Marked For Greatness

Ethan cleared the sweat off his brow as he pulled the last tray of cakes from the oven. The wonderful smell filled the little, clamoring pastry shop, however it did close to nothing to give him a much needed boost. This was simply one more day of crushing work, and the heaviness of his life's burdens felt heavier every second.

"Ethan! Are those rolls ready?" Mrs. Hargrove's harsh voice cut through the air. She was a frequent client — one of the many who dealt with him like soil underneath their feet.

"Indeed, ma'am, barely out of the oven," Ethan answered, forcing a respectful grin as he set the tray on the counter.

Mrs. Hargrove, a strong lady with a face that appeared to be for all time scratched in a frown, moved toward the counter, looking at the cakes with doubt.

"They should be great this time. Last time, they were dry and tasteless."she mumbled.

Ethan bit back the urge to protect his work. He realized too well that any protest from him would just compound the situation. However, he gestured, quietly putting the warm rolls into a paper pack. "Please accept my apologies about that, ma'am. I trust these are much better and will match your taste."

Mrs. Hargrove heaved, getting the pack and turning to leave. However, she held back, her eyes restricting as she ventured into her handbag. "The amount?" she asked, her tone trickling with scorn.

"Three pounds," Ethan answered, his heart sinking as he guessed what was coming straightaway.

"Three pounds for this?" Mrs. Hargrove sneered, waving the sack in the air. "You can't be serious. This isn't worth a portion of that!"

Ethan felt the natural sting of embarrassment. He'd went through hours culminating those rolls, waking up first thing in the morning to guarantee they were new and delightful. However, as far as she might be concerned, they were nothing.

To everybody, he was nothing. "Please accept my apologies, ma'am, but that is the value," Ethan said, his voice shaking somewhat. "I can't — "

"You can't? Take care of your business appropriately?" Mrs. Hargrove intruded on, her voice rising. “You expect me to pay full price for something so mediocre?I'm not paying a penny more than one pound, and that is being liberal."

Ethan's hands grasped into clench hands underneath the counter. There wasn't really any need to focus on the cash — it was the rule, the consistent downgrading of his work and his value. But, what else was there to do? He really wanted this work. He really wanted each penny he could get by.

"Please, ma'am," Ethan started, attempting to keep his voice consistent. "The fixings alone cost more than that. If you could just — "

"Are you contending with me?" Mrs. Hargrove's voice was clearly enough to draw the attention of different clients. They went to watch the display, some with pity, others with not so subtle amusement.

Ethan gulped hard, feeling the eyes on him. His face flushed with disgrace. He was caught, cornered by conditions and the impulses of individuals like Mrs. Hargrove.

"No, ma'am," he murmured, the battle draining out of him. "One pound it is."

"I suspected as much," she snapped, hammering the coin on the counter. "In the future,make something that would merit paying for." She stomped out of the pastry kitchen, leaving Ethan standing there, the single pound coin flickering on the counter like an image of his loss. Different clients continued their business, yet Ethan could feel the waiting looks, the quiet thoughts.

He dismissed his gaze, his vision blurring as tears gushed. He cleaned them away rapidly, not believing that anybody should see. However,the pain of the moment cut deep, deeper than any insult or slight he had endured before.He didn't have anything to show for his diligent effort — simply the steady update that he was just a pinion in a machine that didn't really focus anything on him.

As Ethan remained there, the door to the bakery opened up once more. This time, it was Lisa, the young lady who worked the midday shift. She took a gander at him, her eyes loaded up with concern.

"Are you alright, Ethan?" she asked delicately, venturing nearer.

He constrained a grin, gesturing. "Better believe it, I'm fine. Just an extreme client."

"Mrs. Hargrove again?" Lisa scowled. "She's generally so dreadful. You shouldn't allow her to get to you."

"I know," Ethan answered, his voice empty. "Yet, it's hard here and there."

Lisa put a soothing hand on his shoulder. "You accomplish extraordinary work, Ethan. Try not to allow anybody to make you think otherwise."

He wanted to believe her, yet the heaviness of the day's occasions pushed down on him, choking out any glint of self-esteem. He looked at the clock,realizing his shift was almost over. However, the thought of returning home to his desolate, rundown apartment brought him no relief.

"Thanks, Lisa," he said unobtrusively. "I just have to tidy up."

As Lisa went to the back to begin her shift, Ethan continued his errands, attempting to zero in on the straightforward, tedious movements. However, Mrs. Hargrove's words echoed to him, a brutal sign of his position on the planet.

Just as he completed the process of cleaning down the counter, the door tolled once more. Ethan gazed upward, anticipating another client. However, his heart sank when he saw who it was—Marcus, the bakery’s owner.

Marcus was a tall, intimidating man with a harsh articulation that hardly relaxed. He moved toward the counter, his look fixed on Ethan.

"Ethan, we really need to talk," Marcus said, his tone ruling out contention.

Ethan gestured, his stomach contorting with fear. He followed Marcus to the rear of the bread shop, where they could talk in private. When they were too far to hear, Marcus went to confront him.

"I've been hearing grumblings," Marcus started, his voice cold and segregated. "Clients saying you've been rude, that the quality of your work has been slipping."

​Ethan's heart pounded in his chest. "I… I've been giving my all, sir. It's just… a few clients can be troublesome, and — " "I'm not interested in excuses," Marcus interfered. "This bakery has a reputation to maintain, and I can't bear to have it tarnished. If you can’t handle the pressure, perhaps this isn’t the right job for you.”

The words hit Ethan like a punch to the stomach. He opened his mouth to answer, to argue for one more opportunity, yet the thorough look in Marcus' eyes let him know it would be pointless. He was at that point censured.

"I… I get it," Ethan murmured, his voice barely audible. Marcus gestured tersely.

"Great. Consider this your final warning. One more complaint, and you’re out.”

With that, Marcus dismissed and strolled on, leaving Ethan standing there like a moron, the heaviness of the world pushing down on him. He felt squashed, as though the last piece of trust had been snuffed out.

​He got back to the front of the pastry shop, the brilliant lights and bright air,a distinct difference to the tempest raging inside him. As he completed his day of work and was ready to leave, Ethan couldn't shake the sensation of depression that had settled over him.

​The way back home was long and cool, the chill of the night air gnawing through his slight coat. Ethan held his head down, his brain twirling with considerations of disappointment and insufficiency. He didn't have anything — no cash, no regard, no future. Simply an existence of endless toil and embarrassment.

As he arrived his apartment, Ethan stopped, gazing up at the dull windows. A piece of him needed to turn around, to continue to walk and never stop. Yet, he realized there was no place to go, no way out from the existence he was caught in.

With a heavy moan, he got over the stairs to his apartment, each step feeling like a move up the mountain. At the point when he finally arrived at his door, he bumbled with the key, his hands shaking with exhaustion.

Inside, the apartment was quiet and empty, an impression of his spirit. Ethan dashed onto the ragged lounge chair, his body throbbing from the day's worth of effort. He shut his eyes, attempting to shut out the agony, however it was no use.

In the darkness, the recollections of the day played again and again to him — Mrs. Hargrove's mercilessness, Marcus' brutal words, the sensation of uselessness that stuck to him like a cover.

​He was nothing. Simply an anonymous, nameless hustler in a world that couldn't have cared less if he lived or kicked the bucket.

​As rest finally overtook him, Ethan begged God for a miracle — something, anything, to haul him out of the depression that took steps to consume him.

Yet, deep down, he realized that miracles don't happen to people like him. ​

The sun was setting when Ethan wrapped up cleaning the bakery, its withering beams projecting a brilliant tone over the worn out countertops. He murmured profoundly, his body hurting from another tiring day. The morning's embarrassment actually waited like a negative impression for him, however there was no chance to harp on it. It was payday, and he wanted each penny he could get.

Ethan advanced toward the administrative center, where Marcus was counting the day's income. The ringing of coins and stirring of bills appeared to echo through the little space, enhancing Ethan's uneasiness. He knew how this would go — he'd seen it play out often previously — yet he was unable to bear to leave with essentially nothing.

"Ethan," Marcus welcomed him without looking up, his voice devoid of warmth. "You're hanging around for your wage, I suppose?"

"Indeed, sir," Ethan answered calmly, standing ungracefully in the door.

Marcus finally looked up, his sharp eyes limi