I felt like I was drowned in my own sweat; I tossed and turned frantically in my bed to no avail. The room was dark and damp. I'd give anything to go outside and had some fresh air. A glimpse of flickering light shifted from the narrow gap beneath the door. But to go out of my room was never an option. Maybe if I wait for some more time, I could go to sleep, I thought.
I was not sure if it was minutes or hours that passed before I woke up from my unsatisfactory sleep. The heat in the room became unbearable, my throat was so dry as if I hadn't drink for weeks. Against my parents’ rule that I should not go outside during midnight, I unlocked my room and stepped outside.
At first, I thought I stepped into a wrong room. It was dark; the only source of illumination was, out of ordinary, a candle that was almost burned out. What I found most peculiar was where the candle was put: it floated on a basin of water. For a moment, I recovered from my confusion and recalled the objective of being there. The living room proved to offer no consolation for my suffering—it was even hotter than my bedroom.
Then, I saw something out of the corner of my eyes: my mother. What was she doing at this hour? I realized she didn't notice me, so I slowly moved toward her. I found her, bending down beside the dining table, holding—no, hugging—something with her hands. Something big and black; evil perhaps. Dazzled by the scene, I gasped; and my Mom startled. When she turned and saw me, I could not really read the expression on her face. Instead of striking her usual angry pose (forehead frowns, hands on waist) because I broke her rule, she turned toward the dining table and blow out the half-burned candle, rendering the room pitch dark.