I crouch to the candle,
my hands almost touching the flame,
but its heat washes past,
avoiding my sore, cold fingers.
I bear it no grudge.
Who am I to pass judgement
on a sprit as free as the fire.
The flame is company.
The flame is a friend.
Even though it denies my necessity,
the flame is a comfort yet.
The candle burns slowly.
I watch the melting wax
running down the side,
anxious to escape
the flickering feast.
I shudder.
I can see my breath.
At least I know I'm still alive,
unfortunately.
The wind howls beneath the door,
a thousand wolves fighting to gain entrance,
fighting to reach me.
I should open it.
I should give them what they want.
Me.
But, of course I don't.
As worthless as I feel,
as strong as the impulse is,
I don't.
I still, uselessly,
sit with my hands to the flame,
and wait.
I don't see the room about me,
it disappeared long ago.
Vanished along with my will.
My world is now the flame,
and my hands held before it.
I shudder again,
and I cough.
I can taste blood,
again.
The shadows whisper,
dark, sinister notions,
but I pay them no heed.
Their insights are no darker than my own.
I feel tired.
My eyes feel heavy.
I'd close them,
but I know that, in time,
I'll open them again,
to another morning,
to a dead candle.
The desire is too strong,
and I sleep,
but I was wrong.
I don't open them again.
YOU ARE READING
Dark Places
ParanormalI am Death. I know who you are... There is darkness and madness in each of us. We must do battle with our own demons. But... What if those demons opened the door in the back of your mind and stepped out. What if they became real? If the night, the s...
