The minute I came alive, I knew I wanted to die. There was anger, hatred, grief, and desperation crawling within me that I couldn't comprehend at first, like a disconnected string of events passing under flashing lights. I was so blinded by the lights, the clarity and sheer force of those emotions, my flame flickered. A drop of wax rolled down my body, gilded by my brilliant orange flame. My wick curled in on itself ever so slightly under the heat it carried. The movements of my body (a candle, I knew I was to call myself) felt antique by how natural it was, even though I had just been born. Wasn't I supposed to be perplexed, inexperienced, naively excited about living?

It wasn't fair, I remember thinking to myself, that I'd have to battle my own emotions to survive. I soon learned that those weren't my emotions, though they had been generated by the same wax. I was a reincarnation of another candle before me, the emotions of whom I retained in my pliant bones. I never learned how the emotions came to be, but I knew they were strong enough to overpower me. More than once, I contemplated letting myself drown under those emotions, to rest for a while. But then my flame would flare as if it were outraged by my thoughts, and I'd go back to observing again.

Observing. What else could a candle do? From the dull bulbs mounted on the walls and the darkness crowding in the far corners of the room, I assumed I was serving against a blackout. About two more candles were serving alongside me. One was a veteran like me, the other was a newborn. Both were terrified of their existence. The veteran's older candle had been mortified about dying, and the newborn didn't know any better. They whispered to each other up on a mantle, finding solace in their fears. I was left alone to observe again, on a coffee table.

Into my third hour of living, the prime of my life, Tia approached. She was very fascinated with the candles. She reached to poke me with a dark finger. Her round eyes, which I'd thought to be black, happened to be dark green in the dim amber light. The flame reflected in her eyes blinked back at me. I was as curious about her as she was about me.

"Tia!" Her hand was jerked away. Dazed, she turned to her mother as she was taught not to touch fire unless she wanted to get burned. I don't know if she'd listened though because when she was unsupervised for a brief time, she scooted back to me and touched the flame. She drew back immediately with a yelp, sticking her finger into her mouth as her eyes filled with tears. Luckily, since no one was there to pay heed to her crying, she stopped soon.

Tia walked away to play with her toys after that, but everyone now and then, her gaze would snag on my flame. I was half my size now, wax glued to the bottom of the cup I occupied. Soot dripped from where my wick hunched in the blue cone of the flame. How I hated the flame, how I wished it would dissipate into smoke. About two more hours and it would die. Usually, I found relief in thinking like that, but now I thought about Tia, about how much she loved the flame even though it burned her. I did not want to see her cry again.

In the last hour, the blackout ended. The bulbs mounted on the walls spewed their white lights. Tia rushed to the candles, mother in tow. "Birthday cake," she insisted. Since they had no birthday cake, Tia's mother assembled all three candles in a row for Tia to blow out. Since mother and child were too engrossed in cheering the end of the blackout, they hadn't noticed the third candle's flame burning away beforehand.