she would just be another number, like the others....", he thought. He was trying to give himself any strength he had. "After everything you have given me...", the scene started building itself again. He was all too familiar with how this replaying, re-telling of the same anguished story would go, he would not fight it anymore. "If all I can have are memories, let me have all I can," he failed to consoled himself. 

A non-distinct anyroom, white and clean. A standard medical table slightly off the rooms center, a few chairs bordered the white walls, they were hardly used. Figures started to manifest in specific locations, in specific positions, with specific emotions. He could see it all from a third person point of a view, as if he were watching a show where he was the main character. Then the sounds. Anguished language passed between the two present. It was a scene that required only emotion to understabnd. One look, one feel, and anyone present would rather be anyone else. "But no matter how we run, it will eventually be our turn.". He shook the scene from his mind for the hundreth time that morning.

He pressed some buttons, opened and closed some drawers, dawned a respirator mask, and safety goggles. There was a conveyour belt to his right upon which his work was delivered. "About forty a day," he thought and he carefully loaded number forty into the incinerator, shut the door, and engaged the machine. A flash of light followed by whisps of smoke and an aweful smell, forty is gone forever. Looking to his right, number thirty-nine slide down the conveyour belt. In this fashion he went through the hours of day trying thinking of nothing, but only thinking about number one.

He specifically chose to do "her" last, he was afraid to think her name. Even thinking about thinking about her name brought a flood of tears directly behind to his eyes and heavyness upon his hard. A wiff of her scent filled his brain, and a stream of tears flowed down his face. 

The turning of his heart, the deep and stuttering pulls of breath, the dry streaks of tears being refreshed a new without want. As he tried to focused on anything to forget the pain, all he noticed was that nothing was sufficient enough. 

He was so lost in thought, he had noticed numbers ten through two, maybe even on purpose. If he was aware, he feared he would not have been able to continue. Immediately a heavy wave of reality hit him from behind. He was drenched with sadness, emptiness, love, loss, want, anger, apathy, and all the other adjectives he knew existed for the way he felt. 

There she was, he could see her through tear soaked eye lashes. He wiped his eyes, but it was useless. She looked to be asleep, he even thought he saw her breathing. Another stab in his soul, the emptiness consumed his whole being. He wished that she would wake and greet him with happiness and kisses if he simply whispered her name. "What I wouldn't give," he thought almost pleadingly. With the back of his hand he brushed the top of her head. 

From the drawers, he pulled her blanket and wrapped her up nice and snug for the last time. Gently he picked her up, and held her as he used to as he gently rocked back and forth. What twisted sensations he felt. He was in that hell where both realities existed simultaneously, overlapping eachother as one came and one went. Kissing the top of her head, he knew it was time to say good-bye. Inside he apologized for all the times he could have been better, he revelled in deep anguish. He then felt worse because he remembered all the great times. How she never judged, how she made everything right, she was the example of how everything should be. Love. Love has gone. His Love had died and left him.

He placed her in the machine, and slowly pulled down the shield. Staring at her through the scratched opaque hard plastic, he knew he could not bring himself to press the button. 

"You alright?", a voice from behind asked.

"No,", he replied softly.

"That your's?"

"Yeah..."

A short silence passed. The voice behind knew some time had to pass with which to say goodbye. "Want me to do it?", he finally spoke.

"Yeah...."

An arm entered his field of vision and pressed the button. The flash, the whisps of smoke, the smell. He cried. The same arm wrapped over his shoulder. 

"C'mon man, let's get out of here. You know you should never do your own." The voice started to take on a tone on comfort and consulation.

"Yeah...", was all he could reply.

"You going to be in tomorrow? Looks like a heavy day, they're approving overtime."

"I don't know.".

The two left the open warehouse door leading to the parking lot. The sun was setting infront of them as they walked, casting a warm orange glow which seemed to untouched by time. A light breeze, the kind only seen not felt, flowed but niether were aware. He stood still and looked to the sky. Desperatly searching for any evidence of any afterlife where she may still exist. He thought he heard her bark.