I lay down on my hospital bed, or should I say my deathbed? Selfish death will soon take me away from my world. I'll let go of the great pain and flowing tears of my loved ones. I look beside me at the clock that always seems to be ticking. It reads 11:59 p.m., my birthday. A few nurses come in wearing their light blue masks, dull coats, and hair nets—they all look the same. One nurse carries a tray with a slice of cake with one tiny miserable candle on top, dying from the flame it carries. The others sing as if they have forgotten the sickness I've endured for so long. What is the point of celebrating? It’s a question I want to ask as the flame gets closer and closer until it's on my tray. But, I don’t ask because at least they remembered that I was born even if I’m born to die. I grasp the sheets tightly as I try to get up, ignoring the pain. Soon enough, I feel the warm and soft heat the candle gives off. It feels oddly refreshing, like a summer breeze on a beach that follows the sounds of the waves crashing on the shore. And in one puff, the flame dies, leaving the tingling sensation of heat surrounding me. It vanished, just like that, in seconds before I can even comprehend. I'm left with the cold, dry candle that so reminds me of me. I had a flame too, so bright and joyful to soon let the wind take away. It danced, sang, and played freely. Until it was stopped by a wind so strong but yet so light it blew away my life, leaving the dry, melted, colorless top of the candle that everyone threw away.