A Shade of Ochre

It was hot. Coupled with the sizzling heat from the sun piercing in through the fracture that the flailing roof created, it was almost unbearable.

Mark felt a tentacle of fire lick his cheek, leaving a stinging trail in its wake. His bedroom was about to collapse any moment, and he closed his eyes, walking slowly to the next room. The frame of his bedroom buckled and crashed onto the already-flaming ground behind him.

He looked around in wonder at the rest of his house, a cage of blazing orange and yellow and red and blue. He was looking at a sea of fire, hungrily swallowing the walls, the small amount of furniture that he had, and everything else followed in a hypnotic dance, slowly disintegrating into ash.

Smoke clouded his lungs and eyes, but he ignored the dull ache in favour of turning back to watch his bedroom.

His vision was crowded with crimson spots and imprints of roaring flames, and he flicked hair dripping with sweat out of his eyes.

His wardrobe had already caught on in the torrent of heat, sizzling and crumbling- a blur of black in a background of flames. The curtains were the next to fall; pathetically singed pieces of black spiralling lifelessly downwards, just another addition to the piles of rubble and possibly what originally was supposed to a chair.

Billowing smoke crowded its way through the window, muffling vague rumbles of a crowd, which had undoubtedly gathered in curiosity and anticipation.

A wailing siren pierced through the acrid smoke, over the faint screaming and the murmur of the mob.

So they were going to rescue him now? Mark raised an eyebrow, taking his hands out of his pockets and pursing his lips. There was still a way out of the house. The back door, which could barely be said as a fair distance, had not yet followed its various counterparts of the house and stood in a sturdy frame. It was led by the tortuous shape of the house, but years of walking down the same path allowed him easy navigation through the burning remains around him.

His eyes swept one last time around the remains of the guestroom, before his feet took him gently down the familiar curve of the hallway.

Mark closed his eyes at the exhilarating burning of the fire against his bare feet; a mocking sting from the rough wood that hadn’t yet turned to ash completely. He was almost out- and once he passed the last bathroom that signified the exit, it didn’t matter if his house was burning or not.

He didn’t hear the cheering and questions of the throng of people behind him, when he appeared relatively unharmed in front of them. He turned to once again look at the place that had housed him for the majority of his life. It wasn’t his only home, but it was by far his favourite.

He watched the men around his house attempting and failing miserably to slake the fire. They looked around quizzically, as though looking for some divine force to intervene. Mark looked on quietly as someone quickly left to look for reinforcements.

The nearest fire station was on the other side of the city, a good half hour drive. The men present warded off the crowd, assuring Mark that help was on its way, and a short while later, the crowd dispersed, and Mark was left alone.

“You alright, mate?”

Mark tilted his head sideways. A middle-aged man was looking alternatively between him and his house, concerned. Mark gave a gentle bark of laughter, “I’m fine. Can’t say the same for my house, though.”

The man nodded, and they stood looking at his dying house in a vaguely comfortable silence. It was hypnotising- they watched the left side of the house crumble unblinkingly.

“What in the world were you doing?” the man asked. Mark smiled indulgently, but didn’t answer.

“What did it?”

Mark’s gaze didn’t leave the sight of the rubbles. The fire reflected in his grey eyes, tingeing them ochre.

“Me.”

The other man paused, before turning back to watch the fire.

“You can leave now,” Mark said quietly.

The man laughed. “If you insist.”

Mark tilted his head back, looking at the retreating figure in a thin veil of smoke. Amusement gave his face an ugly shadow, and the smile adorning his cheeks held questionable intent.

With a snap of his fingers, the fire vanished.

Word Count: 747 words