Who will burn? by Alyssa Shonk

There I sat, continuously watching people buzz by, waiting for anyone to notice me. It had been 234 days since someone took the time to glance in my direction. I always ensured my pretty glass exterior was beautiful for people to observe. It showed just enough to wonder about what the sparkly, opaque facade was covering from the rest of the world. Finally, on day 235, you walked by, hoping to find something pretty to liven up your apartment. Something you wouldn’t mind looking at. Something you thought smelled nice. Something you would use to create a wonderful living environment. That’s when you looked behind my seller’s counter to the shelf I was sitting on. You were the first person to ever ask the seller to take me off my shelf. I left a ring of dust behind, a reminder of the years I waited for this moment. You asked, “How much for the beautiful candle?” You called me beautiful. Nobody ever called me beautiful before.

“How much are you willing to pay for it?” my seller asked. I don’t think my seller ever determined my price, believing I would stay on that dust-ridden shelf forever.

“I’ll pay five bucks for the candle,” you responded. A whole five bucks. I could only imagine how generous of a person you were to spend a whole five dollars for me.

“Deal,” my seller said. After I was sold and definitely leaving that place, I chose to finally look at you. You had big hazel eyes that complimented my midnight blue wax. You had messy brown hair, falling in different directions like my soon-to-be wavering and shifting light. But, I was attracted to your genuine smile the most. Your smile said you would take care of me. We would live together, creating a beautiful, vibrant space. Your smile was the last thing I saw before my seller wrapped me in bubble wrap, and it was on my mind the whole way back to your apartment. It created the person I thought I knew.

When you took me out of the bubble wrap, your apartment didn’t reflect your smile’s person. It was a small, dark apartment due to your thick curtains covering your floor length living room window, preventing any light from entering your space. It smelled awfully of mildew. I understood why you needed me. You needed me to introduce light into your apartment. You needed me to bring something sweet-smelling. I now understood my job. I needed to repay you for noticing me.

You put me on your living room end table, next to your couch, directly in front of the giant black curtain. You left me there for days, while you spent most of your time in another room in your apartment. I heard noises, running water and a television, and I assumed it was your bedroom. But, I was never allowed to enter that space. The space where your true personality emerged. I was in the space that guests see. The space you curate for intruders to view.

Finally, after a couple of days, you sat on the couch, took my top off, grabbed a match, and let my wick catch aflame. It was the first time I was ever lit by another person, and it was magical. I knew I could never return to who I was before my wick burned for you. I had never before felt such energy flow out of me. This whole new experience you introduced to me was breath-taking. It couldn’t stop. You stayed next to me for too short a time, but then left me. I didn’t mind though. I kept supporting the flame to change your living room into your warm, bright smile. I was okay burning alone if it meant this guest space was more like you.

Eventually, you came out of your room, blew out my flame, and left. You never asked me if you could extinguish my flame. It was the one thing that connected me to you, and then you left. You left me in your cold, dark apartment that was nothing like you.

This cold, looming feeling surrounded me until you came back. To our spot. You on the couch, me on the table. You would light a match and let my wick burn.

Every time you came to join me, I gave you a little more of my wax in hopes you would sit with me longer. I hoped that you would feel my warmth and be inclined to open those curtains to let light into your apartment. I wanted to make a difference in your life by changing your facade to the amazing person inside. Yet, you would light me, sit with me for a time, then leave. Everytime. And, you always made sure to blow out my flame, so I couldn’t spread my warmth through your apartment.

The worst part was when you put my top on to stop my flame. I was suffocating from this flame we built together. It was too hot. I couldn’t breathe. I was trapped within my pretty glass exterior until my flame was smothered because you chose to destroy it. You never had to feel that suffocating heat or the feeling of the flame slowly dying while you tried desperately to keep it alive. Maybe if I gave the flame a little more of my wax or a little more of my wick it would stay.

You’d return, light my flame with your match, and throw away the match afterwards. I was the one keeping our flame alive. I kept giving more wax. I kept burning my wick into a shiverled, blackened version of myself. All I was trying to do was make you see yourself the way I did. Make your apartment more warm and bright. Make your apartment like your smile. You didn’t want that though. You controlled me so that I couldn’t change you. You only changed me.

Finally, the day came when I had no wax left to give. My wick was curling into itself, brittle from the constant strain of supporting the flame. You grabbed your match, as always, but as hard as I tried for the flame to stick to my wick, I couldn’t. You tried twice before you gave up. I gave up all my wax for months, and you gave up after trying twice. You put my top on. I hated when you did that, but you never seemed to care.

You carried me out of the room and down the hall, removing me from your curated guest space. The space that never let me see your true self. The self in your bedroom. You walked me down the hall, like I was on the executioner's block. Because I was. You opened another door and threw me. I can still imagine the feeling when I left your figures and the entire world fell away. There was nothing connecting me to your world, except this impending feeling that I was about to drop. And I did, without any control of where and how I would land. The only thing you ever gave into our relationship was the booming sound of the door closing, locking me into this new part of my life.

My pretty glass exterior broke when I hit the bottom. The sparkly, opaque facade that enticed you to buy me was destroyed. There I waited, the sound of the closed door still ringing within me. I couldn’t give you anything else. I couldn’t support my flame any more, but you didn’t even try to find a solution. You just got rid of me. You literally threw me away like garbage. There I waited cold and alone in my new space. My feelings overwhelmed my being because I knew you were never coming back to ignite my warm flame.

I gave up my wax for you. I turned my wick fragile and brittle for you. I turned myself into something I didn’t recognize because I wanted to save you. I didn’t know how I would make myself recognizable again. I didn’t know who I was anymore. Sitting in the trash can, wondering how I would rebuild myself, I realized something. Your cold, dark apartment wasn’t the image you were presenting to people. It was actually you. You just had a warm, bright smile on top to conceal your cold, consuming self.