our ashes are all the same

*Small trigger warning- descriptions of burning alive*

Margret would miss them so much. She closed her eyes and remembered.

—-

She started at the beginning. The place it all started.

Margret grinned looking up at the columns of books. She had never seen so many in one place before. Her parents were talking to the librarian a couple feet away. And within a few seconds, Margret was gone, the only clue being the light sound of tiny feet pitter-pattering on the carpeted floor. A gaudy style carpet that reminded her of her grandfather’s study he would smoke and review the paper in. Margret missed when he would sit her down on his lap and read her stories from his small shelf set to the side, his hands waving in animation as he acted out the funny characters actions and words for her.

Mama told her she was too old for grandfather’s stories now. She only saw her grandma now. She didn’t like her as much. Margret would always treasure the distinct smell of smoke and feel of carpet more than sewing and the cold feeling of linoleum floors beneath her.

Margret skidded to a stop at the children’s section and her hands went grabby mode, wide eyes and dilated pupils at the multitudes of books.

Skinny ones, thick ones, leather bound, and paper-thin ones. She eyes the ratty-old titles with interest. A small cart set aside was where they were located. Her grandfather’s books were always ratty styled, maybe that was why she was drawn to them. She quickly pounced upon them and began pulling a few away giving each a long glance and pat on their spines before placing them down quietly. Soon she had a small stack she wanted, and small stack she would wait for. Margret jumped hearing a loud thunk behind her. She whirled around and narrowed her eyes at the book lying on the ground behind her. She peered up and to her ultimate surprise, saw a small boy around her age looking at her from on top of one of the towering bookcases. She gasped and stood, her neck craning for a better view of the mischievous boy.

He giggled and wiggled his fingers at her before darting backwards out of her view. She took a careful look around, her narrow eyes keeping a look out for the librarian. Margret felt a smug smile set on her face and she began to scale the case, freezing when it wobbled a bit. The boy’s face reappeared again a bit of worry sparking in his brown eyes. They reminded her of the caramel that her dad would buy for her if she was being good. Margret desperately hoped she was being good enough to get to see those eyes more. He held out a hand kindly and she took it, once on top of the shelf she dusted off her plaid dress, ever the well-mannered lady.

“Hello!” she said with glee at her now companion. He smiled back and held out a hand. She took it shaking it. She waited for him to speak. He made no move to speak. After few seconds of awkward silence, he grimaced and his hands started flying in the air not unlike her grandfathers did, but they were not animating a story.

She shook her head not understanding. He sighed and stopped moving his hands. He tugged her hand instead and she complied quickly as he led her across the rows of shelves. She found herself laughing quietly not to alert the adults below.

He covered his mouth for a second, a grin obvious. Margret followed him as he began to climb down at a certain shelf. When they both reached the bottom, he led her over to a book. She pulled her hand away from his grasp to pull it out. Her gaze flitted over the title for a minute or so trying to understand then looking back at him as he waved shyly. She gasped in understanding and jumped up and down, the book forgotten as she took his hands and pulled him along with her in her glee.

He looked surprised at her emotion.

Margret paid no attention and grabbed the book again settling down on the carpet. He joined her peering at it. Margret took his hand and let him make the hand signs as she flipped through the pages.

Being mute was no problem when you had a book to translate. It took the two awhile to go through the alphabet, but slowly- painstakingly slow, Margret learned his name.

‘N-I-C-H-O-L-A-S’

She grinned and let him help her through the hand signs as she pointed out the letters.

‘M-A-R-G-R-E-T’

—-

Margret sat on the carpeted floor and shook her head as her life flashed before her eyes. She would miss them all so.

—-

Margret had long since left the children’s section. She was now curled up on a chair, the poufiness reminding her of her aunt’s own chair in the living room they used to dance together in, twirling and sashaying in for hours to an old forgotten tune. Edgar Allen Poe’s poetry sang her hearts songs now. John Keats held her hands as she danced to a ballad. But she kept a special place in her heart for the dances only friends shared.

Nicholas skipped in through the wide doors, a bag on his back as he flung it onto a couch by her and waved in greeting. Margret grinned and waved back, signing quickly with practiced ease.

‘what’s next?’

He shrugged, ‘Up to you this go-around.’

She nodded placing her fingers on her chin in mock thinking, Nicholas knew exactly what she would say. He grumbled and threw up his hands.

She laughed and stood placing aside the book she had in her hands, deceptively dog-earing the page. Nicholas would kill her if he knew she was still doing that. Margret didn’t doubt him showing up tomorrow with a basket full of bookmarks. She grabbed his hand; he groaned and made other concerning sounds as she dragged him over to the American history section. He facepalmed and tugged out of her grip, pulling over the rolling ladder over to where she paced, flashing him a grateful smile before scurrying up.

He nodded tapping his foot impatiently as she plucked a few books out. Margret set the books down on a rung and signed down to him.

‘You want anything this time?’

‘Nope! I am happy with my fiction.’

She smiled down and he gave a content grin back as she stuffed the books into her side satchel and slide down the ladder. Reaching the bottom, she stuck out a hip and flared her hair, leaning on the ladder.

He eyed her for a second questioningly.

‘Yes?’ he signed hesitantly, and she laughed shaking her head.

‘Nothing, nothing’

He rolled his eyes and pushed her gently she giggled and followed him back to their spot each of them signing in silence to each other.

—-

Margret flinched as she felt the heat inching closer, her knees felt as if they were being seared like a steak. She squeezed her eyes shut trying to think of nothing but the hand she clutched tightly.

—-

The day was beautiful really. The sky was turning a crisp pink, the oranges and yellows of the sun filtering through as dusk set upon the city, but the center of its attraction was the burning library. Millions of pages fluttering around escaping through the windows as their covers, their chains were burned off of them.

Margret was terrified. Her and Nicholas worked in tandem, each of them not sparing a second in their desperate work, every second meaning another death. Margret rushed about nonfiction sections, hurrying to stuff as many classics and historic documents into her satchel as she could. When it became too much, she would hold her breath, mumble a prayer, and slip out the back door of the library. Rushing became a norm, going between the burning library and the stragglers of the cheering crowds and the shed that would serve as their little haven.

Margret’s heart thrummed in her rib cage, beating desperately, begging to be set free, to help those books… poor, poor books. Their stories being wiped clean from the pages. Just like every other library in the country.

Margret jumped back into the smoking building, shouting Nicholas’s name, breathing in relief when she saw him sprinting out with another load of books. He saluted at her as she nodded back grimly before ducking under a fallen case, books scattered on the floor. She reached the center of the library and took a moment to look around at the destruction. The non-fiction was gone in flames, fiction was beginning to smoke, plumes coming off of the cases. She glanced over to poetry and decided they would be her last trip; despite the severe damage she could see. Sprinting over she began recklessly tossing books in, climbing up a rung on the cases to reach one. She gasped as she felt it tremble under her. Then suddenly her world was spinning, she heard a crunch behind her as she fell scrambling to escape the falling case. The world went black, and she knew no more.

—-

Margret can tell the tears are slipping out of her eyes. They’re just evaporating before they can leave. Sometimes she wonders if the characters in her books felt this way.

—-

Margret hobbled into her dress. Her aunt helping her do up her hair, her mother powdering her face lightly, a joyous tear or two slipping out. She hugged her mother and smiled. Mother patted her cheek endearingly then pushed her to go on. She nodded, and only a few minutes later, the church bells were ringing out, she was married to her love, and the books were safe. For now, she kissed Nicholas and ate clementines, the bitter tang sweet between them.

—-

Nicholas’s hand squeezed hers and she took a moment to peek at the charring hand, its bubbling fingers twitching, the slow movements comforting.

‘M-A-R-G-R-E-T’

Nicholas’s hand fell away from her own.

Margret bore her agony well.

—-

She was in her fifties, a limp to her step, and a cane in her right hand. She felt the pain of time clearly in her hip, the agony of it all seemed to crash on her in the times most inconvenient. That was why she of course found herself sitting on a bus stop bench, panting like the police were after her. Along with a book in her satchel and a young- concerned girl sitting by her, her legs still swinging; unable to yet touch the ground.

Margret pressed a hand to her chest, trying to slow her pounding heart. The girl held out a hand politely. Margret eyed her carefully before taking it. She was happily surprised to not see any of the devices that snatched children attention so in her grasp. Margret tilted her head, a pair of bright blue eyes peered out from long, untrimmed bangs of the girl’s honestly unruly mop or brown hair.

Margret found herself in love.

“Hullo deary!” she said sweetest she could. The girl grinned wide, rummaging in her back pocket for a moment. Margret laughed when she procured a lollipop for her, orange flavor too- Margret always loved clementines. She accepted the offer as graciously as someone of her age could, and somewhere she thought wistfully, that once upon a time she might have wanted a child like this. Yet, once upon a time did not exist in a world of firemen and banned books. Outside of her satchel that is.

“What might your name be sweet child?”

“Claire!” she chirruped with a small hiccup at the end. Margret nodded and took a small breath before deciding she could trust the young girl with piercing blue eyes and bright personality.

“Claire?”

She looked up at Margret with question in her eyes.

“Would you like a present?” The girl nodded up and down quickly, sitting on her hands as to not make them fly up in animation. Margret found her old soul chuckling at the excitement.

“You need to promise me one thing, ok?” she said with care. Claire nodded serenely.

She took a nervous look around as she pulled out the small book of fables, sliding it into the girl's hands and motioning for her to look at it before she hid it.

Claire stared at it with deep interest, her eyes stuck on it, unmoving as if it might disappear if she were to look away. Margret felt a tear sneak out. She took Claire hand and pressed it between her other.

“You must guard it with your life dear. Look at it there-” she pointed at the title. “-Aesop’s Fables it says, you can read right?” Claire nodded quickly.

“Good, good. Now this book- yes book,” she added when Claire’s eyes flicked up uncertainly.

“- you mustn’t show your parents Claire, they will be very sad. It would do no good to do such. Now girl, promise me you won’t throw it away.” Claire looked up, her gaze taking a long moment to try and decipher any underlying meaning in Margret words. After a long second she smiled. “I won’t toss it out Miss.” Margret released a breath and patted the girls back, reaching for her cane as she stood; her own pain forgotten for a moment.

“Thank you, Claire. Now you keep safe.” She waved one last time at the child and began continuing her way back home.

If Margret had just taken a moment to look back- she might have seen the device the girl pulled from her pocket. If she had taken a second to check, she would have noticed the children’s fable, lying helplessly in a trash bin by the station. But Margret did not look back.

—-

Margret’s eyes flew open. She heard her screams distantly as the fire tore at her clothes greedily, its tongues licking at the book clutched in her left hand, the searing pain as it tore Nicholas’s hand from her right. More in focus however was the agonizing shrieks emitting from her books, her poor, poor books. She howled right along with them as the firemen outside watched in faux horror as the kooky old lady and her silent husband burned with their little library.

The smell of ashes filled up her senses, and she bawled at the smell of her companions remains, a few pieces of paper fluttering preciously in the air.

Margret writhed in pain, her hand moving of its own accord, crying for a person who could no longer help.

‘N-I-C-H-O-L-A-S’

Her gaze found her hand, and the pain slipped past her now glazing eyes as her body stilled, her heart unable to run on burnt pages of Poe, and the torn scripture of the bible no longer holding her up as she made her final stand.

She grinned blearily at the sight of her charred skin turning to ash before her eyes, the flakes falling onto a book. However much she despised fire and the pain it caused, it sure did expose the truth.

Because in the end, our ashes are all the same.