July 30th 2015
Story originally written and experienced: July 13th 2015
I almost set my entire apartment into flames.
And the story goes like this:
“Shall I…set the mood?” I said to my sister and roommate, Silvia, with optimal sarcasm as I ignited a lighter and pointed it straight towards the verbena candle in my room.
“Whatever,” she responded with distracted “enthusiasm” punching buttons on my iPad to Google Chromecast an episode of “How I Met Your Mother” on our T.V.
We’d been cooking a lot of weird shit lately in our apartment—in an active effort to save money, be healthy etc. etc. whatever, whatever. Lots of zucchini, chicken and greek yogurt nonsense—lending a unique conglomeration of scents throughout our humble abode.
We’d been traveling a lot. Going through a lot. Heads spinning with things.
So I figured.
Let’s light a few candles.
4 in the living room. And 4 in my room.
And call it a damn night.
Get some excellent aroma going. A relaxing mood in the queue.
Make the whole experience stress-free, not horrifying and overall, peaceful as fuck.
So there we were.
Lounging in our baby-sized New York City living room, assuming our positions
Watching our favorite show.
I saw something fLiCkER.
To the left.
I was lying on my couch with a
diagonal view to my bedroom.
“Must be a shadow…” I blatantly lied to myself.
Except when saw it again.
I reluctantly arose from the couch. Saying nothing to Silvia and s l o w l y making my way towards my bedroom.
And that’s when I saw it.
My verbena candle completely and utterly.
Engulfed in fLaMeS.
My eyes growing to the size of grapefruit.
And all I could think to say about my candle-lighting decision besides,
Was to mutter in low-key terror,
“Silvia…FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!”
She came sprinting into my bedroom, thus joining me in my panic.
Neither of us were wearing pants.
There we were.
And reminiscent of 2 Sims characters just trading awkward hand movements and some semblance of words.
“DO SOMETHING!” I screamed at the baby sister I promised my mother I would keep safe and preferably fire-free when she moved to the big city. “SILVIA THIS IS YOUR RESPONSIBILITY PUT YOUR LIFE ON THE LINE IMMEDIATELY.”
She bravely and obediently bee-lined for the kitchen to look for anything that qualified as life-saving supplies while I continued to be extremely useful:
I spotted a half a glass of water miraculously sitting on my dresser.
It was time to put my 17 yearsish of education to the test.
That was it!
I grabbed the glass instantly.
The entire cup onto the flame with optimal glory.
100% semi-certain I had saved the damn day.
The flame exploded and grew 3 times the size.
Not only that.
My wicker basket full of flammables was just centimeters away, prompting me to toss everything in potential danger onto my bed, whilst the flame began to sPaRk, hiss and shoot >>> hot wax all over my on my wall, bed, floor and most obviously, my dignity.
She had returned from the kitchen.
Holding a towel with valiance, ready to desperately “beat” the flame down in hopes of using another text-book tactic we assumed would work.
The flame originated so deep within the candle, that with every beat down, the candle got
closer and closer to the edge of my dresser.
Prompting me to yell
With zero self control to the only person who was making an active effort to do anything at all.
And then I said.
“MOVE ASIDE…I got this.”
And I can’t explain it.
But for some reason it just made sense.
I grabbed my bath towel. Demanded Silvia
my window. Threw the bath towel over the candle
And flung the fucking thing out the damn window.
OFF OF MY FIRE ESCAPE
And back towards my apartment where we slammed down the window just in damn time.
Mere moments later, we peeked our heads between our hands and out the blackened window.
And there it was.
The demon candle.
Sparking and eXpLoDiNg wax like a complete psychopath until it finally simmered the fuck down:
“What in the hell just happened?” Silvia asked with valid reason.
“I don’t know…I thought it was because it ran out of wax and started sparking because of the glass at the bottom…but there’s a lot of wax left in that thing…”
“Cool…so…let’s not tell mom.”
“Works for me.”
And we never talked about it again.
Minus the time I wrote an essay on it and posted it on the internet.