The dried up, decomposing vines brushed her skin, tendrils of the darkness that protected what was left of her soul and crushed the breath from her lungs all at once. The candles in front of her flickered, pitiful against even the promise of wind in a trembling leaf at the edge of vision. Only three. How had three broken candles been all she had to offer for a shattered life?
Hot wax rearranged itself drop by drop into the shape of glass cups, insulation to prevent fire. As if she wasn’t already burning, endlessly unconsumed but raw. As if it had been her skin stolen from her instead of… instead. How many days since she had been able to breathe? A week? Two?
Orange globes peeking from a sea of green. Teeming life. Life on the edge of death; the smell of rot was more appropriate. Death for death. Orange flickered with the flame, mocking, demanding. Only three candles.
People did light candles for death, didn’t they? The trembling leaf released its hold, a moth fluttering to burn, disintegrated, forgotten. No. Never that. How can a chasm be forgotten? There should be stars. If there weren’t enough candles there should at least be stars. Where were the stars? Grieving. Maybe they would die, too; that would be fitting. Stars dying for loss of her Star.
Goosebumps rose under her fingers. Vines whispered. Flames guttered and fell. Only three broken candles.
The Word Worker 