She let it burn. And it melted. And spilled over onto the floor.
‘Shit, Janet! Look what you did.’
I crouched down to catch the dripping wax. While my fingers burned, she rolled her eyes.
‘Lighten up.’
And that was all she said.
It wasn’t the first time she’d said that. But it would be the last.
The wax would dry hard into the rug. The cabinet would be marked forever. The scar across my knuckles: visible until the day I died.
Before she left, she pouted her lips and blew out the candle, leaving me alone in the dark.
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To read more from Jessie Ansons, follow her on Twitter @jessieansons
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Friday Fictioneers is a challenge set by Rochelle Fields where writers around the world create 100 word stories inspired by the one image. For more information see:
http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2014/04/30/2-may-2014/