Light My Fire

The cold winds nipped at her bare skin. It had been thirty degrees when she left, and now in the late evening, it had to be much colder, especially with the falling snow and horrid winds. She was clad only in old jeans and a wispy tee shirt, and the ratty converse on her feet did next to nothing to keep her warm, the were more holes than shoes. All she wanted to do was go home, no, it wouldn’t be much warmer, but she’d be free from the winds. She couldn’t go home though, she’d made next to no money on the streets today. She had stood at the little wooden makeshift stand like she was supposed to; selling trinkets, wool hats and gloves, but he had been almost a waste of time. It was New Year’s Eve, and it was cold, everyone was either out celebrating the new year, or bundling up inside their own homes, safe from the cold. So, how could she possibly go home and tell her father she hadn’t made any money today? She couldn’t, he’d hit her for sure, and then mom would yell and yell. Going home wasn’t an option, so she stumbled a long down the streets awhile longer before stopping at a nearby alleyway to spend the night.
This wasn’t anything close to safe that she knew. But neither was going home, and at least here she wasn’t being called an idiot or shame to the family.
She curled up in a dark corner, trying to find warmth within herself but nothing was working. She wished that girl never stole her jacket, it had only been a thin spring jacket but it was still warmer than just her shirt. And she should have never given that poor homeless family her last wool hats and mitts. She needed the money for those and she needed the warmth. She was so stupid – she needed to start thinking for herself.
A cigarette butt rolled past her on the ground and she finally remembered the matches she had tucked into the pocket of her jeans. She always had them on her, or a cheap lighter but could hardly ever afford her cigarettes. Sometimes when she was in a rebellious mood, she’d rob one or two off of her mom or dad – that’s where most of her money went anyway, they were partly hers.
She fumbled for the tiny wooden box and slid off the top. She pulled out one single red-tipped match and lit it up by starching it off the brick wall behind her. Instantly it created a warm orange-red glow, lighting up the alley dimly. She could finally pick out a small window on the building across from her, she imagined herself on the other side of the glass. Counting down to the next year, drinking egg nog, having a big dinner in a heated home, laughing and when midnight came she’d drink some champagne. She smiled to herself at that; she used to spend holidays with Grandma, of course her grandmother wasn’t any sort of rich, but she made a good meal and always treated her as if she was a person, and not a slave or burden. But now she spent them alone in her closet sized room, or on the streets since Grandma had died two years ago.
Images of family faded and the match burned out and the coldness enveloped her once more. Fingers trembling, she struck another. This time appearing brightly in the dancing flame was her and a unknown boy, they sat around a warm fire, he said something and she saw an image of herself throwing her head back and laughing. The boy threw her arm around her and she cuddled into his big hoodie. She felt her lips start to curl, but they were so frozen she doubted there was even a small smile on her face.
She sparked up another and another and watched false images burn and fade. The shivers never stopped but she was happily distracted.
She reached into the miniature wooden box once again an pulled out the very last match. Once more, the bright glow surrounded her for a moment but when this once burnt out, her eyes started to flutter to a close and her body was almost numb. Before she fell out of consciousness, she watched one of the stars shoot across the night sky, dragging its tail behind it until its light disappeared; just like the one of the match.
Vaguely she heard her Grandma’s words ring softly in her ears. They had been sitting on her porch step when she had said this, Sylvia had still been fairly young and watched a star seemingly dropped from the sky. Her Grandma had laughed at her excitement and uttered, “Sylvia, darlin’, every time you see one of those – it means God’s getting’ another Angel.” in that old, sweet Southern drawl of hers.
Someone must be dying, she thought to herself as she fell unconscious.