The Matchbox

One match left.

I gazed at the matchbox as it sat on the ground next to me, slightly illuminated by the emergency candle. Over the past four or five weeks I had committed the physical presence of this matchbox to memory. I traced each line within the design, peered closely at the print and tried to examine each blob of ink, each fraying layer of cardboard, each minuscule imperfection that constituted the box. I had wholly integrated my conscience into the world of this matchbox. I thought myself to be an expert of its landscape, a master of its world, an omniscient being among the inked veneer of cardboard and glue; yet, despite this breadth of knowledge, I still felt as if this matchbox secretly controlled my life. I could feel it snickering at me while I thumbed the box, while I slid the lid open and closed. And yet.

There was one match left.

And yet. I could not bring myself to look away from the matchbox. It was all I had. Well, I suppose that is to say, while I had other things in my dwelling—a cot and blanket, my emergency candles, some beans and a few gallons of water, a pillow and some books—the matchbox was the only real thing I had anymore, the only little frivolous item that was a thing, a stupid little thing that did nothing for me besides hold my matches. I even had another boring, empty matchbox with a perfectly fine striking surface still attached, from when I first moved down here. But I liked this matchbox more, partially because of its thingness, and partially because of the other reason. And the only match left was in this matchbox. 

I must have looked odd while I stared at this matchbox and turned my back to the little flame. It was so dark, in my dwelling, and I was tired of hopelessly staring into the emergency candle. Staring hopelessly at the matchbox instead seemed, at the time, a little better. Nevertheless, I didn’t care if what I did was odd or not. There was no one else around to judge my behavior. I was alone in my dwelling and had been for weeks since I moved down there. I wanted to run away, but I couldn’t. Before I moved down here, I was always running away. And now, I could never really run away again. How I longed for the freedom to make poor choices again. 

On the matchbox was a picture of a silvery fish swimming alone against a turbulent, indigo sea. I think it was supposed to be cute, but until this matchbox became my only thing, I felt melancholic just looking at the image.

It was snowing the day she showed me the matchbox. I could still remember the huge scarf wrapped around her neck and head like a giant wool helmet when she arrived at my doorstep that day. She was aware of the absurdity of the scarf, even defiant about it; for this, I knew I could only love her more. She laid out a bottle of wine, a box of saltines, a tapered candle and, of course, the matchbox in her bag on the kitchen table. 

She proudly presented the matchbox and the candle to me. “We’ll drink the wine first, then we’ll light the candle in the bottle,” she said, winking. 

That night we never lit the candle. 

I laid down on the dirt floor of my dwelling and stared into the dark void above me. I had built the dwelling a few months ago because I was in a manic state, and also because I found a free shovel on the side of the road. I should have built some sort of skylight, or even just a hole, I thought to myself, knowing fully well that even had I known what was going to unfold in the world, I wouldn’t have built a damn skylight. I just liked to dig. 

When it arrived, the bacteria moved fast, killed fast. Birds fell from the sky, squirrels landed belly up from trees. I stayed up in the house for as long as I could; when the lights began to flicker, I moved down here. I knew that the raids were beginning soon. After the vice president died, the gun shortage had already begun. I had previously stashed some supplies down here when I built the dwelling; her matchbox was just in my pocket when I moved down there.

And now, there was only one match left. 

I couldn’t know what continued to unfold above me. By the time I had left the world up there, news desks were abandoned, last messages of hope and devastation were transmitted across airwaves before people left to be with their families or die or both. I tuned into the radio once. The only thing I heard was a little girl asking for her parents. Where are you mommy? Where are you daddy? It’s Lizzy, please come get me. Over and over. I did not turn the radio back on after that. 

The emergency candle lit only a small radius in front of me. I often did not know why I continued to light the candle, day after day, night after night. I lost track of time, real time, whatever that was. Instead, I measured time with candles, melting wax, flickering light. I measured time with burnt matches.

I grew to know the fish on the matchbox as both my greatest companion and my greatest enemy. What is an intimate friendship without some contention, anyways? It was, without a doubt, a lively creature: its mouth was slightly ajar, perhaps surprised or in mid-sentence, fins flapping against the waves. The scene was in motion. That fish was going somewhere. 

“I know you hate fish,” she said to me that snowy day, holding the matchbox up for me to see. “So, I thought I’d try to slowly change your mind.” She placed the box in my palm. This was how I met my only friend in my dwelling. A relationship forever shaped by contempt and curiosity. The box was brighter, smoother, then. It had body, weight; time had thinned it out, made it transparent, less mysterious. 

Until there was one match left.

Indeed, I harbored a hatred of fish my entire life. I hated the way they tasted, smelled, felt, looked. I feared wading into any body of water that was not crystal clear; that invasive feeling of fish scales gliding along my calf as a child haunted me at every beach and lake. I hated feeling like I was never truly alone, that there was always something lurking where I couldn’t see it. I bought a house in the country and yes, embarrassingly, I found solace in the fact that I was miles away from any sea creatures slithering around my feet. 

But she loved fish and abject, dirty things. I loved my clean house on the dirt country road; she loved kicking up the dust. Whenever a dust cloud rolled into my driveway, I knew she had arrived. I looked forward to the dirt; perhaps this was why I loved to clean. Clean people are always the most cognizant of dirt, the most aware of its presence. Always looking for it, both disgusted and pleased to be right for it. 

I was not without my shortcomings, however. The dwelling, for example. Not my finest moment. When she rolled her car up the driveway and saw me covered in dirt, donning a shovel, she stared at me in horror. 

“You knew,” she said, seething and red. “About the lake cabin. And you decide to do this instead of packing.” Summer had arrived by then, musky and damp. She wore a sundress and thick hiking sandals. 

She did tell me about the lake cabin. Many times, in fact. She had recently inherited it from a distant aunt. At first I liked to hear about it; it sounded idyllic and sweet, aside from the presence of fish. But with each increasingly frequent mention, The Cabin became a monolith in our relationship. Each time The Cabin came up, it grew larger and more voracious, until it swallowed up my house and my things and my dirt road and even at one point, myself. The dwelling felt like a way to expand myself, to save myself from this consumption.

I tried to explain this to her. But how do you explain an impulse like the dwelling? You can’t. It was a parasitic notion. I felt possessed when I made the dwelling. I had to stop myself from digging further. I wanted to run, so I did something even better. I had dug. 

She threw the matchbox at my feet in anger before she walked away. I pocketed it, kept it with me until the day I moved into the dwelling.

So, regarding the apocalypse: you would think one would feel vindicated when they build a hiding spot for situations like this. I did not feel vindicated; instead, I felt wholly alone. I had managed to imprison myself into my own death. If I chose to live up there–where the people and the bacteria and the fish also lived–I would have surely died. And if I lived down here, I would have, also, surely died. Is death among others any less lonely?

I considered, as I often did, the matchbox. To keep digging and sweating and blistering my palms that day was somehow easier than to follow her down the dirt road as she drove away. I had not seen her since. She had died. Or she had moved into the cabin. Either way, I knew I had lost her. 

One left.

I slid open the matchbox. With the last of my light, I knew I couldn’t handle the darkness for long. I could either emerge back into the world, with sickeningly high hopes it would still be there and that I could even live in it, or I could remain in the dwelling in complete darkness for as long as I could. The last match, which used to mean everything to me, had quickly lost all meaning. Its utility peaked several candles ago. 

I knew then that what I thought earlier was wrong. I could make one last poor choice. 

I slid open the matchbox and held the match between my fingertips. I thought of this moment like a dance. A brilliant object, matches were. Somehow their small size enacted a choreography of chemicals and speed and heat. With my fingertip, I traced the striking surface on the side of the box. It was rough, catching onto all the microscopic ridges of my skin. Some unevenness is good, I thought. A little friction can really make something. 

I struck the last match and watched it glow. I smelled that familiar burning smell, delighted in the small illumination of the flame. It burned quickly and brightly, just as it was supposed to. It was a beautiful last match, and I was glad for this fleeting pleasure. 

After the big show had burned out, I felt a wave of both peace and grief wash over me. I tossed the old match to the side and felt the weightlessness of the totally empty matchbox. This final change gave me one new last thing to observe: a matchbox without any matches. An object completely devoid of nearly all practical use. 

I could finally slide the cardboard cover completely off the matchbox without fear of losing matches to the dirt. It was a little exciting, I have to admit. A whole new side of the matchbox was being unveiled to me. I could see all the corners of the box, the entirety of its insides and the naked cardboard that was previously hidden by matches. I examined the thin cardboard layer that slid off the top of the box and lifted the cardboard up to see the other side of the fish. 

I caught my breath.

Underneath the fish was writing, but I couldn’t quite read it yet. I tore the folded paper apart where it had been previously bonded with glue. I examined the writing. It was an address. 

The Cabin. 

The fish, I knew now, was just the face of a test. An empty matchbox was supposed to represent time together. Instead, this matchbox became my only companion in the loneliest and darkest time of my life. I could nearly laugh if I did not feel so devastated. 

Underneath the address, she had written something else: 

Jump in. 

I smiled to myself. I was living in a hole in the ground and my best friend was a matchbox. I observed, one last time, the fish on the matchbox. My curious friend had, at last, served its final purpose. I supposed that I did like this fish after all.

I held the matchbox pieces over the candle and watched it burn. I memorized the address a long time ago. She was right, by the way—a matchbox is the perfect unit of time. 

I blew the candle out and climbed up into the world.