“Shit.” The wax sears a red patch on your thumb.

The candle is unaware of the adage related to biting the hand that feeds you. Unaware, or it just doesn’t care. Because it knows you need it more than it needs you. You provided the spark to ignite its wick already. If you set it down, it would still burn. But you need its light to survive.

And survival is all you can hope for at this point. There is no more happiness. No more hope. No more fulfillment. All but basic continuation of life is gone.

Vanilla ice cream.

The halls are dark and damp. You feel as though you are running through an ancient dungeon, when in reality the hospital ward can’t be more than thirty years old.

Lightning flashes, and you start, very nearly losing the candle to the hard linoleum floor. The cold draft blows through your thin pajamas, and you shiver; wishing the candle gave off both more heat and more light.

The candle is no match for the large unforgiving flashlights the guards are using. That, and the dogs really don’t need that much light in the first place.

Her delicate features. Her soft skin. Defiled by an industrial food processor.

The power outage seemed to be a sign. A signal that this was to be your deciding moment. You were to run, and if you made it out alive, then that meant there was still a purpose to your life. If you didn’t then it was up to you to make sure it ended right then and there.

So you ran. Corporate architects never thought about the fact that electronic lock systems would be completely compromised in a power outage. Seems monitored and centrally controlled don’t mean the same as foolproof. The lights went out, the doors went “click,” and you went out.

The candle was a gift from your mother. Something about cursing candles while you embraced the darkness. Or vice-versa. Hard to keep it straight anymore.

Hard to keep anything straight anymore.

It was supposed to be some kind of meat pie. Served a’ la mode. That’s what she said. European. Tasted heavenly. That’s what she said.

The moisture had seeped into the building, as it always seemed to do when it was rainy. Seems concrete, bulletproof glass, and bars can’t keep the liquid out. So you slip as you turn the corner, and the candle gutters dangerously. But then the flame dances back to life as you lift it almost religiously up in the air, desperate to keep it aflame.

And it did taste heavenly. You said it was better than apple pie. And apple pie is your favorite.

The barking and jangling of keys gets closer and closer as you scramble down the stairs. Twelve flights. One hand held in front of the candle’s desperate flame, praying to whoever will listen to keep the flame alight.

But no one listens to the prayers of a baby-eater. A monster of mythological proportions. Eating his own young. No one looks out for that kind of abomination.

The candle flies from your hands as you misjudge the number of stairs before the landing and you fall painfully to your knees. It clangs and stutters across the hard concrete landing as only a preformed store-bought candle can, and then it dies. Everything is blackness.

Just like your soul. Forever blackened.

“But I didn’t know,” you want to shout for the millionth time.

It makes no difference. Others say she was the crazy one. She was the one who is damned for all eternity.

But she’s not the one who asked for seconds.