The Flame of Life

Richard was filthy. After four hours of bush bashing he had finally made it. Struggling out of a confining life to find this refuge.  Clothes torn with boots encrusted with dried mud and dust he scrambled up the last rise. The hilltop was bare, like the crown of an old man’s head. All the trees had been degraded to stumps and odd branches and a wooden structure had risen from the devastation. It was a beast of a cottage, with untended branches, twigs and leaves still protruding from the logged sides. The trappers used this shack and the surrounding area as a headquarters during hunting season. It was currently abandoned. All his life had lead to this moment, all the years of torment for this escape. Richard shuffled the last couple of yards, his mind weighing more than this feet or nap-sack. Before he knew it the smell of rotting wood was assaulting his nose and his feet stilled before the ominously plain door. Richard shivered and entered the shack with a slow and controlled movement. He doubted he had the strength to carry out the deed he said he would do. Once inside he gazed around the little room in despair. The little shack was badly furnished and there were no stores or little touches to make it feel like home. Richard shuffled forward and emptied his knapsack on the table. Out spilled twelve bottles of spirit, a box of sleeping pills and a dry-box.



The items lay spread across the table glittering in the filtered light shafting down through the wooden slats. Richard stood there for a time contemplating himself, still searching. While he was travelling he could just forget that this awaited him, but now it was unavoidable. He had aimed so high as a youngster, right up to the top of the world, grasping for the light just out of reach. He thought of those who had grabbed his ankles, pulled him down. Those who came as darting destroyers, pecking and his lifelines and hopes. It was yesterday that they all snapped. Richard had left a trail of sadness behind him; he had ended the lives of three others and then had to run for his. The brush was a tough challenge to the followers and he would have several hours here before he was found. However within himself he could only still find hatred for those who had grounded him. Richard grabbed the first of the bottles and threw it at the wall. The small cabin creaked and woodenly echoed the clash of the shattering bottle. The liquid fell upon the wood as a glistening coat, a shining reminder of how good freedom would be. More and more bottles disintegrated until the earthen floor was peppered in fragments of sparkling, crystalline glass. The smell was now overwhelming, the spirits began to act on Richard, dulling his senses and slowing his actions. Next like in a drugged trance he pulled the first match from the dry box and lit it with his boot. Party tricks were all his life had ever been good for, now it was time to end it.



With an invisible shimmer of the air the spirit-slicked wood roared to life as heat blazed around the small interior.  The heat felt good on his shoulders and Richard began the final step, still not totally aware of his actions or surroundings. The sleeping pills had been pre-popped from their plastic encasements and easy slid from the packet into his mouth. This taste was one of bitterness until he swallowed the lot with a quaff of his remaining spirits. With the house fire in full swing, Richard was now drunk and drugged and he flopped unto the floor like a helpless doll. All emotion was gone, all madness dissipated, all was fed to the flame. When he went the whole world would know and would marvel at his sight. The flaming hutch in which the body of Richard Hartshorn was encased.



Richard’s life had been the torment and the sickness of a hard life. His family had all left and died, his schooling was near impossible and managers never wished to take him on because of a paralysed hand. His death, however, was to have the greatest consequence of them all. From little things come big thing, from small starts come big people and heroes, from humble beginnings come grand testaments to history, from a single spark comes a bushfire.