Guilt was a shadowed thing that felt heavier than lead in Carrie Moore's heart. But she couldn't deny the lightness that curled in her stomach whenever she shared an afternoon with Michael Langdon. She felt terrible about lying to her mother and surely she was the worst daughter alive, but she couldn't describe how she felt when she was with Michael—just walking, talking or listening to his music through tiny, white earphones.

Her time with the boy across the one-way street became so vibrant in colour and emotion that the other parts of her life dulled in comparison. The rebellion that sparked inside of Carrie whenever she defied her mother was addictive and she knew the heroines she read about in her gothic novels wouldn't shy away from the exhilaration or the sneaking around at odd hours and finding calmness and joy in an old graveyard. And that spurred her onwards, especially regarding high school. Lunches with Ava Gold had made school days bearable and it was the weekends that dragged on dauntingly. It was harder to escape the house when Margaret was home.

The air in the church was thick with heat from the excessive amount of bodies in the confined space, all shoved into the tight pews. And Carrie felt sinful for wishing that the Sunday sermon would hurry up and end so she could meet Michael at the graveyard.

Margaret Moore was always preoccupied on Sundays with the charming and homely afternoon tea the ladies of the church put on in the foyer. Carrie usually milled around, nibbling on finger sandwiches and avoiding eye contact with the other teenagers that were made to hang around as their mothers gossiped over ice tea and their fathers talked about whatever sporting game was current.

But this Sunday, Carrie had lied to her mother that morning, saying she needed to excuse herself early to finish off a school assignment that she had left to the last minute. It was a weak lie because Carrie had never left an assignment to the last minute. Yet Margaret Moore just waved her daughter off with a nod as she unclipped her curlers from her long, silky hair in the bathroom.

The sermon today was about the end of days and it held Carrie's attention like nothing else. "But the day of the Lord will come like a thief. The heavens will disappear with a roar; the elements will be destroyed by fire, and the earth and everything in it will be laid bare," the pastor read from the Bible, his confident and spiritual voice echoing throughout the church. "Therefore, dear friends, since you already know this, be on your guard so that you may not be carried away by the error of lawless men and fall from your secure position, but grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior Christ. To him be glory both now and forever! Amen!"

The church voiced their agreement rather vocally with pride and conviction. However, Carrie's mouth didn't open to agree with the Holy scripture, and she looked from the pastor up on the dais to her mother sitting beside her. Margaret was nodding, her hand resting over her heart; her eyes were filled with such wonderment and a belief that was as strong as steel.

But as the church echoed with praise and agreement, Carrie's echoed with doubt. "The Last Judgement is not to be feared, for our Lord will return in the form of the Son to take our souls to heaven," the pastor went on. "As it states in the book of Revelation and said by our very Lord: 'I am the Alpha and the Omega, who is, and who was, and who is to come, the Almighty!"

Carrie's faith had never wavered before, not until now. She was riddled with questions about the end of the world that was promised along with the return of the Holy Son, as noted with the very last words of the Bible. Yes, I am coming soon. Amen, come Lord Jesus. The grace of the Lord Jesus be with God's people. Amen.

She didn't believe that she would be around for the destruction of the world, and believed that death and her heavenly Father would come for her long before then, but what if she was wrong? What if she were alive for the end of days, for the apocalypse?

Her mind was consumed with hellfire and red and black lightning that would crack the earth in two and allow the Devil to take rule of the barren planes and he would smirk at the birth of a world made just for him. But the question that lingered more than the others was, what it Jesus never shows up? What then?

—

Nature was the only sound that wandered through the graveyard that afternoon. The wind danced through the long grass and the low hanging branches of the Weeping Willows shifted across the earth lazily. Sunlight pooled here and there, broken by the perfect, white clouds that sailed across the blue horizon.

Carrie and Michael were both stretched out in the long grass, eyes watching the sky above. Stone angels stood tall and solid, like guards to anyone that wanted to disrupt the teenagers' solace. Michael was resting his head on his folded arms and Carrie was picking petals off a flower that had been left at the foot of one of the angels. The petals were soft against her fingertips, smooth like velvet.

One flower petal fell to her chest, right over her heart. He loves me. Then another petal fell. He loves me not. "How do you think the world will end?" Her voice was but a whisper on the wind but Michael turned his head to catch Carrie's eyes.

"I'm not sure yet," he expressed, as if he was just waiting to be privy to that knowledge.

One more petal fell to her chest. He loves me. It landed like a feather right beside her golden cross sitting on her white and blue blouse. "What about fire or ice?"

"I don't understand," he replied, confusion clouding his voice and creasing his brow.

Carrie rolled over onto her stomach to look upon Michael's handsome face, and her cream pleated skirt shifted against her thighs—Sunday was the only day of the week that Carrie wore pale hues. The petals shifted off her chest too, scattering in the grass before her.

The clouds were reflected in Michael's eyes, but they were trained on Carrie now, not the heavens. "A girl in my English presented a poem about the end of the world by Robert Frost." Carrie went on to recite the poem in a low and dream-like voice. "Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favour fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate to say that for destruction, ice is also great and would suffice."

Michael considered the words of the poem for a long moment. "Can't it be both?" He didn't know how the end of the world would come to be just yet, but that didn't mean he didn't have an image in his mind. He liked the idea of a nuclear winter, so cold and quiet. Winter was also Carrietta Moore's preferred season.

"Huh, I never considered that," she muttered, reaching for a fallen petal again. She liked how soft and fragile it was, she also liked how fleeting flowers were after they bloomed.

Michael sat up on his elbows, his interest in the conversation growing. He was suddenly inspired and it showed in the tone of his voice. "The world could end with fire but ice could be what's left. Like a nuclear winter or something," he suggested excitedly.

Carrie laughed a little at the seemingly ridiculous nature of this conversation. "Now, that's a scary thought, the end of the world."

"Terrifying but absolute." The confidence in his voice was powerful.

"I don't think I want to be around for the end of days," she said honestly, tucking a section of hair behind her ear before the wind caught it within its playful grip.

"Why not? Wouldn't you want to see what was left?" Michael tilted his head to the side, watching Carrie closely for her reaction. "To be present for the genesis of a new world? The birth of a new sanctuary?"

Carrie shook her head a little, biting at her bottom lip. "But what if it's atrocious?"

"But what if it's glorious?" Carrie didn't have an answer to that tricky question, but the shine in Michael's eyes made Carrie want to believe that the end of days would be glorious.