An Unexpected Gift
By: Ashlynn Wade
Tags: Storytelling, Prose, First Person, Candles, Narrative

My fingertips glaze across the thick glass of the candle. I have to pretend I like it; it was a gift. I tell myself this, again and again. We are at a gift exchange, fake a smile until it splits your mouth.

I was excited, at first, when I pulled it out of the bag. I love candles. I love to light them when all the lights in my room are out, a soft glow seeping into the darkness. The scents mix together in a wonderful aroma, always carefully chosen, never without intent. Maybe one day it will be vanilla and coconut and lavender. Maybe the next it will be cinnamon and spices and pine. Either way, it allows me to work, to sink into a hazy-peaceful state of mind where I can finally focus for once.

I have few scents that I don’t enjoy. This godforsaken candle just happens to be one of them. I am almost blindsided by it, when I first catch it, because the candle looks innocent enough and even pretty. The glass is clear, showing pink wax fading into yellow, a slow gradient of color. I don’t have a candle like it; it’s interesting and a bit exciting.

But the problem is, I know this exact smell. It’s tropical and sharp and sickly-sweet, and definitely not what I was expecting when I asked for a fall-scented candle. I am hit by a wave of intense nostalgia, and not the tentative, bittersweet, I Was Here kind. This one rages at me, pulling from me distinct memories of that stupid rental house, the one weekend that I had to stay there with my father. At the time, he had custody but not any official residence yet. In between staying with his friends and renting a more permanent place almost across the street from us–exactly where we didn’t want him–he rented this house for a singular weekend. Everything about the situation with my father was still raw and blistering, and on top of that I had put off an enormous project that had to be finished that weekend. All this came among a distinct time in my life I was never in the drivers seat and was always working-working-working. I can almost feel the same heavy stress fall over me again as tight coils form in my chest.

I push it all away with repulsion, trying to drive out the memories scraping at the inside of my head. This is obviously not the time for all this to be flooding in, not as everyone is staring at me, waiting for a reaction. I swallow down the turmoil on the tip of my tongue.

“Wow, this is really cool! Thank you so much!”

It’s not hard to fake enthusiasm, I do it constantly. The only question is if it’s believable. As long as the person who gave it to me doesn’t feel bad, I’ve accomplished my goal. I’d rather not make others feel bad for my own personal problems.

I quickly set the candle aside and rifle through the rest of the gift bag. For my negative-set mind, it’s hard not to pick everything apart. The cookies, not the soft kind I asked for, but instead the kind that you’d be lucky to bite through without chipping your teeth. No card, even though most people put in the effort to write a short note to the person on the receiving end of their gift. Even the bag and tissue paper is sort of half-hazard, seemingly thrown together at the last moment.

And obviously, the candle does not smell of fall, but ugly memories that I’d rather not think about.

I bite down hard on my tongue. For all I know, they might’ve put in extensive thought to my gift, and just didn’t understand what I asked for. Even if they did know, it’s not my place to criticize their gift when they spent money on me. Even if most everyone else got something specific to them. Even if most everyone else got a card and pretty gift wrapping and got excited when they opened their gift. Even if–

Seriously, please shut up already. You’re acting spoiled. No one wants to be around your negativity, it’s exhausting.

Because I must hate myself, I spend the rest of the night smelling the candle, again and again. I can’t quite tell if it’s some sick act of masochism or if I’m trying to get acclimated to the scent. Either way, I’m going to have the candle around for a while, I might as well get some use out of it. Most of mine are about burned down at this point.

Still, as I run my finger across the sturdy glass of the candle’s rim, I wonder how much fun it would be to throw it at the concrete and watch it shatter, in front of everyone here. I imagine crushing the pieces under my heel and sweeping them away, letting the memories go with it.

Or maybe I could send the candle to my father, along with a note asking him if he can guess where the scent is from, letting him know how much he’s hurt me.

Hmm, the shipping cost wouldn’t be worth it.

I’ll put the candle up somewhere, and burn it, and each time think of that weekend, until it becomes more bittersweet than bitter in my mind, and I won’t let anyone know how much this one small gift hurts.

Onto the next person, let’s see what you received!