Escape route

I kept a small iron candle holder on my windowsill. It was bronze, flower like, sharp edges jutted from the base like petals, curved and ragged. I ran my fingers along those edges.

The candle itself was a mere stub jammed into the base. I was too young to light candles. I might have left it burning all night, too near the curtains. It wasn't the heat I wanted as much as it was the light.

I did light it once though, briefly, when everyone was asleep. I inhaled the smell of the match and subtle rebellion, watched the flame ignite my trapped spirit, felt the heat on my face and fingers, until at last the wick burned down, leaving, finally, a trail of wax I would travel again and again for years to come.