Perishing Light

Too late, he felt a pang of regret; whoever he was. Just a faceless killer, among a flock of sheep. I've snuffed out the candle, he thought - and he hadn't any matches to make light within the darkness that suddenly fell upon him. A shadow, a lingering sense of the irrevocable. His own candle was now waning, slowly drowning its own melting wax, a pool of misery which he could do nothing but wallow in. Every candle he saw afterwards seemed to shine with so much more potential and glory, like that beautiful orb in the sky, the sunshine.. He compared them to one another and he saw no difference in their magnificence. All of this from the mind of the baffled, the crazy, the apologetic faceless killer among the flock of frightened, bleating sheep. Too late, he thought, to think about it now. But he couldn't stop thinking about it. What if I take it back? He thought this, too. But try as he might the sulphur simply refused to ignite, and there was blood strangling the wick besides. He smeared it on his lips accidentally when he bent to blow into the burnt out waxen image, lifeless sculpture, and not quite white.. What have I done? He thought to himself miserably, running as fast as he could into the sunshine which eluded him. The shadow remained. And the shadow is my conscience, he thought suddenly, his flame paling in colour, beginning to falter and sway precariously. And with a horrible conviction the faceless one knew, that in snuffing out just one candle, one rival flame, his own light had perished.