Worth It

Another edited fairy tale. My version of The Little Match Girl.

The girl was young; too young to be outside on her own in this cold.

Her tattered coat and stocking feet attracted puzzled stares from passersby, yet none were quite concerned enough to stop. She lifted her hands to her mouth, rubbing them together as she blew onto them whatever warmth she had left. The matchbook weighed heavily in her pocket, an easily consumed and fleeting source of comfort.

She trudged on, determined not to deplete her supply of fire so soon. She passed by a shop window that displayed picture frames, portraits of happy families inside. The girl pressed her nose and hands to the glass, enraptured by the mothers and fathers who so lovingly held their children.

The girl noticed the frost on the glass and the sickly shade of blue that was slowly taking over her fingers. With a resigned sigh, she chose the loss of a match over the loss of a hand.

She struck the match, basking in the sudden heat that emanated from the tiny stick. She held it up to her face, spreading the warmth to her numb nose. As the match moved between her eyes and the glass, the portraits behind the window began to shift.

The frames were no longer filled with laughing children and their loving parents. In their stead were her mother’s eyes, the dark circles that never seemed to leave them and the fearful guilt that clouded them over. Her lip was swollen and her jaw was darkened. She saw her father, his anger flowing from his features like ice.

The girl gasped, and the match went out. She shook her head and continued on, her hands in her pockets. The next window was a restaurant, the people inside digging into their warm meals with appreciation that made the girl’s stomach rebel. She clutched the matchbox, and gave in.

This time, she saw her table at home. Her family was sitting in silence, and her father was staring at her with a coldness that chilled her bones more than the snow ever could. He knew, and she could tell. She saw him knock over his chair as he stood, as if in slow motion. She saw him flinging accusations at her: rumors he had heard, gossip that was spread in hushed whispers behind her back. He knew.

With a wave of fear, she quickly blew out the match. No amount of heat was worth reliving that.

She could no longer feel her feet. She had not had time to take her shoes as he had chased her out. He had flung her out of the door with nothing but the tattered coat and dress she wore and the half-empty matchbox in her pocket.

She had known it was a risk. She had known what could happen if he knew. But, lighting her final match, she watched over those moments and remembered why she had taken the chance.

The first time she had held her hand. The stolen laughs, the secret notes, the time she had kissed her in the woods. Her beautiful smile, the warmth of her eyes. The match girl may not have found love with her family, but falling to her knees as her vision began to blur, she knew that she had found it after all. And it had been worth it.