The Little Match Girl

Trigger Warning: The following story contains mentions of substance abuse, death, and child abuse.

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. Each step I took along the rough, icy cobblestone felt as though I were walking on nails. The worn, oversized shoes I once wore had been stolen by a boy older than me. They weren’t mine anyways; they had belonged to my mother, though I did not remember her.

I knew only that the things she once wore were sometimes given to me, and they hung heavy and long, as though still belonging to another life. My mother had gone to God when I was born, and Father soon turned to spirits. Her soul had departed and mine had entered the world at the same moment, and I think it broke his heart. Grandmother told me that my life was special and rare; most babies did not live without their mothers. Grandmother had also told me that God kept careful watch over little children. When Grandmother still lived, I had believed this more easily.

I didn’t have to sell matches when Grandmother was alive. She’d have never allowed it. Grandmother was resourceful. Just as she had secured nursemaids for me as an infant, Grandmother somehow ensured that we had enough to survive, even as my Father drowned himself in drink.

Grandmother had made the room feel warmer, even when there was no wood for fire and the wind whistled through the roof. If I was afraid, or hurt, or sad, she would smooth my hair with her hand and call me her little one. I missed her dearly. Since she had gone, already quiet Father had taken to holding his tongue at all times, unless he was telling me to go out and sell the matches, or collecting the purse when I returned.

One had to earn what one could, so each day, I took the bundle in my apron and walked the streets. The stones were hard beneath my feet, and the air was sharp, but I kept on, because it was worse to return with nothing. All day long, people had shuffled past me quickly, and I thought they did not see me at all. When the boy stole my shoes, as dark drew in, and even as the snow started to fall, people looked on, and I feared myself invisible.

Snow was falling in earnest, and soon I could feel it weighing upon my hair and see the fat porcelain flakes sticking to my lashes. I brushed the snow away at first, but it came again, and at last I let it be. No one had bought from me. I held out the matches when I dared, but people hurried past. Carriages in the street moved far too fast and did not stop.

From the windows of the homes that surrounded me, light began to pour out onto the freshly fallen snow—small patches of light as the dark of night encroached. I smelled meat roasting, which made my stomach move from its usual dull ache to a sharp twist, acid pooling and threatening to rise in my throat. So I walked a little farther, trying to escape the smell of roast. Soon, though, my strength was gone, so I sat down in a corner where two houses stood close and the wind was not so sharp.

I thought of home, but I did not turn toward it. I could expect none of the warmth that I felt coming from the homes that surrounded me. Father would ask for money, and there was none. The room would not block the wind; its sound and chill alone would punctuate Father’s anger. His face would be darker than the night that surrounded me, and the pain of a beating unbearable. My bones and muscles were so frozen, I feared they would break.

I drew my feet up beneath me and held the apron close. My hands were stiff, and it was hard to move my fingers. I carefully pinched a single match between my trembling thumb and forefinger, realizing I could not feel the little stick.

I held it in front of my face, willing it to light on fire. If the match were to spontaneously combust, I could have tried to escape fault. I knew I ought not waste a single match, for they were not mine to burn. Yet the cold was very strong, and the dark pressed close, and I thought how small a flame was, and how warm it looked when one struck it.

Bundling my feet in the tattered apron to separate them from the ground, I sat quite still and considered it, while the snow fell softly and the year came to its end.

I gazed above me at the falling snow, and through a break in the clouds, I saw a shooting star. I wondered who had died. Grandmother had said that a shooting star was a soul being carried off to Heaven, and if you wished upon it, your wish would be carried along with them.

I wished for warmth.

I looked back down at the little match in my stiffened fingers. Before I had really made up my mind, my hand was moving toward the wall at my side. I struck the match against the wall, and with a small, crackling whoosh, the match was ablaze.

The glow was magnificent, the flame at the top of the sulfur-tipped stick seeming to be a candle. The flame flickered, warmth radiating from the little stick I held in my hand. It seemed to be a stove—not a candle, not a match. I had the idea to warm my feet by the stove, and just as I brought my feet from below me, the flame reached my fingertip and snuffed out. The stove disappeared, and the warmth was replaced by the oppressive cold and dark, the wooden stub of the match still gripped in my fingers.

Instinctively, I pulled another match from my apron. I struck it again against the wall, eager to warm my feet at the stove. Instead of the stove, or even a candle, the wall beside me disappeared completely. On the table, in the room now directly in front of me, was a fully set table. A tablecloth had been laid out for the New Year’s feast, and a glistening brown roast goose was the centerpiece. It begged to be carved and eaten, a fork and knife in each breast. My mouth watered; the goose alone was more food than I had seen in one place, not to mind the heaping dishes surrounding it.

Suddenly, the match met its end, leaving me in the dark, a black ash mark and a blister gracing my fingertip and thumb where it had burned. I quickly retrieved another match, lighting this one even faster, hoping to will the goose back into my reach. As the light filled my little corner, the wall remained, but the smell of pine filled the air. I turned, searching for the source. A tremendous tree towered above me; each of its branches held a candle, each of them alight and rhapsodic.

The tree rose above me, each candle fading into the distance, blending into and becoming the stars in the sky. When the candles were all stars, I returned my gaze to the match, just as it reached the tip of my fingers. I let it burn down, watching the flame touch my numb skin and finally extinguish.

With the match dead, the warmth again disappeared, along with the vision. Any lingering hesitation to use the matches had vanished entirely, and I spared only a passing thought to my father as I pulled out the next. When I struck the fourth match upon the wall, I nearly dropped it into the snow.

Before me, glowing with warmth and joy in the light of my match, was Grandmother. Her face held her familiar and kindly smile, and she opened her arms to me, but I realized that she would leave if I allowed the match to burn out. Moving the match to my other hand, I fetched the entire bundle from my apron pocket.

With my right hand, I thrust the bundle against the wall, pulling down against the rough stone. The bundle blazed to life, and I returned my attention to Grandmother. I began to cry, and my tears froze to my cheeks. Grandmother bent, and plucked the little icicle from my face. Her hand was radiant, and the tiny teardrop melted quickly. Realizing that Grandmother would disappear soon, just as the stove, the goose, and the tree had, I cried out to her.

I want to go with you!

I had meant to scream it, to cry it at the top of my lungs, but the words escaped my lips with barely a croak. The bundle of burning matches in my hand was a fiery spotlight, and in it, Grandmother was tall and beautiful. She seemed to glow from within as she lifted me to her arms.

My matches have gone out, but I am warm.