all sprinkles are sweet in the dark

this sounded like a fun rp
 
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Ryshanna Zaya LaVallene
{The Little Match Girl}
Ryshanna is the sole child of a poor and greedy couple living in Salmons. Ryshanna's father is a salesman who often boasts of being able to sell ice to eskimos. What he boasts of is quite opposite of the truth. He rarely sells anything at all. Ryshanna has had the job of selling matches on the street side for years. She detests the job, but often does distasteful things just to make the sales, in fear that her father will beat her if she returns home penniless. Recently, on a particularly cold night, an old woman purchased a match, and gave it to Ryshanna. Ryshanna lit the match, trying desperately to warm herself by it's flame. And this is when she discovered a special gift. Staring into the flame Ryshanna saw visions of a world much lovelier than her own. Seeing the reality of another much happier girl with her very own image, Ryshanna found herself longing to stare into the flames of the matches as often as possible. Often suffering harsh beatings by her father, due to the stolen matches, Ryshanna longs to escape to the world she sees in the flames.
In the likeness of~Georgia Frost~
 
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Ry-shan-na.
 
The match flared to life and the sizzle of igniting phosphorus sang out her name, the last syllable rounding out into a warm tear of flame. Ryshanna, crouching with her back to wall in the small alley behind her house, drew the tips of her fingers across her cheek and held them, moist with blood and tears, out over the match. This time he had succeed in cracking her head against the door frame. And for what? Not enough profit. Only one box sold, the lazy cow. He'd beat it out of her, this time.
 
Bastard. Like he had ever succeeded in beating her alleged laziness out. He'd probably keel over and die of ennui if she were to run out of faults, real or imaginary. She knew he enjoyed it, could feel it, in his quickened breathing, in the steady measured blows, always with increasing force, like he didn't want her to wear out too quickly. To bleed too soon.
 
The flame sputtered and died against her fingertips. If there was any accompanying pain, she couldn't feel it. Her head throbbed and her hands trembled as she fumbled with the match box.
 
Ry-shan-na. Ry-shan-na.
 
The matches had always called her name, but it wasn’t until that chance sale to an old woman that she saw things inside the flames. Another Ryshanna, golden and happy, wandering labyrinthine streets without a care. A sudden breeze kicked up, and the flames fluttered. Ryshanna shivered as she shielded the flames from the wind. Inside the dying match light she could see herself laughing.
 
Ry-shan-na. Ry-shan-na. Ry-shan-na.
 
What she needed was more light than ever before. Fighting against a fresh black wave of pain, and careful to protect her newly lit matches from the breeze, she dumped the entire contents of the match box out at her feet. One by one she dropped the lit matches into it, watched the little pile flare. The warmth was intoxicating. Ryshanna cupped her palms around the small bonfire like she was cradling a kitten. Inside the flames, the other Ryshanna stared back at her. Cutting across the black arch of her left eyebrow was a scar, pale as a knife blade.
 
Dazed, Ryshanna touched her temple. The wound was swollen, caked with blood and would, one day, produce a scar just like the one the other Ryshana had. As is a fantasy mirror, the flame-Ryshanna echoed her gesture. Her lips were moving and she was pointing at something. Teeth chattering, Ryshanna turned her head to see what her other self indicated. Behind her, looming and dark, was her house. No, not her house. Her father’s house. Somewhere inside that black place, sliding down a door frame, was her blood.
 
Ryshanna gritted her teeth. The pain in her head sliced into her neck and shoulders. She knew what match-world Ryshanna was telling her, had always been there to tell her.
 
Ry-shan-na.
 
The last of the matches sang out her name. It had been so easy to go back inside, past her snoring father, sated on violence and drink. Easy to get all the matches. Easier still to let them sing to her with their dry, crackling voices before letting their flames spread to curtains, papers, spilled bottles of liquor, a particular doorframe. The blaze would soon soar. It would be bright and blinding, and she’d be free.
 
She lovingly ran her fingertips through the match flame and focused on the tiny Ryshanna flickering within, who now seemed to be pointing away from the house, toward some direction deep into the dark night. Satisfied, she blew the match out.
 
Without another glance behind her, her steps determined, Ryshanna started walking.