Young Writers Society

My flame never burned so bright before I met Lighterio. I remember the night we met. It was as if I saw an angel, descending from realms of glory and peace in the sky. He slowly flew down from Heaven and before I knew it, his flame ignited.

"My love," he whispered to me, "I have never smelled a candle as perfectly spicy as you."

Those words swept me away. I melted, hearing him speak. His voice, oh his voice. It was perfect. I felt every word he said just as much as I heard it. His whispers filled me with a giddy feeling. Every time his flame glazed my neatly braided cotton wick, his eyes seemed to pierce deeply into the very center of my soul, the very center of the candle I was.

The truth is, I have never felt love so deeply before. My Lighterio is the only one who can make my flame burn as brightly as it does. One night, my soul was captured in a daze of endless daydreaming. I was missing mon amoureux greatly when I began to see his form descending from the bright, illuminated ceiling above me. His graceful flame appeared and he kissed my wick passionately. I prayed that he would never stop.

"Lighterio," I spoke softly, as he kissed me.

"Ma chérie," he spoke, with his charming voice, his French voice, that sunk deeply into my heart. I could hear him smiling as his words flowed into my ears. I felt as if his words became a stream of water flowing through one ear and through my heart. I loved it when he spoke French to me. It ignited a spark in me, and made me want to die, in a good way.

Between Lighterio kissing me, his fiery breath trickling down my spine, making my wick burn away faster than I could ask him to kiss me harder, I pulled away shortly to tell him the words that pressed deeply in my wax.

"We don't have much time, Lighterio," I whispered, "We both know I am melting."

This only made him kiss me with more passion. At a certain point, I became aware that I had not had the chance to breathe in a long time. I was so invested in Lighterio's lips meeting mine. Finally, he pulled away and said, "My love, you are hotter than the core of a star during its last stage of life. Let me burn you."

I didn't think that he quite understood the severity of our situation. But, in that moment, I felt safer than I had ever felt in my entire life. I felt warm. I was surrounded by his love for me. I knew that for the first time I could ever remember, everything was okay. And that was enough. I was melting, fast. I was dying, sure. But I was also learning how to live, in his arms. He burned my heart, at that moment. I decided it would be better to die than to burn another day, being lit by any other. I would rather die, consumed with his love than live without him kissing me and holding me and teaching me what it means to be appreciated for every minute of my day.

He burned me, alright. He burned me until I was no longer me, I was only the girl who he made me become. He made me a better person. I will never stop loving his smile, his laugh, and the way he whispered to me. I always thought that he didn't care I was dying, but I was completely wrong. If only I knew the thoughts that were going through his head, the things his mind made him want to do.

By the next week, I was shivering. I had burned so much that I was starting to feel empty. I was empty. It seemed that death was approaching me, faster than I had hoped. All I wanted was for him to kiss me and never stop kissing me. Though I was dying, I felt inner peace. I was prepared to die with his flame guiding me into a sweet, quiet, eternal sleep, as I was engulfed by his warmth. But then everything changed. Things were never the same again.

I smiled as I saw mon ange descending from the bright skies above. I puckered my lips, ready to receive his smoky flame and feel him kiss me like it was the last time. But, nothing came. He did not light. There was no flame. His face was pale, his eyes were shut, and his lips seemed cracked. His face looked peaceful. He was dead.

Oh, mon Dieu. He is dead. He is dead. He is dead. The only one who ever loved me. The only one who ever kissed me. The only one who ever held me is dead. The only one who ever made me feel safe and loved and every good feeling that I needed to feel is dead.

Before I could even shed a tear, I saw the human toss Lighterio into the pits of no return, the true pits of Hell on earth, known as the trash can. He may have been thrown into Hell, but I was dragged right down with him, mentally. I stood there, in shock, for a very long time. My eyes pierced the garbage can, in the distance, praying he would come back. My lip quivered. After a while, I started to cry, until I had no more tears left, until I felt like I could never hold a flame again. All that I could remember was his stale-looking, extinguished, empty face.

In that moment, I knew what I had to do. I moved closer to the edge of the counter. Normally, I would have been terrified to be this close, but nothing scared me anymore. I felt a consuming feeling of calm wash over me, as I looked over the edge. Life and death. Here one minute, gone the next. I felt Lighterio's embrace calling me from the land of death, or so it seemed. We live, and then we die. I breathed one last breath and whispered his name one final time.

"I love you Lighterio. I love you every morning when I open my eyes. I love you every night when I go to sleep. I love you with every beat of my heart. And I love you with my last breath. Let me come to you, Mon Ange. C'est cela l'amour, tout donner, tout sacrifier sans espoir de retour."

Why does death invite me, like you did, Lighterio?

To be continued...