A Candle for Silver Spoon
Author's Note
Time
And the candle is passed to Silver Spoon.
She stares blankly into the flickering flame, reflecting in the lenses of her glasses. She says nothing, hypnotized by the flame, resting her hands on the table.
You also say nothing; the situation seems absurd enough even without you saying anything in your usual, slightly mocking tone of voice you often use when talking to her, like some sort of a crazed mentor from the movies.
You’d give anything to hear her voice right now. And yet she’s silent, staring at the flickering flame, reflecting in the lenses of her glasses. Your ears are filled with music; well, sort of, as it’s far from the harmonious sounds one usually has in mind when mentioning music. It’s the playlist documenting your growing up, so to speak. It consists of early Einsturzende Neubauten and Merzbow, so most people wouldn’t call this music. A continuous noise in a darkened room, as she’s staring into the candle. If by noise you mean an uncomfortable sound, then pop music is noise to you and Merzbow. Such is the way of life. Silver Spoon is young; she doesn’t get it, so sometimes you have to deal with her music.
You’d give anything to hear her voice right now. And yet she’s silent, staring at the flickering flame, reflecting in the lenses of her glasses. Time skidded to a crawl; this is gonna be a long night. A long night, almost completely dark; almost endless. It’s like you’re on drugs and not the good kind; is there ever a good kind? Your own experiences were mostly negative and even alcohol hits you worse with age. You need to ask Silver about it and whether she thinks the sun will ever rise.
You doubt it will ever rise again.
You’d give anything to hear her voice right now. And yet she’s silent, staring at the flickering flame, reflecting in the lenses of her glasses. Her world crumbled around her. Your world crumbles around you and all you have is yourselves, the table, the candle, the darkness around you, and screaming, screaming on the autobahn. Silver Spoon doesn’t get it; you’re frankly not surprised. To an eighteen-year-old, this is a completely abstract situation. Even you don’t feel like everything that happened today is real. It can’t be real.
It can’t be real.
Yet it is.
You’d give anything to hear her voice right now. And yet she’s silent, staring at the flickering flame, reflecting in the lenses of her glasses. You look at the candle now. It’s an ordinary candle, halfway burned. Next to it, there’s a shot glass; half empty. Silver Spoon sits by the table; half conscious. She drank half a shot of vodka you gave her in a vain attempt to help her come back to her senses, but it doesn’t seem like she’s going to finish it. You’re frankly not surprised. You don’t want to drink either; it hits you worse with age. Like everything, to be honest. Is this what getting old feels like? You’re not that old. And yet you’re an old sentimental fool who hides that behind the mask of fake, ironic profoundness. That’s the way it is, no matter how hard you’re trying not to face it.
You’d give anything to hear her voice right now. And yet she’s silent, staring at the flickering flame, reflecting in the lenses of her glasses. You switch the music off and now you’re sitting in complete silence. Silence seems appropriate right now. For your ears (Silver’s ears?) it’s a nice change of pace. What a day. What a day. Loud. Bright. In the dark silence, only dispersed by this little flame, you feel much safer. Quieter. The experiences of today, seeing Silver suffering; it broke you, but now you feel whole. Better. You hope she gets better soon. On a second thought, you should’ve made tea.
You’d give anything to hear her voice right now. And yet she’s silent, staring at the flickering flame, reflecting in the lenses of her glasses. You get up to make tea. That’s what Brits do, right? You’re not British, but if it works, it works. Makes you stronger or something. You go to the kitchen, thinking of music. Fun, fun on the autobahn. You ask SIlver if she wants tea and she just nods in response. Good. On the way back home, you asked her if she wanted to talk, and she didn’t. You haven’t heard her voice, not since…
You’d give anything to hear her voice right now. And yet she’s silent, staring at the flickering flame, reflecting in the lenses of her glasses. The water boils and you pour it into mugs. What an unfortunate day. You will need some time to think about it; you think as you go back to the room and put the mug in front of Silver. She smiles faintly at you and takes a sip. She’s gonna burn her mouth if she tries to drink tea like that; you have to wait. With everything you have to wait. Time skidded to a crawl, but you have to wait. Time heals everything, doesn’t it? You just have to wait.
You just have to wait.
You just have to sit by the river and wait until the body of your enemy floats by.
You’d give anything to hear her voice right now. And yet she’s silent, staring at the flickering flame, reflecting in the lenses of her glasses. She’s waiting. You’re waiting. The flame flickers; you drink tea. You almost choke; the tea is still hot. Silver looks at you for a brief moment, but says nothing. She says nothing. You have to wait. Time heals all the wounds, but some wounds cut deep. You don’t think Silver will ever be the same. Wiser, more experienced. Older? Older by one day, this fateful day. What an unfortunate day. You wish it’d never come. She wished it’d never come, even if she didn’t think of it. Deep down, she wished it’d never come.
But the new day will come.
And then another day will come.
And the candle is passed.
And the new day will come.
And the candle is passed.
