Matchbox Stories

The match strikes against the box, and the small flame illuminates my sister's round eyes as we huddle together in the broom closet. Light bounces off of shining cheeks, trailing down pale lips and settling on shaky hands. My sister exhales, but it's too loud right now and I beg her to hush. She doesn't understand, but she nods, letting fear and instinct be her guides. She trusts me to keep her safe, to keep us both safe, and the weight of her trust is heavy.

This small light I've allowed seems ironic. It's completely unaware.  Selfish in nature. Dancing little flame on a wooden stick, smiling. It's almost mocking us, laughing and urging us to join it. We've forgotten how to dance.

A crash in the distance.

My hands jump at the sound and my sister whimpers, her breath making the little flame quiver with us. A few moments pass, and the flame has moved on. It's started to burn brighter, greedily eating up more and more of that poor little stick. It won't have much to give soon, and the flame will anger. I wonder if it will start to eat my fingers next.

I decide it's okay if it does. Maybe it'll distract us.

My sister's fingers around mine have started to sweat. Her eyes haven't allowed her face to dry yet.

"How much longer?" she mouths.

I consider lying. I tell the truth.

"I don't know," I answer her. Our silence is loud.

She closes her eyes, pulling one of her hands out of the puzzle of fingers we've clenched together to cover her mouth. She holds her breath to still her body as best she can as she cries.

I think I can hear my heart breaking. It's too loud. I tell it to quiet down.

Another crash.

The tips of my fingers are starting to burn. I nudge my sister to get her to look, look, look how funny! Watch my fingers burn! Look!

She doesn't look. She doesn't feel my nudge. She doesn't feel much at all, I'd imagine. None of us really do.

The crashes are getting louder. Closer. I think I can hear a woman's voice.

She screams.

My sister snaps her eyes open. She turns to me. She asks a question without words, and the answer is painted in red on my face.

The light goes out.

I can hear my sister's panic. I can hear my own. It's too loud.

I scramble for another match. It's hard, because my fingers are burnt and my hands are clammy. My black fingertips touch a wooden stick and I nearly cry out in joy. I fumble for the matchbox, and hurriedly run the match along the side.

There's light again. My sister's face is dripping.

This flame is different. It seems the understand the scope of the situation. It's quiet. Better.

I've lost hope in lights. They tend to lie, whispering stories and promises of smiles. Light doesn't save anyone. I heard once that light is only the absence of dark, and I think that's not right. I think light is a temporary thing, distracting weary eyes from the terror in the dark.

The dark is natural.

It's pressed up against the linings of our souls, hidden in the inking of our letters, circled in the depths of our pupils. Man did not create darkness; it has always been there.

A crash. It's close.

My sister can't control her shakes and I can't move. Lost and numb.

Another crash, and this time, I know. I turn to my sister, match in one hand, her trembling fingers in another. She knows too.

The new flame tickles my fingers again, but they lost feeling after the first angry match. This one is dying slow.

So, I tug her closer so that my mouth is at her ear. As the match dies, I begin my story.

"All alone, in a cottage by the sea, lived a young woman by the name of Alexandria," I whispered. She hiccupped, happy to hear her name mentioned.

"She was very beautiful, and life was peaceful at her cottage. She cared for her animals, tended to a lovely garden, and read books with worn covers and yellowed pages. She had everything, and yet, she felt as though she was missing something. As she matured, she grew bored of her simple life. You see, her cottage was not just by the sea, but it was surrounded by it. All alone on her little island, Alexandria longed to see the world. She envied the birds of the island, who could come and go as they pleased.

"She was walking down the beach one day when she stumbled upon a feather. She picked it up and studied it, thinking of the freedom feathers gave the birds. As she continued down the sand, picking up more feathers, she began to think of a way off the island," I said, as quietly as I could. 

A crash. Alexandria jumped. She turned to me and begged me for a match.

The only sound was that of the match sliding against the box. We were holding our breath.

She exhaled as the small light lit up our faces. I continued, "Once she had gathered enough feathers, she began to construct a pair of wings for herself. She bound the feathers together with string and wove palm fronds in with the feathers, so she could take a piece of the island with her. She worked day and night, stopping only to tend to the animals and the garden.

"Alexandria spent any extra time she had watching the birds leap into the air. The birds taught her to fly, and she was a great student. She watched them for hours and days, waiting until the perfect time for her flight," I whispered.

"What then?" she asked.

"Shh. Let me talk. Your voice is too loud."

She nodded.

"The day had finally come. Alexandria triple-checked everything: the string was tied, the feathers and palm fronds secure, the animals fed, the garden tended. She strapped her wings to her back and left the cottage. She waited for the right winds, and when they came, she ran down the beach, lifting up into the sky when the air under her wings pushed her upwards," I told her.

I paused, contemplating how to end the story.

I decided Alexandria could hear a happy ending.

"Alexandria flew through the crisp air, leaving the island and her little cottage behind her. She could see everything, and traveled from island to island, meeting new people and seeing new places. She would go back to her island at the end of the day, except for the times when she was so tired from her adventures that she couldn't lift off. No longer was Alexandria tied to one place. She was truly happy then," I concluded.

My Alexandria tried to smile. I tried to smile back at her. She shook her head.

"That's not the real ending, is it?"

I sighed. "No, it's not."

We looked at each other for a while. A loud boom rocked the closet, but I couldn't hear it anymore. Alexandria's eyes were too loud right now.

Ï pull her closer. "I love you. You know that, right?"

My shirt dampened as she nodded, wiping her tears on my shoulder. "I know. I love you, too."

I held the match between us, watching this last flame shrink.

Then the dark swept in as the match died and a final crash echoed in the empty closet.