The Candle

One.

A landslide has caved us in. Dirt has trapped us in the very mountain from which it came. I wish I had looked around more before we were trapped, wish I could remember more of what I had seen so vividly. Unseeing, I've crawled across cold, rigid grounds and stopped just next to something wet.

Next to me, Conrad fumbles through his things. The darkness has made the thought of him abstract.

I heard once that the absolute darkness which the human eye perceives technically isn't completely black, it is grey. Now, I find this hard to believe. The vastness is suffocatingly unaware of anything lighter than complete darkness.

Now, Conrad has lit a candle he's brought. By the candle's light he checks his watch.

He tells me, "It's nine twenty-five." The time serves no use, but it brings some small comfort.

I crawl across the cave's floor to get a look at his watch myself, careful so as to not knock the candle over. I lightly tug at his wrist and he watches me as my eyes adjust to the candle's light, trying to focus on the watch.

I don't remember speaking since morning and the sound of my dry voice is unfamiliar. "It isn't ticking."

Conrad is mildly surprised when he discovers that the second hand is stagnant.

My imagination suggests to me that Conrad's watch had stopped when we were trapped. I tell him so much, and more, and he tells me I think too morbidly.

We stare into the surrounding darkness and I yawn. Conrad says we mustn't waste the candle's light while we sleep. Just as soon as he's illuminated the cave, he's returning us both to darkness.

Two.

Conrad has been a good friend over what we think has been a few days now. Without a morning or night we can only trust ourselves with the dates.

He's offered me half of the food he'd brought for himself, imagining a day long trip might require snacks. As for myself, I came woefully unprepared. We eat one "meal" a day.

Today, I ate half of a carefully wrapped sandwich. It was a pleasant reminder of what was once beyond the cave.

He's also brought a deck of cards in his pocket, which he's used to teach me games he always intended to teach children he hasn't had. I have to tell him there's no use in regretting but it puts no ends to sad smiles.

When we get tired of games and talking we both sit in silence. I am not bored, my thoughts entertain me well enough. These are also times when Conrad puts the candle out, and I often fall asleep mistaking the cave's ceiling for the night sky. Conrad wakes me up to remind me that it couldn't be time to sleep, not quiet yet.

I want to remind him that it really doesn't matter when we sleep anyways, but I think he's lonely when I sleep while he's still awake. I don't think he's afraid of the dark, but he is afraid of being alone in it.

Three.

After losing much of Conrad's deck of cards in our sleep, his notebook, once kept for keeping field notes, has become a sketchbook.

The candle and I are Conrad's only muses. He's sketched me just as many times as he's sketched the candle. When he shows his sketches to me, I realize I don't recognize myself. When he attempted to teach me to draw, I felt badly as I failed, realizing Conrad won't ever see himself again. I suppose he doesn't think of it that way, because he only laughs at my failed attempts at his likeness.

It's cold, and the candle offers no warmth. Neither do our thin jackets, but we are quick to lie to ourselves.

The matchbox, which we plan will be our light after the candle wears out, is always either in Conrad's pocket or hand, we're afraid that if it is set down we'll lose it in the darkness. He doesn't even let me hold it, trusting only himself.

Four.

We've run out of paper for drawing. There is no use for the light anymore, but we make excuses.

Today, I had the notion that there could very well be other people here, others who entered with dreams of uncovering untouched corners of the world and who now fear inching away from they companions, if they have any.

The thought haunts me, and every echo of my own voice suggests to me that it is someone else's. Conrad hardly speaks anymore, saving his energy. I don't know what for.

I am not fearful of another voice because they may hurt me. I am fearful because I don't want to die alongside a stranger.

Five.

The candle has gone out, and the only source of light now is a single match which Conrad holds for the both of us in his shaking hand. We're lucky the candle lasted as long as it did, I tell him.

He is hungry despite splitting his food evenly with him. I don't think he sleeps much. He says he will die tomorrow, and has finally let me hold the matchbox.

Six.

Conrad died like he said he would. I know he must have died while I was asleep because when I awoke he'd emptied his pockets. Little is of use, but I've taken them for myself anyways. I keep reassuring myself that he'd emptied his pockets for me. I don't know why else he would have.

Without company or food, I find no use in lighting our matches. I have stopped dreaming in color or light, I only dream of the darkness, and sometimes of Conrad's voice. I can no longer tell the difference between what is and isn't sleep. I figure this means I won't notice when I die, and I am comforted by the thought.