Yellow Flames

As the sun crept down the horizon, like a spider crawling down its web, a chill swept across the land. The stars lit the meadows, and out here, the edge of town, it was the closest thing to a streetlight. There were no crickets chirping, no birds singing, there was just silence, and it was enough to numb my ears.

The sky was clear, but my mind was not, my thoughts burdened with the thought of warmth. I rubbed my arms. The sleeves of my shirt were pulled over my hands, because that little bit of warmth meant a mile.

Dad banged on the side of the chimney, and there was a scratching noise, the sound of scampering, and then something thumped across the roof. Its claws clicking with each step, it disappeared into the gum trees that lumbered over our house.

We thought it was gone, safe, and Dad lit the match. He struck the box once, twice, and a little flame was born, dancing on the end of the stick. He held it over the small tepee he had made out of sticks collected from the backyard, and the newspaper caught fire. The flames grew, and smoke rose up into the chimney, the way mist slithers into the sky.

He shut the door, and the flame now engulfed the log, and just like that, warmth radiated into the rooms, and warmed our bones. We didn’t expect the screams, the sound of it trying to rip the guts of the chimney open.

But it happened.

The next thing we knew, there was a sliding sound. That was the first clue. I guess the little thing had passed out when the smoke choked its lungs. For a moment, everything was quiet, Mum, Dad and my little sister listened intently. Even the TV seemed to stop and listen. Then we went back to munching down our lamb chops.

It was then we heard the screeching, the screaming, the sound of extreme distress. We jumped out of our seats, our heads darting towards the fireplace.

“Quick!” my Mum knew the sinister thing we had done, “get it out!” yet, as Dad reached for the handle to open the door to the chimney, all flashed silent. Relief washed over us like water, as we knew its misery had ended.

We were wrong.

It was just like a horror movie, as my mum describes it now. The light from the fire was dim, and already the warmth it had provided began to disperse. Dad turned the handle to the side, and hesitantly, opened the door. And out it came. It didn’t spring out though. It appeared dead as a doornail hanging upside down from the . We all screamed in shock. Then it started to breath, froth gurgling from its mouth. Its whole side was burnt like coal, the lumps of fur and meat blackened. Its breaths were heavy and rasp. We looked at it in horror and guilt, all feeling the butterfly’s go crazy inside our bellies. Now our one intent was not to eat in peace, but to save our little creature that we had, for so long, called friend. We had to save Pete.

I ran down and greabbed the cat cage, and Dad plopped it in with the tongs. Its body lay limp, and its little tummy rose and dropped with each crooked breath. Mum’s hands were shaky as she took the wheel, and we rammed down the driveway and onto the lonely roads. I looked out the window at the other houses passing by. None of them had huge trees like us, none of them had little animals living in their backyards. None of them had Pete.

I remember when we’d fed him a banana. We would creep up to him, and he’d watch us with those big brown eyes of his. He took it right out of our hands, ripping bits off and stuffing it into his mouth. His little whiskers bouncing up and down. I swear that he would smile when we gave him something to munch.

And now he was sitting next to me, dyeing. Our little friend. Someone who was part of a family, lying there, dyeing. It seemed like forever when we finally arrived at the vet, each second seemed invaluable. I watched him in the cat cage, still breathing slowly, his eyes staring into emptiness.

We took him inside, and handed him over to the vet. She took him away from us, that night, and we went home; it was all we could do, we had done our best.

When we were driving home, my little sister spoke. “Will Pete be okay Daddy?” she whispered.

“Of course, mate, he’ll be just fine,” never in my life had I heard his voice so shaky. He was my closest mate, and I could tell that he was lying to protect her. It worked though, she brightened up then, and was fidgety the whole ride back.

I was still, the sick feeling I had got when I saw Pete hanging upside down out of the chimney had still not left. When we got back, we tried to pretend it didn’t happen, but even my little sister seemed quiet.

Later that night we got the phone call. Mum picked it up, listened, then propped the phone back down. She looked at us sadly, then quietly put my little sister to bed. When she came back, a little tear had crept out of her eye. She didn’t need to say it for we knew, but she said it anyway.

“They had to put him down,” she said quietly, and that was it, Pete was gone.

Pete was a great possum. He was never afraid to bond with us, and in a strong way, he was family. My only wish is that he rests in peace, and to this day, I still wonder if his death was inevitable.

This was a school assignment, still not handed in so suggestions and such would be awesome! Also based on a true story.