Lost
Fingers fumbling in the darkness, she strikes the match against the cardboard book, singeing her thumbnail and getting an unpleasant whiff of burnt keratin. The match sputters, yellow bead of flame almost disappearing until it reluctantly settles and grows in her cupped hand.
She can’t see a damned thing. The darkness beyond her has grown deeper in the hyperfocused brightness of the burning match. Her missing flashlight, dropped backpack, nearly empty water bottle, all lost. The match eats at her fingers. She adjusts her grip, drops it, hears it hiss in the damp.
“Shit…” Disorienting echo. She can’t remember how many paces, can’t figure out which direction. Sobs. Forces herself to be calm again, again, again.
Scrabbles for the matchbook. Counts two. Carefully tears one out, closes the book, flips it over. Finds the sandy strip with her fingertip, lines up the head of the match. Pressure. Strike.
The head splits, sparking at her face, and she almost lets go as it swells and bursts with flame. Raises it up, sees nothing but dim, nearby reflections, faint haze of her pale legs, light sweatshirt. Stretches higher, trying to see anything, anything at all. When the flame licks her fingers she reaches up with her other hand to take it by the hissing hot burnt end to flip it around. It fades and dies. She sticks her charcoal-flavored fingertips in her mouth, feels the blisters forming. Crouches down to think.
Sniffling, tears out the last match. Finds the strip. Pressure. Strike. Nothing. Whimpers. Flips the match. Strikes again. It splits, barely catches, a tiny bubble of blue. Turns the match, carefully, pleading under her breath, empty matchbook ready to burn. Watches it die. Blows gently on the tiny glow of red, praying, even after it fades away.