i wrote this for my creative writing class, and jill's making me post it so here it is:
The soft light spilled across the room, casting ominous shadows on the walls and its rotting wooden planks and illuminating the silken webs of the spiders sleeping in the corners. The fragile flame of the candle flickered violently with the breeze blowing through the broken window panes that made the yellowed drapes dance like two pale Russian ballerinas. The candle wax, as blood red as a rose is just before it withers and dies, dripped down and across chipped mahogany table, pooling here and there, creating scarlet lakes and rivers and leaving crimson stalactites clinging to the edge. Jacob sat in the only chair at the table, his hands out flat before him and shoulders hunched over as if he were carrying something very heavy upon them. He sat in silence and watched the tiny flame sputter and revive on its wick over and over and over again as he dipped his fingers into the liquid and let it cool and harden on the tips before peeling them off with his thumbs and flicking them onto the floor. His eyes held a quiet sorrow as the weight of the room bore down on him. It wasn’t the dilapidation of the small farmhouse in which he grew up that saddened him, it was the fact that even now, sitting in the very spot he sat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day for the first 13 years of his life, he could remember nothing. His memories were like a thick fog, blinding but at the same time shapeless and untouchable. He had hoped his return would bring about a flood of recollections, but now he would settle for the most miniscule snippet of nostalgia. He let out a sound reminiscent of a braking locomotive, lifted his hand and held it over the candle to feel heat, pain, something, anything. He blinked hard once, twice, then brought his hand down upon the flame, wincing as it scalded his open callused palm. There he sat, his mind racing but at the same time standing still. He realized he was not going to find what he had come in search of, but the blackness of the room brought with it its own sort of reconciliation. No matter where he’d been, or where he’d go, all he’d ever need to do to feel at home again is turn out the lights, because of the fact he had realized so long ago: everything looks the same in the dark.