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I hate winter. He burns that wretched fire beneath me and its bloody hot. And then he’ll have visitors over for dinner and shine that awful light over my body. My scales want to crisp up. Its so very hot in the winter.
“…And this is Sherbert,” says Master, pointing over at me, hanging on the wall with full pride over my catch. “I caught him up in Scotland five Christmases ago and I got the chap who stuffs animals to stuff it for me. Its certainly the biggest fish I ever did catch.”
“Awww, what a lovely story old chap,” muffles the guests, who then goes to stare at my body. One time, an old lady prodded at me with her walking stick and plainly knocked me off the wall. I didn’t feel anything, just a little surprised. I didn’t like being nailed back to the wall, very undignified!
Winter come and pass into Spring and then into Summer. The sunlight moves across the room like a compass and Master comes in and out aging as each day pass. One day happy, one day sad and one day indifferent.
One day and another until one day, he fell, just like I did and it didn’t seem to hurt. He didn’t get up.
The fire died out and the night fell. Days passed and he lies there, motionless in is dressing gown, his red scarf pouring over the floor, The silence was deafening. No more crackle in the fire, just the birds tweeping on the branches and the brush of wind phewing along the cracks of the window pane.