Patient’s Ward, Nightfall, 1998.

Ever since the car accident, I have been spending most of my time alone. Being confined to a chair, I undoubtedly face certain limitations, like going out to see the town, meeting up with friends, and taking overseas trips that would entail even more difficulties.

My writing desk was situated on the south wing of the room, which meant no windows and, consequently, no distractions while I worked. One evening, unable to pen the last piece due for the week, I decided to wheel out to the balcony to get some fresh air, hoping to momentarily urge my mind away from thinking and to absentmindedly drink coffee. The sun was setting behind a cluster of clouds, bleeding throughout that afternoon sky shades of pink, as if saying, life is grand and beautiful, beckoning everyone who’d look up to realize. Yet, I only felt mockery from it, I felt only disdain towards everything. “How can it be so callous of my situation?” I eventually gave up the thought and redirected my attention to the burning cigarette between my fingers.

“At least this smoke replenishes my departing soul,” I caught myself muttering.

Failing to notice it at first, the book of matches resting on the side table had begun to peculiarly move. It was trembling, as if something in it, something living, was desperately trying to escape captivity. And one by one, the matchsticks, as if Lilliputians from Gulliver’s Travels, had managed to push themselves out of the little blue drawer of the box that confined them, struggling to stand and find their balance at first, but they were able to eventually succeed, now conquering the full surface of the table.

Unable to administer an appropriate reaction, I was just there staring, frozen.

“Hello,” was the only thing I could think of saying after some time.

Of course, there wasn’t a response. They appeared to be communicating with each other, however wordlessly — there weren’t any sounds nor facial reactions that can be solicited from their small red oval heads. It was everybody’s guess what they were talking about.

I looked around to see if anybody was filming me. This could be a practical joke from one of those hidden camera shows.

I tried again, but there was no reaction still. This time, they were helping pick each other up, helping those struggling to get out of the matchbox. A standard matchbox has about 50 sticks in it. I reckoned there were about the same number. Some of them huddled around in circles, breaking into even more small groups after what appeared to be discussions. I was watching them like a kid with an ant farm.

I carefully wheeled back into the room. Fetched the camcorder to film the phenomenon. When I returned, they had already started what I feared they’d do.

One by one, they scratched their little heads against the sides of the box, incinerating themselves. Once the others have seen the charred remains of their companions, the sight had apparently encouraged them to do just the same. It was a mass suicide.

I tried to stop the lunacy, but a group of matchstick men lined up in an attempt to stop my backhand.

These men, as if pleading, moved from side to side, swaying, chanting inaudibly, then jumping off the edges of the side table onto the balcony floor and into the apartment, starting the old newspaper clippings, the papers that I was working on, creating a monstrous fire troll which devoured the sheets of the bed, the bed itself, and whatever it could find in its path.

God knows how hard I had tried to phone the building super, but the army of burning matchstick men tried to get me.

I think they’re after me still. I can see them hiding by the candles at the altar across the nurse’s station.