Day One:

 

The world is ending. It’s ending. But it isn’t going to end with a bang. No. It’s going to end with powder sprinkling over the world.

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I turn from the window.

 

He looks up at me from the bed. “You have until tomorrow afternoon.”

 

Until tomorrow… I roll my eyes. “You act as if…” I turn away.

 

“As if what?” He stands. “As if I want to continue my life with my wife?”

 

“What about the kids?” I turn on him and take steps towards him. “Don’t you want to continue your life—or what will be left of it—with your kids?”

 

“They’re grown! They have wives and their own children to take care of!”

 

“That’s not the point!” I cover my face and pace at the foot of the bed.

 

“Look, we can leave.” He takes my elbow, stopping me. “We’ll start fresh. New world, new life.” His hand slides down to take mine.

 

I pull away. “Why couldn’t you have bargained for more passes?”

 

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It was hard enough getting you one. They nearly revoked mine when I asked.”

 

That, he didn’t tell me.

 

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Day Two:

 

Half the world is dead. I keep calling my sons but no one answers. I want to say goodbye but I think they’ve already left. We can’t leave the house. We can’t leave the house.

 

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Day Three:

 

They dropped the powder just several hours ago. It’s cloudy outside. I can’t even see my mailbox.

 

We have food. We have enough to last us awhile, but I don’t know how long the air will last in here.

 

We taped the ducts and turned the AC off. We taped up the cracks in the doors and windows, just in case.

 

How many people are still out there?

 

 

Day Four:

 

It’s hot. My shirt clings to my back as if it too is trying to survive. The water still works. But the electricity went out just a few hours ago. All our food is going to go bad. And we have to let it. We can’t cook any of it. We can’t toss it outside. It’s all going to rot in the house days before our bodies will.

 

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Day Five:

 

I can’t do it anymore. My stomach burns. I can’t move. Too much movement causes too much heat.

 

My husband locked himself in the bathroom. I hope he’s dead.

 

Why did he have to tell me what was going to happen? I would’ve rather just dropped dead like the rest of the world.

 

 

Day Six:

 

He’s dead. He killed himself in the bathtub. Slit his wrists and left me. And I find myself crying because of this. I’m crying. Who gave him the right to tell me the world was ending and then leave me here to live out the rest of its days?

 

So I opened the door and I stepped outside. I took a deep breath of the poisoned air. But I didn’t die.

 

It’s been too long. I waited too long.

 

“Hello?” I call into the empty neighborhood.

 

I can see my mailbox now.