The Little Match Girl - Flickan med svavelstickorna

If you're intrigued by this story, I invite you to explore more of my published work that delves into similar themes by clicking the link, which offers further reflections on traditions and societal critique.

https://www.konst.se/jorgen-thornberg

At first glance, the image might seem to belong to a familiar fairy tale. A young figure sits against an old brick wall, winter pressing in from all sides, a small flame held up against the dark. We think we know this story. We believe it comes from another century, from a moral universe where suffering was softened by allegory, and redemption arrived on cue.

But this is not that time.

The story unfolds in Malmö on New Year’s Eve, when the city rehearses happiness while neglecting those in need, prompting the audience to feel concern and a desire to act against societal indifference.

The girl does not belong to the past. She belongs to now. She is a seventeen-year-old homeless girl with drug problems.

The figure in the image — and the Selma of the story — exists in the gap between visibility and refusal. Her youth and age make her more relatable and elicit compassion from the audience.

The matches she holds are not symbols borrowed from literature; they are objects, illegal, dangerous, and real. Fire, warmth, hallucination, memory — all collapse into a single gesture. Each flame is both a comfort and an erasure, representing how societal neglect forces individuals to seek fleeting solace at a cost, deepening our understanding of their plight.

This work does not ask whether the fairy tale still applies. It asks what happens when we stop pretending it is fiction.

What remains is a winter scene without sentimentality, where beauty and cruelty coexist, and where the final warmth arrives only after the city has turned its back.

"The Last Evening

It was New Year’s Eve.
The wind came in from the sea,
Snow moved sideways through the streets.
People walked faster.
They had places to be.

She sat down where she was allowed to sit.
Public ground.
A corner no one claimed.
The wall behind her was older than the night.
She leaned against it and waited.

Her hands were stiff.
She pulled her legs in close,
changed position,
tried again.
Nothing helped.

She had matches.
She had saved them.
They were not for smoking.
They were for moments like this.

She struck one against the brick.
The flame was small and steady.
It warmed her fingers.
She held it close,
as long as it lasted.

While it burned, she saw the stove.
The heat.
The metal is shining.
When it went out, the wall returned.

She struck another.
This time, there was food.
A table correctly set.
White cloth.
Plates and cutlery aligned.
Everything in its place.

The roasted turkey is moving
Across the floor in her direction
Then nothing.

She knew how this worked.
She was not confused.

With the next match
There was a Christmas tree.
Lights.
Things she would never touch.
When the flame died, the stars remained.
One of them fell.

“My grandmother said that means someone dies,”
She thought.
Then she struck another.

Her grandmother stood there.
Clear.
Close.
Not fading yet.

“Stay,” she said.
“Please stay.”

She lit another match.
And another.
To keep the room.
To keep the warmth.
To keep her.

In the end, she lit all of them.
There was no reason to save anything anymore.

The next morning, she was found
Sitting as she had been the night before.
The box was empty.
Her face was calm.

People said she had only wanted to warm herself.
They did not know
who had stayed with her
through the night.”
Malmö, January 2026

The Little Match Girl

It had suddenly grown bitterly cold. The wind was howling, snow was falling, and dusk settled over Malmö. It was also the last evening of the year, New Year’s Eve, and everyone was hurrying home to change for the night’s festivities. That was what awaited them: a sky filled with fireworks, air thick with cheerful shouts and the clinking of raised glasses. Meanwhile, in the cold and darkness, a solitary homeless person, a poor young woman, sat at the corner of Västergatan and Frans Suellsgatan, often overlooked by society and ignored by social services like shelters and outreach programs that could have offered help but did not.

Selma’s head was bare, and on her feet she wore a pair of thin, striped socks. When she left the shelter that morning, she had been wearing a pair of worn boots. She had found them in a dumpster; they were meant for a man and were several sizes too large. They were so big that she kept losing them. Now it no longer mattered, for she had traded the boots for a shot. Despite her struggles, Selma's resilience reminds us of her inner strength amid despair, inspiring empathy and respect.

For half the day, the seventeen-year-old girl had wandered around in nothing but her socks, her feet red and blue from the cold. In an old cloth bag, she carried her most cherished belongings: a found lipstick, a small pot of rouge, and mascara, so she could quickly freshen herself up before sitting down somewhere to beg. She believed the small cup would fill more quickly if she didn’t look as though she were dying, but as though she were someone worth spending a few coins on. Her attempt to appear deserving of kindness highlights her vulnerability and the societal neglect she endures.

She was hungry and frozen, as always hollow inside after the pleasant moment of the shot had ebbed away. Tonight, the shelter was closed, leaving her with nowhere safe to rest. The weather put obstacles in her way, as the swirling snow made many of the homeless people’s usual places unusable. That it was New Year’s Eve made matters worse still, since many places were shut, with heavy metal grates standing in the way. Her suffering underscores the urgent need for societal compassion and action, urging the audience to reflect and act.

There she sat, looking so wretched, the poor thing. The rouge and mascara began to run as the snow melted on her face. Snowflakes fell into her long, yellow hair; once it had curled beautifully around her neck, it now hung limp and stringy. Lights shone from every window, and the smell of roasted turkey drifted down from the restaurant’s festive floor above; it was New Year’s Eve, after all, and soon the evening’s guests would arrive.

In the cloth bag Selma carried, there was a large packet of Swan Vestas matches, the kind you light by striking them against the wall or the nearest paving stone. They were her pride, symbols of her resilience amid neglect. They could not be sold in Sweden because they were banned for spontaneously igniting, a reminder of how society restricts even small acts of independence. These matches represented her fragile hope for warmth and safety in a cold world, making them more than tools-they are her small acts of defiance and hope, inspiring empathy and understanding.

Their name comes from the Roman virgin goddess Vesta, who presided over fire, the home, the hearth, and the family. Vesta was usually depicted as a flame in her temple. Only her priestesses, the Vestals, were permitted to enter. Her association with fire made her the obvious choice for British companies that manufactured matches. Selma’s matches came in the original yellow box with a swan on the front.

Selma had positioned herself strategically beside the restaurant steps, but she had been told to move along to avoid irritating the guests. No cheerful New Year’s reveller wants to be reminded of society’s cast-offs—a drug-addicted homeless girl who had only herself to blame. Many in society see homelessness as a personal failure, which deepens the social neglect and misunderstanding she faces daily.

Instead, she moved to the corner a little farther away, into a public space that was none of the restaurant staff’s concern. There she sat down and curled up; her small legs drawn up in front of her so she could rest her head on her knees. At times, she shifted position, pulling her legs in beneath her. No matter how she sat, Selma grew colder still, and she did not dare go to the place beneath the bridge in the park. Only men stayed there, and she was afraid of being raped. Besides, it was just as cold with nothing but a bridge arch for a roof, the wind able to rush freely through, no matter how one tried to shield oneself with cardboard and tarpaulins. Her small hands were almost completely numb with cold. The thin gloves she had owned disappeared while she was high; someone had stolen them, along with a carrier bag containing a few extra clothes. It was the extra socks she mourned most.

“Oh, a little match could surely do some good,” Selma thought. If only she dared take just one match from the box, strike it against the wall, and warm her fingers. She hesitated for a long time, thinking it might be a long while before she could find another box. The one she had was a memento of a brief summer relationship with Tom, an Englishman with a guitar. He had stayed for a few weeks, playing on the streets. Back then, there were often celebrations, and he had even treated her to drinks at Bullen's outdoor seating area. Selma had not eaten at a restaurant in ten years.

“Just one match,” she thought. Tom said he would come back next summer and promised to bring several boxes. Selma no longer smoked; hash was too weak and gave no kick worth mentioning. What she did love, however, was impressing the other homeless people by lighting their cigarettes—mostly scavenged butts. She had learned to light her matches by drawing them between her front teeth. It earned her general admiration.

“Just one,” Selma said softly to herself, glancing around as though it were anyone else’s business. She struck a wooden match with red sulphur at its tip; ritsch! How it crackled and how it burned! It was a warm, clear flame, like a tiny candle, as she cupped her hand around it. It was a marvellous light, conjuring images that reminded her of those she saw while intoxicated. Even the scent was delightful, breathing summer. Selma felt as though she were sitting in front of a great iron stove with gleaming brass knobs and a brass wreath; the fire burned so beautifully and warmed her so well.

No—what was that? The girl stretched the match towards her feet to warm them too—then the flame went out. The warming stove vanished—Selma sat with a burned-out match in her hand. She tossed it into the snow and looked at the cloth bag. Just one more. But she mustn’t let it become a habit. Her sensible self lost the inner struggle, and she took out the box; two stiff, frozen fingers plucked another match.

She struck the new match against Jörgen Kock’s ancient brick wall; the wooden sliver burned, glowed, and warmed. Where the flickering light fell on the wall, the brick turned transparent. Selma saw straight into the room behind it, where the table stood, laid with a gleaming white cloth and fine porcelain. There steamed the roasted turkey, stuffed with prunes and apples. Then the roasted bird jumped from the platter onto the floor, knife and fork still stuck in its back. It reached the wall and the homeless girl before the match went out. All she could see now was the thick, cold brick wall. She had not put the box back into the cloth bag, but took out yet another match and lit it against the wall.

Suddenly, Selma found herself sitting beneath the most beautiful Christmas tree. It was larger and more richly decorated than any she could remember. Thousands of candles burned on the green branches, and she could see her reflection in the tree’s colourful ornaments. Beneath the tree lay Christmas presents she would soon open. But first, the girl stretched out both hands towards the tree to grab some of the Christmas sweets set out in bowls below—then the match went out, and the many Christmas lights rose higher and higher. Through the swirling snow, the stars shone. One of them fell, leaving a long trail of fire across the sky.

“Someone is dying now,” Selma said to herself. Her old grandmother had said: When a star falls, a soul travels up to God. She struck yet another match against the wall; it shone far and wide, and in its light stood her grandmother—so bright, so radiant, so gentle and good.

“Granny!” the girl cried. “Take me with you! I know you vanish when the match goes out—just like the warm stove, the fine roast turkey, and the great, wondrous Christmas tree with all its sweets! Hurry!” Another match burned warmly as her grandmother spoke to her grandchild. And another, and yet another. If only she could stay a little longer.

Resolutely, Selma took out the rest of the matches from the box and struck them all at once. She wanted to keep her grandmother there, and the matches shone with such wondrous splendour that it was brighter than the brightest, warmest summer day. Never before had her grandmother been so beautiful, so tall that she could lift her grandchild into her arms. Together they flew in glory and joy, higher and higher. Up there, there was no cold, no hunger, no anguish—they were with God. Jörgen Kock’s brick corner faded into darkness until everything behind it was black, but where Selma was, it was intensely bright and warm, and there were no syringes and no dirty needles.

On New Year’s morning, at the corner by the Kock house, little Selma sat with red cheeks and red lips shaped into a smile—dead, frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. The snow had stopped falling, and the sky had opened, a pale sun shining down on the dead girl, with an empty yellow box in one hand and a bundle of almost completely burned matches in the other. She had only wanted to warm herself, people said. No one could know all the beauty the girl had seen, the radiance and joy with which she had celebrated the New Year with her old grandmother high above.  
Flickan med svavelstickorna

Det hade plötsligt blivit förskräckligt kallt. Det blåste och snöade och skymningen sänkte sig över Malmö. Det var också årets sista kväll. Nyårsafton, och alla hade bråttom hem för att klä om till kvällens festligheter, för det var det som väntade: att himlen fylldes med fyrverkerier och luften blandades med glada tillrop och allmänt skålande. I denna köld och mörker satt en ensam uteliggare, en fattig ung kvinna, vid hörnan Västergatan och Frans Suellsgatan. Det var mot den femhundraåriga tegelfasaden hon lutade ryggen. Innanför väggarna under de gamla valven låg restaurangen Årstiderna, ett matställe Selma inte ens i sina vildaste drömmar kunde drömma om att äta på. En stelfrusen baguette hon fiskat upp ur en papperskorg utanför Torgets Grill var sedan länge uppäten.

Selma hade bart huvud och ett par tunna, randiga strumpor på fötterna. Då hon lämnat härbärget i morse hade hon haft ett par slitna kängor på sig. Dem hade hon hittat i en container och de var egentligen avsedda för en man och flera storlekar för stora. De var så stora att hon tappade dem titt som tätt. Nu spelade det ingen roll längre, för kängorna hade hon bytt ut mot en sil. Selma var missbrukare, men pengarna var slut, och en nyårsafton finns inget att stjäla som snabbt går att förvandla till pengar. Så det fick bli hennes kängor för ett årets sista rus.

Halva dagen hade den sjuttonåriga flickan gått omkring i bara strumplästen och fötterna var röda och blå av köld. I en gammal tygpåse hade hon sina käraste ägodelar: ett upphittat läppstift, lite rouge och mascara, så att hon snabbt kunde fräscha upp sig innan hon satte sig någonstans för att tigga. Hon hade för sig att den lilla muggen fylldes snabbare om hon inte såg döende ut, utan var någon det var lönt att slösa lite växelpengar på. I dag hade knepet inte fungerat och i muggen låg tre ynkliga enkronor, inte den endaste gyllene tia så att hon kunde värma upp sig inifrån med en kopp kaffe på Torgets Grill.

Hon var hungrig och frusen och som alltid tom invärtes efter att silens sköna stund ebbat ut. Ikväll var härbärget stängt, så hon var tvungen att hitta någonstans att ligga över natten. Vädret satte käppar i hjulen eftersom yrsnön gjorde många av uteliggarnas platser oanvändbara. Att det var nyårsafton gjorde ont värre eftersom många platser stängdes, tunga galler stod i vägen.

Där satt hon och såg så förtvivlad ut, den lilla stackaren. Rougen och mascaran började rinna bort när snön smälte i hennes ansikte. Snöflingorna föll i hennes långa, gula hår; en gång i tiden hade det lockat sig vackert kring nacken, nu var håret stripigt. Från alla fönster lyste ljusen, och så luktade det så gott av stekt kalkon där inne, i restaurangens festvåning ovanför; det var ju nyårsafton, och snart skulle kvällens gäster anlända.

I tygpåsen hade Selma ett stort paket Swan Vestas, svaveltändstickor, den där sorten man tänder genom att stryka dem mot en vägg eller närmaste stenläggning. De var hennes stolthet. De gick inte att köpa i Sverige, var förbjudna eftersom de lätt kunde självtända.

Deras namn kommer från den romerska jungfrugudinnan Vesta – gudinna för eld, hem, härd och familj. Vanligtvis avbildades Vesta som elden i hennes tempel. Endast hennes prästinnor, vestalerna, tilläts komma in i templet. Hennes koppling till eld gjorde henne till det självklara valet för brittiska företag som tillverkade tändstickor. Selmas tändstickor låg i den gula originalasken med en svan på framsidan.

Selma hade suttit strategiskt intill restaurangens trappa men blivit uppmanad att flytta på sig, så att hon inte irriterade gästerna. Ingen festglad nyårsfirare vill bli påmind om samhällets olycksbarn, en knarkande uteliggare som fick skylla sig själv.

I stället flyttade hon till hörnet en bit bort, allmän plats och inget restaurangfolket hade med att göra. Där satte hon sig och kröp ihop; de små benen hade hon dragit upp framför sig så att hon kunde luta huvudet i knät. Ibland bytte hon ställning och drog ihop benen under sig. Hur hon än satt frös Selma ännu mer och till stället under bron i parken vågade hon inte gå. Där höll bara män till och hon var rädd för att bli våldtagen. Dessutom var det lika kallt med bara ett brovalv som tak och vinden fritt kunde välla in, hur man än skylde sig med kartonger och presenningar. Hennes små händer var nästan helt förlamade av köld. De tunna vantarna hon haft försvann medan hon var hög; någon hade snott dem, liksom en bärkasse med lite extra kläder. De extra sockorna sörjde hon mest.

”Ack, en liten sticka kunde nog göra gott!”, tänkte Selma. Om hon bara vågade att ta en endaste sticka ur asken, stryka den mot väggen och värma fingrarna. Hon tvekade länge och väl och tänkte att det kunde dröja länge innan hon kunde hitta en ny ask. Den hon hade var minnet från ett kort förhållande hon haft under sommaren med Tom, en engelsman med gitarr. Han hade stannat några veckor och spelat på gatorna. Då var det ofta fest, och till och med hade han bjudit på Bullens uteservering. Selma hade inte ätit på restaurang på tio år.

”En sticka bara”, tänkte hon. Tom hade sagt att han skulle komma tillbaka nästa sommar. Då hade han lovat att ta med flera askar. Selma rökte inte längre; hasch var för svagt och gav ingen kick värd namnet. Däremot älskade hon att imponera på andra uteliggare och tända deras rökverk, uppfiskade fimpar för det mesta. Hon hade lärt sig att tända sina svavelstickor genom att dra dem mellan framtänderna. Det väckte allmän beundran.

”Bara en endaste,” sa Selma tyst för sig själv och tittade sig runt som om någon hade med det att göra. Hon drog ut en trästicka med det röda svavlet i toppen; ritsch! Vad den sprakade och vad den brann! Det var en varm, klar låga, som ett litet ljus, då hon höll handen omkring den. Det var ett vidunderligt ljus som skapade bilder som påminde om dem hon såg i ruset. Också doften var ljuvlig och andades sommar. Selma tyckte att hon satt framför en stor järnkamin med blanka mässingsknappar och mässingskrans; elden brann så härligt och värmde så gott.

Nej, vad var det? — Flickan sträckte fram stickan mot fötterna för att värma även dem — då slocknade lågan. Den värmande kaminen försvann — Selma satt med en utbrunnen svavelsticka i handen. Hon kastade den i snön och tittade på tygpåsen. En till bara. Men inte låta det bli en ovana. Den inre striden förlorade hennes förståndiga jag och hon tog fram asken och två stelfrusn fingrar plockade ännu en sticka.

Hon strök den nya stickan mot Jörgen Kocks gamla tegelvägg; träflisan brann, den lyste och värmde. Där det flämtande skenet föll på muren blev teglet genomskinligt. Selma såg rakt in i rummet bakom, där bordet stod dukat med en skinande vit duk och fint porslin. Där ångade den stekta kalkonen, fylld med sviskon och äpplen. Då hoppade den stekta fågeln från fatet och ner på golvet med kniv och gaffel kvar i ryggen. Ända fram till muren och den hemlösa flickan hann den innan stickan slocknade. Allt hon nu kunde se var den tjocka, kalla tegelmuren. Hon hade inte stoppat tillbaka asken i tygpåsen utan tog upp ännu en sticka och tände mot muren.

Plötsligt satt Selma inunder den vackraste julgran. Den var större och mer smyckad än hon kunde minnas någon hon sett. Tusentals ljus brann på de gröna grenarna, och hon kunde spegla sig i granens färgglada kulor. Under granen låg julklappar som hon strax skulle öppna. Men först sträckte flickan båda händerna mot granen för att plocka till sig lite av julgodiset som stod i skålar inunder — då slocknade stickan och de många julljusen steg högre och högre. Genom den yrande snön lyste stjärnorna. En av dem föll och gjorde en lång eldstrimma på himmeln.

”Nu dör någon!” sa Selma till sig själv. Hennes gamla mormor hade sagt: När en stjärna faller, färdas en själ upp till Gud. Hon strök ännu en svavelsticka mot muren; den lyste vida omkring, och i skenet stod mormodern, så ljus, så skinande, så mild och god.

”Mormor!” ropade flickan. ”Tag mig med dig! Jag vet att du försvinner, då svavelstickan slocknar, borta liksom den varma kaminen, den präktiga kalkonsteken och den stora, fantastiska julgranen med allt godis! Skynda dig på!” Ännu en sticka värmde medan mormor pratade med sitt barnbarn. Ännu en och en till. Tänk om hon bara kunde stanna lite längre.

Selma tog resolut upp resten av stickorna i asken och strök hastigt eld på bunten. Hon ville hålla kvar mormor; och svavelstickorna lyste med sådan förunderlig prakt, att det var ljusare än den ljusaste varma sommardagen. Mormor hade aldrig förr varit så vacker, och så stor att hon förmådde lyfta barnbarnet och ta henne i sin famn, och tillsammans flög de i härlighet och glädje, så högt, så högt. Där ovan fanns ingen köld, ingen hunger, ingen ångest — de var hos Gud. Jörgen Kocks tegelhörna försvann i ett dunkel tills allt bakom var svart, men där Selma var var det intensivt ljust och varmt och där fanns inga silar och smutsiga sprutor.

I hörnet vid det Kockska huset satt nyårsdags morgon den lilla Selma med röda kinder, och det röda läppstiftet format till ett leende — död, ihjälfrusen den sista kvällen på det gamla året. Det hade slutat snöa och himlen öppnat sig där en blek sol lyste på den döda, med en tom gul ask i handen och en bunt nästan uppbrända stickor i den andra. Hon ville bara värma sig, sa folk. Ingen kunde ju veta allt vackert flickan sett, i vilken glans och glädje hon firade nyår med gamla mormor högt ovan.