The Final Dance

Trigger Warning: death, implied assault

The flame flickers. In. Out. For a terrifying moment, it looks like it is about to be extinguished with a puff of smoke. You wrap your hands around it to guard it from the wind. The flame lights anew.

             The candle is almost a stub now. The wax has melted to become a mountain of cream, one barely visible in the pitch-darkness of the room. But the flame remains true.

             Flickering. In and out. An orange burst of warmth in the icy air.

You withdraw a single hand to wrap the blanket more tightly around your shoulders. You blow hot air onto your icy fingers.

             A single candle does little to warm you.

When you were little, your mother told you stories about candles. About creatures who embodied the flames, who danced around the candle wick as they waited to return to their home far away.

             “What home, mama?” you asked, little enough to sit on her knee.

             “What home?” your mother repeated, a small smile on her rosy lips. “Why, in the sky, of course. Their home is in the stars.”

             The night sky is nothing more than a thousand dead flames, desperately trying to warm the vastness of space.

You don’t believe in fairy stories anymore, but you think of it nonetheless. Your room is outer space. The flame is a single star, unable to warm an entire universe.

             An unexpected draft blows through a crack in the brick wall. The flame nearly flickers out again. Your heart freezes in your chest as you lean closer, praying that the flame will hold.

             You know what happens when the flame goes out.

When you and your mother were still young and starving, every candle was precious. A gift to read by when the sun had gone to bed. A way to light your shack of a house when you did not wish to waste wood on a fire.

             Sometimes, you and your mother would light a candle in the middle of the night. In the faint glow, you would take each other’s hands and dance around the room. Your mother would teach you steps from a dance she learned long ago, back when her own mother had been less poor. You committed each step to memory.

Could you dance now? If the room were not so cold, and the flame not so precarious, would you dance?

             You think you might. This room is small, but your old house was smaller.

The man who sold the candles had a beautiful smile. You remember him offering you sweet treats. You would nibble at the sugary delights as the man exchanged even sweeter words with your mother.

             You liked the man who sold candles. He made your mother smile. On good days, he even made your mother laugh, which sounded like the chimes your neighbor hung outside their window.

The door rattles, and you glance to your right. You cannot see through the small window in the door, but you can imagine two eyes staring in at you. You can picture them searching for the candle’s dull glow.

             “Almost time,” says a voice, harsh against the pulsing quiet of your room.

             You hate that voice with a burning passion, but you temper your anger. There are others who deserve it more.

The man who sold candles was a rich man. He lived in a mansion deeper in the city and told stories of fancy parties and business proposals. He said he sold candles for fun, as an excuse to see your impoverished mother. Your mother told him he should go back home to his fancy red carpets and beautiful young wife, but he did not listen to her.

             Once, he offered your mother a job. You could not hear their entire conversation. You are not sure why your mother refused. She looked flustered when she took your hand, said goodbye to the man, and hurried back home.

             “What’s wrong, mama?” you asked her.

             She only pursed her lips and told you not to ask questions.

             For years, the man who sold candles offered your mother a job. For years, your mother politely refused. And the older you became, the more you began to suspect why your mother kept saying no.

             But the man who sold candles did not listen to anyone. Not even the Lord.

             He cannot listen anymore.

Your candle continues to dance, and the harsh voice does not appear again. You consider giving up. You consider blowing out the candle itself, consider letting it return to its place in the night sky.

             Let it end, the flickering flame sings in your mother’s voice. Let it all end.

             You do not let it end. You only watch.

             “Keep going little flame,” you whisper. “Just a little while longer.”

The man who sold candles came to your house one day. You were not home. You were selling matchsticks at the market.

             You do not know what the man who sold candles did to your mother. But when you came home that day, you saw him leaving your house. He did not say a word to you; he did not see you at all. He walked away with his back to you, obliviously aware that you witnessed anything.

             When you entered your house, you found your mother, her soul snuffed out as quickly as the candles of the man who killed her.

Your candle is nearly gone. The blackened wick curls in on itself as the flame eats away at it. The wax is so low that it is nearly level with the stone floor.

             The man who sold candles was a rich man. But rich men can be killed as easily as impoverished mothers. It is only the consequences that are steeper.

             The flame disappears, engulfing the room in darkness. The smoke burns in your eyes.

You hear the door to your cell burst open with an ugly clatter. Guards flood in.

             “It’s time,” says one.  

             You do not regret what you did, even as the men lead you away. Soon, you will join your mother in the night sky.

And you will dance.