Extra story of The Little Match Girl - The Little Match Girl
A merciless December night.
In a dark, small attic, a drunk man, clutching an old bottle of wine, leans against a dusty wall. The wind blows through the gap in the door, bringing the flesh-soaked cold rushing into the room. The man immediately cringed, his eyes dimly gazing out at the snowy night sky through a window the size of an adult's hand.
Then he let out a sob.
The weather is cold, but this person's face is as red as a ripe Gac fruit. He raises his head and pours the almost empty bottle of wine into his mouth, sipping it one by one. The pungent taste numbs the taste buds, rushes into the thirsty throat, and flows straight down to the empty stomach.
The drunken yeast comes up again, makes him dreamy, like he was inhaling opium. The man sobs again, shakes the bottle of wine in his hand. Realizes that it is no longer a drop, he angrily throw it into the corner. The sound of glass breaking echoes in the thick black night, creates an extremely shrill sound.
He thinks of his little daughter and lets out a slurred call that is characteristic of a drunkard.
But no one answered.
'Oh yeah, she has gone out to sell matches'. The man drowsily stands up, mutters softly. However, this time has not returned yet. 'What a useless thing!'
Then he walks over to the crumbling cupboard in a corner and pulled out the last bottle of wine he had bought with his daughter's match money.
The metal bottle cap is opened, and then there is a gulp.
Smiling cheerfully, the man returns to his seat, rests back against the wall and enjoys a gulp of harsh wine. He doesn't care that his little girl is still out in the cold since his mind is only left with the aroma of fragrant wine and distant recollections of his youth—the time when he still had money, was still free, and was still young enough to do whatever he wanted.
Unlike now, having to huddle in a corner and be bound by something called intimacy.
He belched away loudly, mumbled curses, and then continues to take sips of wine, as if he wants to pour all his discomfort and sorrow into it. When sleep has filled his brain, he lays his head on the floor, falling into a heavy, paranoid sleep.
Outside, the snow is still falling.