The Candle

by

Stephanie Fontaine

She sits still, in the corner of a bare room, watching the shadows of the branches of an old oak tree sway back and forth on the wall. There is no one else with her. She is completely alone. Her only company is a tiny white candle, burning brightly. She watches it's flame burn steadily, and she admires it's courage, and wishes she had some of her own.

The night comes. It creeps up on her slowly, curling it's tendrils of darkness around her, swallowing her. She moves closer to the candle, letting it's pale white light bathe her face. The flame flickers and dances, but does not go out. The courageous little candle burns steadily.

She wishes there was someone here with her. Someone she could talk to. But there is no one. Only the howling of the wind outside. And the soft, insistent voices in her own head.

All her pain, sadness and despair pull at her mind, dragging her down into the black depths of oblivion. She tries desperately to cling to the candle's shining white light, but she loses her grip, and her consciousness goes tumbling end over end into the dark.

For maybe a long time, maybe a short one, her small frail body lays against the hard wall. Her eyes closed. Unconscious.

When she finally wakes, the first thing she sees is the little candle still burning bravely. And for the first time she feels something else mixed in with the saddness and anger and pain. An old feeling. Something she only vaguely remembers.

It's name: Hope.

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Last updated: July 13, 1996