Survival

I lay in the box with the other remaining matches in our usual undignified heap. Since Nigel had gone, I was now on top. I didn't have to bear any weight any more, but it also meant that I too would soon be picked out, lit up and burned away.

I was not unhappy to have reached the summit. Every one of us would eventually face the same fate, so what was the point of stringing it out? Some of the others used to hope that the box would be lost, buried at the bottom of a kitchen drawer, that another set of victims would be purchased and used in our stead, but I was never so optimistic.

Indeed, before long, it was my turn.

The light rushed in as the box slid ominously open. Suddenly and unexpectedly fearful, I prayed that he would shake us up, pick someone from the other end, but then I felt his fingers on my toes and knew that it was me. I braced myself and waited for the violent strike of the box against my head.

But it never came.

Instead, he smothered my left side in goo and pushed me firmly against something. I didn't know what. Something hard.

I opened my eyes and realised that I had been attached to Roger. I hadn't seen Roger for ages. I'd thought he was dead. Bit of a pain in the arse, Roger. A moaner. I would have preferred to be next to Dave, but being alive still was enough, I guess. Can't have everything.

It's been a couple of years since I left the box now and, although I'm happy to be here, I do wish that I knew what we all made up. A boat? Or a house, perhaps? Doreen, who stands on my head, thinks that we're a model windmill. Maybe we are. Whatever the answer, we're going to have a bloody long time to speculate.