2024 Fiction Winner: "Those Final Ashes of War" by Aidia Kite
Those Final Ashes of War
The world was dark. Dismal. Most would keep inside, maybe turn on a porchlight. Not him. He didn’t give a damn about the way the sky looked, about the way the darkness washed over everything. The moon was haunting, still hanging low, morning—daylight—still hours away. The lack of stars didn’t bother him... neither did the broken streetlamps. The dreary atmosphere meant nothing to him... or rather, he felt comforted by the quiet, still air. There wasn’t any shouting. No loud bursts of noise. Only silence.
He fiddled in his pants pocket for a lighter. Fumbled a few times, much to his annoyance, before finally grasping the tiny fucker. He had better luck with the package in his left pocket, grabbing it with ease and flicking it upright. It was lighter than normal. A grumble escaped his lips as he realized he’d have to go walk to the corner store to replenish his stock soon. Still, he grasped the thin cylinder and rolled it softly between his fingers. It was comforting, feeling that familiar weight. It was nothing, but everything.
Bringing it to his lips, he thumbed the small wheel of the lighter... and just like that, all on his own, he created light. It was small—barely illuminating his face—but it was enough. The familiar small flicker of flame caught the end of the stick, the initial warmth of that first subtle inhale warming his cold heart. It was intoxicating. Those first few drags were all about warmth to him. The way the smoke fell down his throat and into his lungs, the way the heat enveloped his entire body. There was nothing like smoking in the early morning when the only light was at the end of his cigarette.
* * *
The corner store was crowded as all hell. The thin veil of sunlight did nothing to cut the harsh fluorescent lights, and he couldn’t help but squint at the scene before him. He just wanted to pick up a pack and get the hell out of there, but instead he was forced into a long-ass line of dumb fucks who, like himself, couldn’t just sleep until daylight. Most were early workers, grabbing what little food they could before dashing out of the store frantically. Fires lit their asses in a way he could never understand—just leave earlier or pack your own damn breakfasts. Others were addicted to the scratchers, coming in as soon as the store opened to get the first picks. They had a system, some devised methods of ensuring the “best picks”, but he doubted they ever actually benefited from crawling into the store at the crack ass of dawn. He figured that, out of everyone there, he was the only dumb fuck who hadn’t paid attention to his supply running low. It had been one hell of a week.
It was a bullet. A gun. A bomb. The linoleum was reduced to rubble. He could smell dirt. Thick. Thick. Earthy dirt.
The withdrawal was starting to get to him, he could feel it. With every passing person, every hand grasping at some bag of chips, candy, squeezing past him, he grew more and more agitated. Their movements were dumb, and their constant insistence on shoving and nagging made his fucking skin crawl. “No, no, you don’t understand, I need exactly 53 tickets from the Powerball and 32 from The King of Cash,” “How the hell can you be out of coffee at 6am?” “Can you please scan a bit faster? Some of us are trying to go to work,” Their chatter echoed and bounced around in his head until it became this amorphous, ringing blob of sound that gave him a damn headache. His arms were tingling... he just wanted to move forward in line.
“’Scuse me,” a twig, only as tall as his bicep, said before ramming his body into him.
“Watch it, fuckin’ twerp.” He replied gruffly, shoving back somewhat in his attempt to reposition himself forwards.
“Get fucked,” the twerp replied, flipping the bird effortlessly at him. Must not be his first rodeo, being a complete ass to grown adults just wanting to get through their days. A stench emanated from the boy that reminded him of his days before basic—this little fucker was definitely high as shit. He was about to give this little rat bastard the once for, but before he could a loud bang rang through the store. It was violent. Dangerous. He didn’t know what caused it. But fuck. It was loud. Fuck. Fuck.
It was a bullet. A gun. A bomb. The linoleum was reduced to rubble. He could smell dirt. Thick. Thick. Earthy dirt. Mixed with shrapnel. Mixed with fire. Chemicals. Iron. Blood. So much fucking blood. It clung to his body. His shirt was wet. He could feel the way his eyes rapidly darted back and forth, watching as the carnage unfolded. He took one shaky step forward, horrified. There was an arm. He stepped on it. The foul crunch of bone. The squish of blood. He wanted to vomit. He needed an escape. Get him out of here, his body screeched. His heart thundered. Punched at his chest until he felt weak. His breathing... God, was he breathing? Fuck. Breath. Fuck. Breath, damnit! He looked helplessly up at the sky. The sun was so damn bright. He couldn’t see. Only white. A faint voice sounded from the distance. A fellow soldier. He couldn’t make him out. His shadow clung to the floor.
“Jesus Christ, this dude’s trippin’,” the soldier said, his voice faint amidst the chaos of battle, the ringing in his ears. The explosions drowned it all out.
“Shit, dude, you okay?” another voice whispered, tearing against the cataclysm in his ears—his head. The image of the battle started to flicker. For a moment he thought he could make out an aisle of snacks. Tile. But then he was back.
“Sergeant? Sergeant?” He called, the wind rustling, ceaseless against his body. He was alone again. He wasn’t ready for this. God. He’d never be ready for this. He fumbled for his cigarettes. “You’ll need this Private. Trust me.” He had said. He was right. He needed something. He needed to cool down... but there were none. He had sworn he had packed them in his pocket, closest to his chest... but no. There was nothing. The shock from that alone almost brought him back. He recalled frantically opening the pack, struggling to loosen a single cigarette before it was too late. What finally brought him back from his stupor wasn’t the missing pack of cigarettes... rather, it was an ice-cold trickle of some sweet, sticky beverage.
“The hell is that for?” he yelled, his heart rate calming despite his frustration. Before him were two punk ass kids. The scrawny kid from before and another who was much more round and far more worried.
“Shit, sorry, I- was that a bad move?” The fat one struggled to look him in the eyes. The stench of his guilt was sickening.
“Look kid, don’t worry about it,” he found himself muttering, getting up from the floor he had apparently fallen on. He tried to air out his shirt a little with no real success, a sigh escaping him. What a fantastic way to start the day. The twig made a snide face, and he thought for a moment he’d try to retort. Maybe make fun of him for flipping the fuck out. Instead, he nudged the fat one a little.
“Dude, tell ‘im you’re sorry man.” The fat one fidgeted nervously, his guilt apparently reaching beyond the splash of soda on his face.
“Look, uh, sir, that was my cherry-bomb that went off I...” he fumbled a little, and his eyes flicked to the ground, “I wanted to see... well, how it’d affect a toilet ‘n I guess I, uh... I didn’t think anyone...”
The man let out a hearty, dangerous-sounding laugh. The kid looked at him like he was fucking mental, and he couldn’t blame him. He coughed a little before explaining himself: “Don’t worry about it, kid. I did shit like that all the time. You’ve got bigger fish to fry right now.” He motioned towards the clerk, who had a phone pressed to his face, no doubt with the cops on the other end of the line. Their faces fell, and the twig shoved the fat one in anger. He almost felt bad for them. They were just kids, after all.
It took a while for the man to finally get the pack of cigarettes his body and mind were aching for. He found himself thanking the clerk, ignoring the tax, and heading out with a whistle on his lips. He didn’t notice how the twitch, the desire, had lessened when speaking with the little twerps.
* * *
It had been a long time since he had seen Miles. Shortly after he had scrounged something up in the house to eat for breakfast, the old bastard called him up. He was rather insistent on meeting up at a bar for lunch. The man had smiled, agreed, and told Miles that he’d choose the place—he was already fairly acquainted with which places would let him smoke and which ones were anal. He knew Miles would appreciate it—he had always loved the taste the smoke gave his beer.
Upon arrival he found Miles sitting at a barstool, as big as ever. His skin creased a little more, and that ugly ass burn scar made his face look older than it was, but he was still the same burly man as before. The big, dumb smile he gave him and the warm way he greeted him was enough to prove that.
“Shit, Dalton, you look tired,” he chuckled, patting the seat beside him softly.
“Aw shut up Miles. You look like you gained some extra fat yourself.” He smiled, sitting down, and swinging his arm onto the counter. He was a regular here, and already the barkeep was preparing his drink. Miles himself had gotten the same piss he always did—Budlight. “Fuck, you’re still drinking that shit Miles?”
“Eh, what can I say? It’s in my blood,” he grinned and the way his eyes twinkled let the man know he was speaking out of his ass. He laughed in reply, nodding his head in agreement. He reached into his jacket, and pulled out his cigarette pack, picking out two and handing one to Miles just as he used to. He was always happy to share with good ole Miles. But Miles shook his head, and turned down his offer.
“Sorry man, that’s a no for me. I’ve been clean for ‘bout a year now.”
“The fuck you mean clean? You loved this shit man.” His eyebrows furrowed, taken aback. Why hadn’t he told him?
“Yeah, well, my girl never liked that shit. We’ve got a kid on the way, and so I just thought it was ‘bout time to let it go.”
The man looked at the counter, rubbing the chipped lacquer with his fingernails. He was clean? Just like that? Miles, more than anyone, smoked. It soothed him. It hadn’t been his first battlefield—he knew what to expect and found solace in the little relief he could get. So why now? Why, after more battles than he could count? He knew his anger was displaced but couldn’t help it. He grunted, shrugged, and lit his cigarette. He left the other on the table. His beer arrived shortly after, but it stayed untouched. He wasn’t thirsty. He just wanted to fucking smoke.
“I don’t get it man. Just like that?” he mumbled between a breath coated in smoke.
“I mean, sorta. It was difficult but I’d be lying if I said I missed it. I can taste again, and I don’t always have to drench myself during storms.” He looked so sure of himself, a calm smile dancing on his lips as he spoke of all the benefits quitting had given him. But he saw how Miles twitched at the stench of smoke. Watched as his eyes flicked ever so often to the stick in his mouth. He acted all high and mighty, but he was still the same old Miles. Still craved, still felt the effects of it. Miles was still like him. It pissed him off to see him acting otherwise.
“Yeah, well, let me know how that works out for you.” He dismissed him before he could continue his rant. He knew he’d tell him to quit too. That it was “worth it” in the end. Worth the vomiting. Irritation. Headaches. He didn’t know shit.
“My wife called it a coping mechanism,” Miles continued, “like, I was so fucked up by the war ‘n shit that I used the nicotine as my only way to relax. And y’know what Dalton? She was right.” He took the cigarette butt out of his mouth and rubbed it on the counter, glaring at Miles. This fucker. He stood up and mumbled something about the bathroom before walking off. He’d heard it all before. His ex had said the same thing. Told him to get therapy. Begged him, every night, after he had woken up screaming. Threw away his cigarettes, kept him from the car, made him walk to sneak packs. He was tired of it. Fucking tired of people thinking they knew everything.
He returned to Miles, only slightly cooled off. He picked up the cigarette he’d left on the counter and lit it. Took a long drag, gulping down the rest of his beer after. Miles didn’t bring up the cigarettes but watched the man smoke with worry woven onto his face. They spoke for another hour, and it was rather amiable. There was still a bite to his words—the resentment long from gone.
* * *
He had made it home from the rain, thank fuck. It only drizzled slightly on his shirt and had evaporated before he even noticed. His home was small. Cramped. A “cozy” two-bedroom apartment. He had moved there shortly after breaking up with his ex, when he had reacquainted himself with Higgins. Despite his best wishes to keep the place at least somewhat clean, butts littered the floor along with old magazines and god knows what trash. Despite their squalor the landlord didn’t seem to mind. She was rather lenient on them. Her husband had died at war, and it became her mission to support the vets in any way she could. To honor him, he supposed. When they signed on, Higgins had amped up the tragedy of their own battles, of their platoon, sobbing pathetically. She had given them the apartment at a discounted rate. Dirt fucking cheap. The man had looked away from Higgins’ show, but let it happen.
Higgins, to his surprise, was home. He had half a cigarette in between his fingers and a pack’s-worth of butts placed anywhere but the ashtray. He was watching some sort of pay-per-view channel, grinning like the sick little bastard he was. Upon the man’s arrival he got up from his littered seat and slung his sweaty arm around his neck.
“Dalton you motherfucker! Nice of ya to join me!” He motioned to the couch and the TV, and the man only rolled his eyes in response. The two always shared a smoke when they could. He fished for his own pack despite his annoyance and motioned towards the back porch. Higgins just chuckled and followed, being oddly courteous of the man’s wishes. The two were rather fortunate—the balcony positioned above them kept their heads and cigarettes dry and the rain swelled in intensity.
“So, ya saw Miles?” He asked, nudging him with his pointy ass elbow.
“Yeah,” he hesitated, “The fucker stopped smoking.”
“Figures. Miles was always a lil different, y’know?” The man looked down at Higgins in confusion. Different?
“The fuck you mean?”
“Aw c’mon. Miles never got the rough of it. He never got the fucking sand roughin’ up his ballsack, if you know what I mean.”
“That’s only because you were off fucking—”
“Nah, nah. I meant that he’s never dealt with the shit of all. Not like us. He wasn’t there when shit got rough. He lost his arm early, remember? Didn’t even come back ‘til round the end. Lucky bastard.”
Higgins made a solid enough point, he guessed but... Losing an arm was no child’s play. The war still affected him. He could see it in the creases of his eyes—in the way they darted.
“I dunno, Hig, seems like he’s just gone a bit soft is all.”
“Hah, c’mon. He’s always been soft. Why’n the hell do you think he transferred you after you had that fucking attack?”
* * *
Some time had passed, and the two were still smoking. They had to have gone through at least half a pack at this point. They didn’t mention Miles again. The man had grown quiet, just letting Higgins ramble. The rain was beating down, appearing as a thick layer of fog. Higgins was talking about something absolutely asinine, about how “they should really hire more models” for his fucking magazines cause he was “tired of the same fucking women.” After some time, the man rejoined the conversation. They talked about anything and nothing at all.
“No, dude, I’m serious. We’re all like cigarettes. We start off life clean and pristine, right? No sins or whatever, filled with the possibility of something great or deadly. Then, the world lights our asses, and we’re left to burn and fizzle into nothing but ash. We blacken the lungs of those we love and, in the end, no one will regard our puny butts.” Higgins looked at him like he was mental and replied,
“What a load of bullshit. The fuck you smoking? Positive its nicotine?” The man laughed in reply and shook his head. He felt like he might’ve been onto something there, but it was probably just the booze talking.
He watched as the rain fell. As the trees in the distance shook. He eyed his cigarette, the paper on the end still burning. The smallest picture of orange flame crackled at the edges.
“I think I’m gonna try to quit too,” he whispered, the assertion surprising himself. When had he been thinking that?
“Uh-huh, funny Dalton. Fucking sure dude,” Higgins dismissed him, not even looking up, “I’ll give you a week, tops.”
“You think I can’t handle it?”
“Nope. You won’t last,” he replied easily, “You’re not soft like Miles and you don’t got any real reason to. The itch will affect ya before you can edge past the aggravation.”
“Like hell it will!” He looked down at Higgins, whose eyes stared back at him. They pierced his skin like a bullet. Higgins grabbed his shoulder and sighed.
“Look, Dalton. Motherfuckers like us weren’t meant to quit. We can’t. It’s all we got left that’s... real. Miles has something. We don’t.” He let go of his arm and threw his butt into the rain, turning to go back inside. “If you wanna give into those damn dreams, be my fucking guest, but don’t blame me when you have nothing to comfort you when you wake. It’s a lot hard to burn bodies when you don’t have a fire.” He entered the house, letting the door crash behind him. The man was left alone, with just his cigarette in hand.
* * *
He didn’t know why he’d done it, but the man had decided to walk in the rain. He was soaked to the bone, and the weight of his shirt felt like the weight of his own sins. His hands were shaking—had been, ever since Higgins left him outside. What a shitty conclusion. A correct one. But shitty.
He wished he could wash away their blood from his body. But it stuck. No matter how many showers. No matter how many changes of uniform, of clothes. It still clung to him, haunting his every movement. He could never rid himself of it.
He didn’t notice the rain stop. Hadn’t watched where he’d been walking, how long it had been. All he thought of, all he saw, were their bodies. They didn’t burn them. They couldn’t. But fuck did he want to. He wanted to rid the world of evidence. Erase what he had done for a cause that didn’t fucking exist. But no. Their bones were probably in a pit somewhere. They probably didn’t have graves. Couldn’t.
Higgins had been there that day. Miles had not.
“No, dude, I’m serious. We’re all like cigarettes. We start off life clean and pristine, right? No sins or whatever, filled with the possibility of something great or deadly. Then, the world lights our asses, and we’re left to burn and fizzle into nothing but ash.”
He continued to walk aimlessly. His shirt still sopped, his hands still trembled, but he faintly recognized the absence of rain. As if on cue, he motioned for his pack. Yet when he pulled it out, he did not grab his lighter. Instead, he stared at it.
Miles’ words, Higgins’ words, echoed. He stared at the logo intently, as if trying to find a meaning that was never there.
He wanted to quit. He had to. He had to keep smoking. He wanted to.
His eyes turned toward a deep puddle on the side of the road. He couldn’t undo his sins. Couldn’t destroy his memories. But... why should he continue this? He couldn’t control the past. Only the present.
Rashly, he threw the pack in the puddle. Watched as it bubbled and sank in the water. Stared at it, sitting still.
Panic.
They were fucking ruined. It’d take him at least two days to air them out... and they never tasted well wet. A wetness on his face startled him. It wasn’t raining, but his face was wet. Warm. He was crying. Fuck. He was crying. Shit was never as easy as this, was it? Fuck, why couldn’t he just stop? Why couldn’t he continue?
He stooped down, wiping his annoying-ass eyes, and grabbed the drenched pack.
Aidia Kite (all/any) is currently working towards their B.A. in English/Creative Writing at Kansas State University. They have a particular love for science fiction and fantasy, and you can often find them neck-deep in world-building as a result. They have two cats, named Doodle and Smudge, who both help them write and keep them from writing—Smudge particularly being known for shutting off computers midway through work! Beyond writing, Aidia loves to draw, read, and play video games, with their love of art in particular melding with their writing to form their most beloved form of literature—comics.