Lil Annie - Part 3

Annie starts by the small television in the corner of the room, using the lighter to add flame to a half-used candle sat by the side of the telly. Then she crosses to the opposite corner, to a bookcase so jammed with books that the wood has given up and the whole structure leans drunkenly, only the books themselves hold the case up and together. Melted to the edge of the third shelf down is another candle. She lights it and circles anti-clockwise around the room to the window where she lights another. She comes over to the small side table next to the end of the couch and picks up a candle that's toppled over. She waves the lighter under the end of candle to soften the wax, then she plants it firmly on the table and lights it. Then back to the window where she lights two more. She walks clockwise once round the room ending up back next to the television where she pauses.

"Shit," she mutters. She looks at me and whispers, "Can you just toss me a candle? There should be a box of them in the drawer." She points at the end table.

"I thought you said I couldn't move?" I whisper back.

"Don't be a smartarse," she says. "Do you want this done or not?"

I shut my mouth and grab a candle from the drawer, toss it over to her. She lights it and plants it on the other side of the telly before releasing the trigger on the lighter and letting the flame finally die, its children twinkling from around the room.

Annie steps to the centre and sits cross-legged in front of the gathered materials. She picks up one of the bottles, a small one with a red oil inside, and pulls the stopper. She lets a few drops fall into the bowl. She selects a tall bottle with a transparent green liquid inside and she pours a generous amount. She picks up the bag of leaves and opens it, takes a pinch from within and crumbles it in. Another bottle, this one bulbous, with a long neck. Inside, another liquid, viscous and dark. Another bottle, short and stout. Another liquid, bright and quick. And then she takes the dry stems in both hands and breaks them over the top. She folds the pieces over and breaks them again. And finally she takes up the lighter, clicks it to life once more, and touches it to the mixture.

I flinch away. The blaze is momentarily brighter than the sun but leaves no retinal afterglow, as though it never happened.

I look back to Annie, her eyes closed, her hands resting lightly on her knees. Her lips move silently, her eyes flicker behind their lids. In front of her burns an invisible fire that shivers the air, twists it, a heat haze ripple hovering over the bowl. Around the room, the candles genuflect to Annie.

I drink wine and watch.