The Little Match Girl

     Winter came swift and hard. Heavy tufts of snow fell upon the sleepy village in the dark stillness of night. The only light was the flickering moon light that made its way through the falling snow. As morning crept up from the dark abyss behind the mountains, a dim light grew in the village square. Soon a towering inferno billowed over the village. There was shouting and screams as the villagers tried to put the fire out. As the stable burned the neighing and whinnying of horses cried out over the crackling blaze.

     As the sun crested the mountains, the fire finally subsided to cinders. Although the villagers managed to defeat the flames, several of the horses had perished. Several of the men who had fought the fire sat in the snow, breathing heavy, and the steam of their breath rising as fog in the sunlight. “It’s the third place this month,” one man said wiping sweat from his brow.  The man standing next to him shakes his head in disgust. “Aye, it’s a bloody shame.” From behind the crowd, a young girl shivers against the cold morning air. The edge of her coat singed and frayed.

     The church bells rang the seven o’clock bells. Tired and defeated, the villagers dispersed to ready for the day. The young girl makes her way to the market as she does every day. Near the corner of the church and a small bakery she sets up her small blanket. In a small, bird like voice she cries out “Matches for sale!”

     Lunch and supper pass in what seems like the blink of an eye and evening is pushing the sun from the sky. The young girl sits shivering on her small blanket. “Matches for sale,” she cries out to the people making their way home from the market. No one looks her way, nor do they buy any of her matches. Picking up her blanket and matches, the young girl makes her way towards the edge of the village to a small, burnt out cottage.  She pushes open the door to a small, single room. The cottage had burnt some years ago, but she loved the place. It had belonged to her grandmother. The young girl was there the night of the fire; the fire that took her dear grandmother from her.  She remembered the smell of the smoke and the screams of the wood as it popped and cracked.

     The young girl lit a match in the hearth. A small fire sprung up from the cold wood. The shadows danced against the wall and the girl imagined what her days would have been like if the fire never happened. Tears welled up in her eyes and she became sad and angry. “Why, oh why did this happen to me?” the girl cries out. A blast of cold wind chills her to the core. Still crying, she curls up on the stone floor and tries to sleep.

     Morning came lazily through the forest as the young girl shivered awake. A thin layer of snow blanketed her on the ground. Before the fire, the young girl and her grandmother had never been wealthy, but they had enough to get by. Now, the young girl was lucky if she managed to sell a single match. Cold and hungry, the girl trudges her way through the snow into the village. Again from the corner of the church and bakery she cries out “Matches for sale!”

     On her way home from the village, the girl lights a match. The flame glows orange-red. It dances upon the wood of the match till it singes the tips of her fingers. A small yelp escapes her lips. While she watches it burn, the image of a small dog playing ball appears before her. Like a flame deep inside, her anger burns intensely. As night falls upon the village, she makes her way back to the market.

     The market was dark and foreign; she had never been here at night. Every crunch of snow under her feet made her heart race. She lit another match to light her way. Another image flashed before her. In the flickering light was a horse and carriage. The day after the fire, they had carried her grandmother out and took her on a horse drawn carriage of black wood. The girl remembered the fear and sorrow she felt as they carried her grandmother out of the cottage, covered in a small, white sheet.

     Her pace quickened as made it to the tailors. The flames inside her raged unending. Striking another match, she tosses it into a pile of hay next to the tailor shop. Instantly the hay erupts in flames. The girl runs with all her legs can muster. She knows what she is doing is wrong, but she doesn’t care. “They did nothing to help! They still do nothing…” she whispers as she runs.

     Yells and screams follow behind her as the village people battle the flames. A small smile creeps across her face. She pushes her legs as hard as she can. As the moon hits the midnight mark, she makes it back to her cottage. The young girl lights a match to start a fire before going to sleep. In the flickering flame of the match, she pictures the face of her grandmother. Her face is charred and peeling. Her lifeless eyes staring back, accusing her of not saving her. She tosses the match into the hearth, disgusted. The sound of angry shouts breaks her from the illusion. “We know it’s you, you little she-devil!” A villager yells. “You killed them!” Another villager shouts.

     The young girl says nothing. “I’m glad they died,” she thinks to herself. In anger, the villagers begin to throw bricks and stones into the open roof and windows of the cottage. One of the stones finds its mark and she yelps in pain. After a rather large brick is thrown through the roof, a large shuddering noise shakes the forest. The heavy thatched roof of the cottage collapses into the cottage, pinning the girl inside. The mob of villagers still yell angrily as the young girl cries out in pain.

     Smoke starts to billow up from the collapse roof. As flames start to rise up, the villagers stop their yells. In the crackling blaze they can hear laughter. Soon the laughter is drowned out by the raging blaze. Terrified, the villagers run away, guilt welling in their hearts as they do so. Throughout the night, smoke pours out of the forest and into the village.

     As the morning sun rises, a thick fog settles over the village. A few people make the trek out to the remains of the cottage. A few coals still crackle, but the fire has burnt itself out. Some of them cry out, yet others cannot bear to look at the burnt cottage. “What have we done?” A young woman begins to wail into her husband’s shoulder.  One of the village firemen begins to dig through the rubble, he lets out a sigh. Curled up under a large roof beam, lies the small body of a young girl. Her face twisted in a painful smile.