Candlelit Crisis

You've been awake for hours. It's 12 pm. You should get up.

Your phone is ringing on the side table behind you. You just need to roll over to pick it up. You don't get up.

Your brain is busy thinking about absolutely nothing. Hours go by. It's almost time for dinner. You should get up.

It's getting dark now. You should turn a light on. You should get up.

When I see her, I let my thoughts wander. I wonder what it would be like to hold her. I wonder what it would be like to talk instead of see. I feel hope and passion in my chest, let them be. I let the warm thing in my chest settle on my shoulders to take in the view. 

When I see her, I can rest. She sees me for who I am, not for the person I’m supposed to be. The warm thing in my chest can spread and cover us both. With her, I know she will hold it gently and I feel secure.

When I see her, I see the chains binding her to the floor. I see the warm thing in her chest bound tight. I see her porcelain doll skin shatter and a false layer replace it. I want her to let me close, let me patch it up properly. I want to shatter those chains tethered to her heart.

I see the walls she puts up to protect herself from me. It hurts, but I understand. I will stay by those walls until she feels safe enough to let me in. For her, I’m willing to wait forever. For me, I am willing to wait forever.

To me, she is the winter that gives the overworked soil a chance to rest. She is the treasurer that keep’s the kingdom’s gold secure. She is the audience that gives the performer a reason to keep going. I wink at her from the stage, but she doesn’t see.

Her fortress grows larger. I see the ice creeping over the stone, and I worry. The ice no longer melts when I touch it and I worry. Something needs to change, the warm thing in my chest tells me. I need to go to her, instead of waiting for her to come to me, it advises, I listen.

I face her fortress walls, instead of resting against them. I tell her all the truths I’ve been wanting to spill. I tell her how I see her, even when she doesn’t want to be seen. I see the chains that bind her and the cracks in her porcelain doll skin. I tell her of the desire I have to help her, to guide her to heal herself. I tell her of my warm heart, how it longs to have me hold her and spread over the both of us like a blanket. I just want her to trust me.

The walls crack. I can finally see her again, just how she is. I feel the cold retreat once more and the chains keeping her bound crack. The walls and chains are gone now, and I can finally let my warmth engulf us both. The walls come back at times, but it isn’t permanent. The cold is no longer as harsh and the fear not as great. Sometimes, I can abate her fears by talking to her, sometimes she just needs me nearby. The walls depart eventually.

When I see her, I wrestle down that wild thing in my chest. Foolish hope and joy run rampant, but I chain them down. That wild thing can’t handle such intensities, so I keep them away. I protect myself and my life from those dangerous things. If I were to let them loose, I’d lose everything dear to me, including her.

Her, who is so radiant and warm. She is the protagonist in romance plays, and I am just the audience watching her shine. She is summertime, and I am the grass who takes in her warmth and gives naught in return. She is the gold a dragon would hoard, and I am the cave walls watching it. 

When I see her, I can almost let myself believe my life has no troubles. My worries go away and I feel whole again, undamaged. I wrestle down those false thoughts. The last time I let the wild thing win, it broke beyond repair. I can’t face a loss like that again. So, I wrestle it down, hide it away from everyone, including her.

When I see her, I raise a wall from the floor and cut myself off from the world. If she can’t see me, I can stay in control. If she sees me, she will destroy me. The thing in my chest is so wild, but so very fragile. I bind it to my chest and bind myself to the walls surrounding me. The chains are cold.

I feel her resting against the walls, not knowing I’m inside, not seeing me. It’s so cold in here, completely shielded from her warmth. I tell myself the cold feels secure. The fortress grows more by the day, growing even colder with its size. The larger and colder it grows, the further from me she gets. I tell myself it feels safer. It doesn’t.

She comes to my fortress walls one day, tells me we need to talk. She tells me she sees me, even through my walls, sees my troubles and fears. She sees how I’ve been avoiding her to avoid that wild thing in my chest. She tells me of her plight. How she sees me and wishes more than anything I’d let her hold me. How she wishes she could fix my porcelain doll cracks, how she knows that's something I have to start myself. How she lets her heart lead her in life. Her wild thing. She pleads for me to trust mine, trust her.

I’ve always been weak to her. I see her light shining through the cracks in my walls, and let the cracks grow bigger. When my skin grows cold and lonely, I let myself bask in her warmth. The walls return, sometimes. She usually knows just what to say to get them to retreat. When she doesn’t, she stays outside and rests against my fortress walls. She knows I’m inside.

When my mom holds me, I can feel the gentle strength in her hands. I feel all her love, warm and unconditional, in how she tells me she loves me after every phone call. I hear her trust when she tells me about her childhood, how she knows I will try my best to empathize. I see how she tries, even though her life has been so hard, to make my life so good. When she goes to work, she patches up the raft keeping our family afloat and we survive, together. I admire her love, and how determined it makes her.

When my brother drives, he drives not with the confidence that only decades of practice can bring, but with the attitude of someone having fun. When my brother goes shopping without complaint, that's how he cares. When he responds to my jabs with a taunt, that's how he cares. His life has been hard, but he finds reasons to keep going in the people he keeps around him. I would never tell him this – lest he get a big head – but I admire his strength to keep pushing through when many would have given up.

J is like a twin to me. We've known each other for such a short amount of time, but it feels like my entire life. When they share their problems with me, it's a sign of trust. I share my problems in return. When we spend time together, they indulge what I want to do and find a compromise. Even when things are going so wrong for them, they don't leave me in the dark. I admire their dependability.

I haven't been the best at keeping touch with A, I admit. Despite our dark patches, we always come back together. Every birthday and every Christmas, there is always a gift waiting for me. She shows she loves silently, in every random meme she sends, in every rescheduled party because one of her friends couldn't make it, and in every time she starts a conversation first. I admire her loyalty, even when I don't deserve it.

F has been there the longest out of all my friends. She isn't the most dedicated or loyal, but she tries. She tries to remember important dates and she tries to make time to hang out with me when I ask, even if it takes a while. Her kindness and fun-loving personality is what makes everyone gravitate towards her. I admire her sense of responsibility, even since we were young.

I first saw the tree in my front yard. Strong and tall, just how a perfect tree should be. This tree grew and grew every day. By some point, I couldn’t even see the top of the tree from a distance. It grew so fast, it looked like it was getting closer.

It hit me one day. It is getting closer. When my lungs wheezed just taking me to the car, I knew it was getting closer. When my limbs were shaking so bad, I couldn’t even lift my guitar, I knew it was getting closer. When I could see the rot on the tree from my front door, I knew it was getting closer. I paid no attention.

I continued with my life. I wrote my music, took my medicine, and tended to the tree. I dutifully raked the leaves, checked for pests and disease, and – in times of drought – watered the tree. If I kept taking care of my beautiful, strong tree, it would surely stop getting closer. 

It was blocking my front door. I needed to get around it, but it was so wide that the only way around it was to climb. Looking up at the tree, I could feel my lungs weakening already, feel my legs shaking. I climbed the tree, agonizing burning in my muscles the whole way up. When I could finally cross the tree, I knew I looked like a mess. My eyes were red, my skin pale, and my hair a mess. I didn’t care.

Days of this ritual made me weaker. I got paranoid outside of the house, waiting for this tree to show up at the door of my work or at the store, it never did. I worried what my neighbors thought about this tree outside my front door. I couldn’t bring myself to ask my family for help, too ashamed of letting it get this close.

One day, I just couldn’t climb the tree. I looked at the tree, then looked at my shaking limbs, weak from just getting myself down the stairs. They were pale, gaunt. I took a breath, short and strained. I took stock of my body. Everything hurt. I look at the tree again, contemplating. I could feel the rot from the tree eating me up inside. This stupid, cursed tree.

I turned around and went towards the stairs, for one last climb. Every step, something that once seemed so easy, caused me pain. I made it, clutching on the wall for support. I moved to my office, sat down, and wrote. I wrote about my life, my mistakes, my struggles, and my fears. I wrote about the tree, hoping my family might understand some day. I wrote my will.

I got up, one last time, and headed to bed. I hoped someone would find me quickly, so it looked like I was just sleeping. I hoped it would soften the blow. I laid down, adjusted my blankets, and waited. I listen to the house. It was once lively, now it is so quiet. I hate how quiet it is. I imagine how it used to be, I think about my children. I think about how my wife used to stand by the door while the children played, I think about how I could wrap my arms around her, how she would smile. She used to be the one to care for the plants in the yard, even the trees, but now she is gone. The kids are off to college, or they live with their own husband or wife, and I am alone.

My sheep. My beautiful, soft, innocent sheep. How could I ever hurt him? I would never forgive myself. But my claws are long, my teeth sharp. I am everything wicked in the world and he is everything good. When he smiles up at me, all I feel is guilt. Guilt for tricking him into being with me, guilt for I will eventually have his blood spilt on my claws. Until then, I will be selfish. I will keep him near me, I will hold him gently, I will let him feel secure while he can.

My sheep has beautiful grey wool, much nicer than my coarse grey fur. He has such a radiant smile, so much so I can barely see his teeth. His legs can run so fast, I wish they would carry him far away from me. He reassures me, when I finally tell him how evil I am. He tells me it doesn’t matter how wicked I am, that he will stay anyway. I really don’t deserve him.

How absorbed in my pondering I am, I never even notice my friends drifting away until it’s too late. “You should leave him,” they say, “We hardly ever see you anymore. We’re worried.” They must be worried for him. Worried one day I will lose control, hurt him. I don’t blame them. One by one, they get tired of trying to save him, and disappear.

‘

“I will never leave you,” He says. “No matter how awful you are, my dear wolf.” He really is so kind. I’ve long since shortened my claws now, long since dulled my teeth. My instincts scream at me not to do that, not to get rid of my precious defences. Instincts of a killer. I hold my delicate sheep with shortened claws more secure. I sleep at night unworried I may accidentally bite him when I wake.

Something changes. I would be unable to pinpoint when, but sometime soon after my last friend – my best friend – gave up trying. She must have finally realized how vile I am just like the rest. My sheep never left though. He willingly holds me when none else will. He abates my worries, “Your claws are short, your teeth are dull, what could you hurt me with now?”

When Davey and Amanda met, they were 4 and 5, respectively. Davey had been brought to the park by his babysitter, Amanda brought by her mother. There was no spark, no lifelong friendship that started at that moment. They met, they played for one summer day, they parted ways.

They met again when they were both 5, when they were enrolled in the same kindergarten class. They played in separate groups mostly. Davey hung out with the wild, active kids, Amanda was content to color peacefully. They hardly noticed each other until 1st grade, in the same class again.

In middle school, Davey was obnoxious. He was insecure and hung out still with the wild, active kids. Only, this time, it wasn't so cute. He acted out, desperate for some sort of attention. Amanda stayed the same, only her quiet wasn't the content quiet, but the anxious kind. She resented the loud, carefree Davey.

In high school, Davey settled into his own skin. He found an outlet for his wild child energy, soccer. He could truly hold his head high, proud of himself. He stopped acting out in class and respected others more. Amanda found herself in academics. The more she learned, the could find her content quiet again. She could speak in class without feeling phantom stares on the back of her skull.

In high school, Amanda found she had no reason to resent Davey anymore. One day, paired on a project together, Davey gave Amanda his number. "For the project," he said. They talked even after the project was over, growing closer every week. By the end of high school, Amanda had earned herself several good scholarships. Davey had earned himself a spot in a local trade school.

After high school, Amanda had a spot in a distant college, many hours away from their hometown. "We'll stay in touch!" They said. It took only 3 months for their conversations to start waning, 5 months for them to stop nearly completely. By the time David was 21 and Amanda 22, they had new friends, new focuses. Amanda was in her senior year of college, and David had taken over his father's workshop.

Some time later, after Amanda got her degree and David had secured his place at the workshop, Amanda moved back to her hometown. She needed work on her car, and there was David, more matured than when she last saw him. Impulsively, perhaps pushed by the hands of fate, she invited him for coffee. "To catch up," she said, but they both knew what she meant.