Candle

Mary

“Witch!” The townsmen cried. “Burn the witch!”

We awoke to the roar of a hungry inferno. Flames danced along the wooden planks of our bedroom, creeping along the bookcase, burning years and pages of private research with an outstretched flame. My chest tightened as I fought back tears in the smoke. How did they find out?

“Mom! Why are they doing this?” Tears dripped down my daughter’s face, as I pulled her small, shivering body close to me.

“Annie, listen to me,” I smoothed her matted hair, wincing as the fire singed my blouse, “They can take away everything,” I smiled softly, “But they can’t take your ambition.”

Before I dared to cry, I hurled my body against the window, until the glass shattered into a million tangerine shards. I kissed her one last goodbye and let go, watching her fall down to the sprawling oak trees below.

Annie

I was reborn from the unforgiving fire. Many say it was a miracle I survived. My jaw was seared black. Red claws gutted my cheeks and formed boils across my forehead. Even my voice rattled and wheezed. In my mind, I knew I didn’t survive. Who I saw now in the reflection was a new, marred figure.

People in the orphanage always reminded me of my disfigurement, regardless of whether they meant to or not. In their awkward smiles and hurried feet, wide eyes and masked or unmasked disgust, I saw myself reflected as a body scarred by flames. Scars that have diminished my capability and identity, even to be human.

My eyes hollowed as I aged into acceptance. I breathed as softly as a mouse and retired early to my room. I learned to settle listlessly into this new life, until I met my one and only dear friend in the orphanage library. He reassured me that true humanity is defined not by appearance, but by reason and virtue. This friend was none other than the ancient Greek philosopher, Plato. When I felt doomed to suffer in solitude forever, Plato’s Republic came to me as sweet as a thousand friends. It was not as if I knew Plato, and Plato did not know me. Through his past teachings and philosophy, we seemed to converse, get to know each other, and grow in thought together.

Many nights, I retreated to the orphanage’s empty library, curled up beneath the shelves and shelves of towering books and star-filled windows.

The most influential of his teachings to me was the cave allegory. A group of prisoners is trapped in a cave, seeing only the shadows illuminated by a fire, and believing those shadows to be reality. One prisoner is freed and sees the fire, the first step of realizing the shadows were only a fake state of reality. He then leaves the cave. At first, his eyes can not adjust to the brightness, but slowly, he begins to see the true reality and all the beautiful things the Sun illuminates. He goes back to the cave to tell the other prisoners about what he saw, but they only laugh in his face, believing the shadows to be the true reality.

That night, a warm flame spread across my chest, as I looked up to the stars and wished to see the Sun. What was the real reality beyond this lonely orphanage?

The story somehow convinced me to come to Wellby College and take on formal education. Here I stood, before a looming tower of limestone, adorned with rows and rows of gold-lined arches, windows, and pillars. High above, the tower wore a flowery golden dome hat. It smiled widely, beckoning me to join in as one of the only women philosophy students in the incoming class of 1720.

My peers were not so excited at my arrival. It started small, whispers behind my back, my roommate leaving without a word, an invisible bubble surrounding me, as students avoided me in class and out. Things only got worse as time passed.

“What’s an ugly hag doing in college?” Someone shoved my shoulder in the hallway to the library, spilling my papers across the floor, as a couple of boys laughed behind him.

“What’s a future dropout doing pretending he belongs here?” I hissed, stifling my wheeze and shooting him a look that made his friends quiet down.

“Know your place, witch,” The boy snarled, before running away with his friends.

I scoffed at them, catching the eye of a watching professor. He walked quickly away, glancing at me up and down with an unspoken disdain.

Soon after, I was called into the chancellor’s office.

“I would advise you to watch your mouth if you intend to continue at Wellby,” He grimaced.

The air in the room thinned. My breath caught, and my brow furrowed, and I coughed and coughed, until only hot tears ran down my throat.

“What offense have I committed?” I finally rasped, “I don’t understand.”

He only tapped his fingers on the wooden desk, watching me out of narrow eyes.

No, I knew what he was trying to say. I would be removed from this school if I didn’t keep my head down and my voice silent. Maybe I was out of my mind to come here. I could’ve become a house cleaner and enjoyed a decent living, I could’ve enjoyed a small, simple life. Now here I was, broken and crying. Everyone and everything in this school gripped me by the shoulders and told me that women, with the scars that I had, could never think to pursue education. I gasped, sobbing. Was that the true reality?

I stood up, dizzy and stumbling. Yet I forced myself to run out of the chancellor’s office, down the hallway, and into the washroom.

I faced my reflection, curly black hair, gutted red cheeks, the most charred and ugly in a million faces. My face proved an irreparable sin. Desperate anger wrapped around my heart. I wiped my tears quickly. How was I guilty? How was I guilty for my scars? How was I the one to blame in this corrupt institution?

I trembled as a blind fury flooded my veins. I thought frantically about what Plato would advise me to do. He called for anger to be used to correct injustice. But how could I, when I would be expelled for raising my voice? Hopeless and alone. I stared into my reflection. Left without speech to smolder.

Exhausted, I returned to my dorm. Just as I shut the door to my room, I heard snickering outside and a loud thunk. I banged and yelled on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Those delinquents had locked me in my room! With nowhere to go, I held back my tears and returned to my desk, opening Plato’s Republic.

“There are three parts of the soul: reason, spirit, and appetite. Spirit is the source of anger and all other emotions. Anger may be non-rational, but it is essential for developing a sense of justice-”

Something caught my eye. I turned to face the door as a black pool seeped in, filling the cracks of the wooden floor. The distinct, nauseating smell of gasoline and deadly fear set into the room. All too quickly, the sound of a match lit ignited the gasoline. Golden flames licked through the gaps of the wooden door and walls, enveloping the wooden planks as I fought for breath.

“Run! The fire is spreading too fast!” Muffled voices shouted outside my door.

They had to know there were no windows in this room. My chest heaved as I crawled slowly to the farthest corner of the room, keeping the Republic close to my heart. Helplessly, I picked up the page again.

“Anger is the emotion that arises when one perceives an injustice, either to oneself or to others. Most importantly, anger fuels a passion for justice and a willingness to fight for necessary reforms-”

My fingers twitched and shivered as the familiar heat spread hungrily. I thought again of Plato’s cave, fire, and sun. I touched my scars, the dips and valleys on my face that branded me hideous and a monster. I had wished everything to go to college and find the sun, the true reality only the educated found. Now, I looked around me madly, as the wooden door groaned, collapsing in a pile of smoke.

Anger like an inferno burned wildly in my chest. My eyes stung with tears, and smoke blurred my mind. I saw the fire that killed my mother. It was set by the anger of hateful townsmen. They called her research witchcraft. The fire that would kill me now was set by the anger of hateful men. They called me “Monster”. They wished so desperately for us to accept the reality that we couldn’t be educated. Fury poured out of my flesh, and energy pulsed through my veins. I endured the burns, the suffering of their anger and fire. Now as a flame myself, I can finally see the true reality. I hugged the Republic tightly. My body was slipping away, dissipating into smoke and heat. The flames embraced me now, welcoming an old friend. I had kept my head down, believing I was but a shadow in the cave, believing I was inhuman. Now, in my final hell, I have been set free to see the truth, to be part of something eternal. They had only ever wanted to extinguish my flame to protect their power. I remembered my mother’s soft smile. But they could never take my ambition.

“Yes, I have seen the true reality.” I wheezed, as the fire bit into my scars once again, “Now I will fight for it.”

Her body thudded on the floor. The flames molded her once again, transformed her now into a flame of her own, atop a golden wax candle. Satisfied, the fire rushed out of the room and across the dorms, up the shining golden dome of the central tower. It raised its wings of smoke and snaked like a dragon through the soft wind. Inside that collapsed, charred room, a candle is still lit aglow. She was tossed away in the corner, whittled and worn, but she will always burn bright, and pass on her flame, to the next to fight for the truth.

Laura

“I swear to God I’ll cut your tuition! Can’t you see how everyone mocks me for having my wife pursue an education? It’s humiliating!”

“It’s my right-” He slapped me, the red sting spreading over my face like a violent flame. I stepped back, slowly, until I turned around and ran. I sobbed into my sleeve, running faster than I ever have, up into the safety of my room. I locked the door shut and collapsed against it.

“Laura!” His footsteps thudded against the wooden planks.

I breathed quietly until he left.

Suddenly, I noticed a spark of gold in the corner of the room. I had just moved in and hadn’t paid much attention to the room’s details. I crawled over, finding a small, weathered golden candle. Strangely, it was still on fire.

“Laura?” A deep, elderly voice called, knocking on her door. This voice didn’t belong to my husband. I clutched the candle in my hand, carefully opening the door to find my professor before me.

“I came here personally to inform you that you will be relocated from Chemistry to Art History,” He smiled sympathetically, “It’s more befitting of a lady like yourself.”

My throat tightened. How was I going to fight out of this? Suddenly, something warm bloomed in my hand. I looked down, gasping as the golden candle and flame melted into my palm. Its warmth spread throughout me, filling my veins and chest with an overwhelming righteous anger. My skin tingled as a profound, ancient justice settled upon my shoulders.

“I am keeping my intended classes, and I’m going to fight for it.”

I pushed past the bewildered professor and ran out of the dorms. The candle’s warmth seemed to beckon me under the golden sun. I accepted its invitation, stepping out into the sunshine, smiling as the Sun’s warm rays washed over me. The words came softly and strangely at first, until my lips tingled and smiled as their truth spread throughout me.

“No one can take my ambition.”