The candle flame flared. It grew larger for a brief second then went back to normal. The odd thing was that there wasn't any breeze, barely a movement, but that flame had grown.
John stared at the candle, at the wax slowly seeping down the sides and forming into shimmering droplets. His eyes moved, so did the flame. Shouts came from outside his door, making him jump slightly. The fire did the same.
Hunching over, John brought his face as close to the fire as possible, almost enough to burn another person. His breath made the fire diminish, but it didn't go out. As close as he was, John couldn't feel the burning pain he so badly wanted, all he felt was warmth that spread through him like a blazing inferno, but there was no pain. John needed that stinging feeling.
Frustrated, John put his hand in the fire. No pain, just that warmth that made him feel colder then ever. He kept holding his hand there, eyes narrowed as he stared at the flame.
The door opened and John quickly cowered against his rickety bed frame, yanking his hand away from the flame. But for that split second his mind had been on the door and the person advancing, he'd felt the burn.
Those heavy footsteps seemed to move in slow motion, pounding in his ears, though John wasn't sure if it was his thumping heart or the footsteps. He was suffocating from his intense fear, trying to keep his breathing steady as that hand reached out to grab him.
For an instant, his dark eyes connected with that candle flame and he felt alive, he wasn't drowning anymore, that fire was life and John thirsted for more. But then the huge hand snatched his arm and hauled him up, the other hand connecting with his jaw.
John yelped as fingernails dug into his upper arm, as the slaps and punches created instant bruises. Everything was blurry and out of focus as he feel to his knees, blood dripping from his mouth onto the scratched wooden floor.
There was lots of shouting and lots of pain, and as much as John welcomed that pain, he wanted the feeling of life more. He was face down on the ground, which was slick from blood…his blood.
Trying to focus on something, he lifted his head for that candle, only to realize it hurt too much and that everything was going black.
And there the candle stood, snuffed out, smoke still floating in little wisps and curls, and the pale wax still drying into teardrop shapes. John lay broken on the floor, breathing shallowly and aching for the satisfying warmth that made him desire to be alive.
