She cried herself to sleep that night, her salty tears soaking into her pillow. Carrie and Michael had had their first fight, and it had left her feeling cold and miserable, all of her happiness zapped away. And all because of Michael Langdon. He had been cruel to her about going to prom with Tommy Ross. You're not normal. I'm not normal. We'll never have normality. His words rung like church bells inside her head until the striking sounds were all she could hear.

And the ringing followed her to school the next day. Carrie and Ava were walking side-by-side to the library during lunch, both girls cradling books to their chest. They moved fluidly through the thongs of students together as Carrie informed her friend about Tommy Ross's prom proposal.

"Are you sure that going to prom with Westfield High's favourite jock is the best idea?" Ava's voice wavered with concern. Her forehead had creased with each word Carrie had uttered out about going to prom with Tommy Ross.

Carrie bit at her bottom lip, her teeth nibbling at the pink flesh. "Michael wasn't too keen on the idea either," she admitted, her heart sinking with the reminder. We're nothing like normal, my Carrietta, and you will be crowned rightfully for it one day. Michael had been damn right scary yesterday afternoon.

"I'm glad it's not just me then. Like, I get that Tommy's a sweet guy, and much nicer than we both originally gave him credit for," Ava paused, searching for the right words, "it's just... why don't you come with Seth and me? He won't mind." Seth Covey was Ava Gold's date for the prom. The pair were actually biology partners and they'd made a deal at the beginning of the year that if they didn't get prom dates, they'd go together. Ava was actually thankful that no one else had asked her because she and Seth got on really well, even if there wasn't anything romantic between them. He made her laugh and always pulled his weight with their biology assignments. "Actually, he'd probably love having two girls on his arm. He'd feel like the belle of the ball!" she added in a cheerful manner, her eyes bright with the suggestion.

While Carrie was touched that Ava had extended her an invitation, she shook her head. "I can't bail on him after saying yes, that would be rude. Besides, I'm excited to go with him." And it was true. The stars were finally aligning for Carrie Moore and she would finally have her golden, picture-perfect teenage experience, straight out of an after-school special. Or at least, that's what Carrie believed, despite Michael's deadly warning.

Ava nodded glumly. "Well, I'll be there with Seth if you need backup." The dark-skinned girl then smiled, shifting the hefty load of books in her arms.

Carrie couldn't help but return the smile, happiness warming her blood. "How'd I get so lucky to have you as a friend?"

She shrugged her thin shoulders dramatically. "Call it a gift from the universe! Have you told your mum about prom yet?"

Carrie scoffed. "Heavens no. I'm waiting for the perfect moment to drop that bomb." The blonde teenager didn't know how her dear mother would take the news of prom, but Carrie suspected it wouldn't go over smoothly. She planned on telling her mother at the last possible moment, limiting the possible whiplash.

But there would be a painful whiplash and flying debris—a battleground will be forged between the two Moore women, the lines of war will be drawn. A bad moon will hover over Los Angeles the night of prom, watching with a wicked glint at the glory and chaos that will play out like some bloody and bewitching after-school special.

—

Margaret was humming to herself over the stovetop as she made dinner that night. Her long, lovely hair was gathered high and tendrils curled around the nape of her neck. The kitchen was warm and delightful with the smell of cooking meat and browning vegetables. Carrie was completing some homework at that table, her right hand sore from scribbling down notes from her advanced chemistry textbook. Most nights in the Moore household started off like this, simple and quiet until Margaret jaded and scarred the night with her sour words and violent reflexes. And tonight was no different, save for one thing.

The doorbell echoed throughout the house, bouncing down the hallway. Carrie's pen paused on the paper. They didn't get many visitors and the last person who had rung the doorbell had been Michael Langdon weeks ago on the night of the pep rally.

Margaret didn't turn from the stove, shaking more salt into the frying pan. "Will you get that?"

"Of course, Mama." Carrie's chair scraped against the floor harshly as she raised, dropping her pen onto the table. Her heart was lodged in her throat as she hurried towards the front door. Dusk was crawling over Los Angeles, darkening the sky to a deep purple, but the coming night didn't shadow Michael's golden crown.

Her heart freaked, pulsing against its bone cage. "What are you doing here?" she hissed out, hastily looking over her shoulder into the house. Margaret Moore wouldn't be happy about Michael—a known Satanist—hovering on their doorstep. That and she'd forbidden Carrie from seeing the boy.

"May I speak with you, please?" Michael asked in a low and pained voice. He had brooded all day over his fight with Carrie about prom and he'd been left feeling guilty for taking away her slice of happiness. He knew better than most that happiness the same consistency as sunshine was rare, and he had stolen that from Carrie yesterday as an acid green colour bruised his blood. He had sulked, hidden under his blankets as Miriam Mead looked on with a heavy frown and pursed lips. She then advised him to pray to their Dark Lord, so Michael had and was blessed with a dark dreamscape.

"Who is it, child?" Margaret called out from the depths of the house.

"Uh—just some girl scouts, Mama!" she scrambled, wincing at the lie on her tongue. Carrie stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind her. "What do you want?" It came out more chilling than Carrie had meant and Michael coiled in response, his head bowing.

"I took your happiness away yesterday, and I shouldn't have done that," he said, scuffing his military boots against the porch steps. "Ms Mead told me that you have the right to make your own choices, and that going to prom with Tommy Ross is your decision, and I respect that and your choices," he added in a clear voice, meeting her eyes.

Carrie's heart swelled and her eyes soften, sweetened. "I'd much rather go with you," she whispered out and the confession surprised them both. And what else was surprising was that Carrie then lowered herself onto the porch steps, pulling her knees up. Michael followed her actions, settling down beside her, and his body warmth that was both hellish and heavenly reached for her with such vehemence that she forgot that Margaret was just inside cooking dinner.

"It's your special night," Michael explained, "I wouldn't want to diminish that." He knew that prom night would a memorable night for Carrie Moore, his Dark Father had shown him it fully in a feverish dream that very afternoon. And while Michael wouldn't be present for Carrie's second birth, he knew it would be gory and glorious, brutal and beautiful, wicked and wonderful.

"I should just bail or go with Ava," Carrie found herself saying, shoulders slumping. Shadows stretched across the dry grass as the saturated purple sky deepened into a blue. In truth, Carrie was nervous about going to prom with Tommy Ross, and the nerves and the excitement were a gross and terrible mix inside her stomach.

"No." Michael shook his head slowly. Prom night needed to happen, Carrie needed to go to prom with Tommy Ross, and Michael believed it was his Dark Lord's plan. Carrie was astonished at Michael's sudden turn. Only yesterday he had been angry over this, but now he was calm. She would never guess that it was a vision from the Devil that had changed Michael's heart and mind. "You need to go. And you should wear pink."

"Pink?" she queried with a touch of humour in her tone. Their knees bumped together and Carrie's pulse kicked.

"Yes, like the colour of your lips," he replied, extending his hand to bring a finger up to her full lips. He traced the shape of her mouth intently and slowly. He was dipping in closer to Carrie, his torching heat wrapping around her. He breathed in her scent of blood and honey, and he decided it was his favourite scent, far better than the scent of blooming roses.

Time seemed to slow down, the world falling away from two teenagers sitting on a porch as the sky bruised with the night. The stars that blinked awake watched on with anticipation, with held breathes as Michael leaned in closer as his hand dropped away. Carrie's heartbeat was racing under her skin, her blood flowing, and it was both agonising and sublime. A sweet cruelty.

Michael didn't know what he was doing exactly, but he acted on a deep and rushing impulse as he pressed his lips against Carrie's quickly and suddenly. And the stars sighed with such bliss as they watched the scene unfold far below. Carrie's breath was lost in her throat and she was stunned into stillness, her eyes wide open.

Michael was just as stunned that he muttered out an apology after breaking the kiss almost instantly. "I'm sorry, I don't know—" Carrie shook her head gently before laying her palms over Michael's hot cheeks, bringing her own lips against his this time. Her lips were as soft as flower petals and Michael didn't resist the urge to lean into the kiss further, his arms snaking around her back, tugging her closer. He wanted to get closer to Carrie, to quench that desperate need for simple human contact, but how could he ever get closer than this? Michael would know one day as candlelight burned and royal purple lace fell off creamy flesh.

This kiss was longer, innocent but intimate. And it was the sweetest and most divine thing in the world for both Carrie Moore and Michael Langdon. Rich heat was pooling in her abdomen, curling and begging, and she wanted to open her mouth to Michael, allowing him access, but the front door wrenched open.

Light from inside chased away the darkness. "What holy hell is this!" Margaret yelled, her voice clapping like thunder. Carrie pulled away from Michael, her skin flaming with guilt, embarrassment and the sweet taste of Michael Langdon.

"Mama!" Carrie uttered out, wanting to explain but she didn't get the chance. She hurried to her feet, stumbling as Margaret latched onto her forearm like a vice or the jaw of a predator.

"Get off my porch, you sinner! You Devil worshiper!" Margaret directed at Michael, who didn't even blink, but his body was tense as he gathered himself up. Margaret's nails dug into Carrie's skin and tears welled. She ripped her daughter away and into the house before Carrie even had the chance to look back at Michael. She didn't even get the chance to savour her first kiss.

"Please, Mama! Forgive me!" Carrie cried out, her knees buckling. But Margaret was stronger than her daughter and pulled at Carrie, dragging her towards a small and suffocating room that Carrie feared so deeply.

"Go to your closet and pray," Margaret commanded, pushing roughly at her daughter now, pushing her towards the closet tucked into the wall in the hallway.

"No." Carrie shook her head frantically. She hated that closet. She feared that closet. The closet with stale air and walls that closed in on her until she couldn't breathe and her bones and muscles tensed with the need for open space and the cross with Jesus pinned to it that stared at her in the gloom.

"You pray and you pray for God's lightness to wash away your darkness and your wickedness and your blood curse!" Margaret screamed at her daughter and the volume of her voice made Carrie tremble. Carrie fought against her mother, struggled to escape her mother's clutches but she was unable. Margaret nudged open the closet door and shoved Carrie inside forcefully. "You pray, little girl. Pray for forgiveness!" She slammed the door shut as Carrie bashed her fists against the wood.

"No!" Her fists rapped against the door painfully, her knuckles bruising instantly. "Please, Mama. Don't leave me in here!"

"Only the Lord can help you," Margaret shouted through the door.

"Let me out! Please, let me out!" Carrie's blood boiled in her veins and a rageful energy spiked inside of her, crawling it's way up to the surface. A rage that matched her screaming that tore through her throat. Carrie imagined the door breaking, the wood snapping and splintering. "GOD, I HATE YOU!"

A splitting sound ripped into the air as a crack appeared in the wood of the closet door. It gutted down in a jagged line, reaping the door of its strength. The wood groaned and Carrie leapt backwards, staring at the split in the door in shock—the split she had created with her mind. Her heart was roaring and tears sailed down her cheeks in hot, salty rivers and she could hear Margaret on the other side of the broken door, praying in a shaking and fragile voice. Praying for protection from her wicked daughter.

Carrie slid down the back wall, her fists bleeding from where she had attacked the door and she averted her eyes from the split, not wanting to look at it anymore. But her eyes found the cross hanging on the left wall of the tiny closet with Jesus nailed into place. And redness leaked down from his eyes, slipping down the carved porcelain, making it look like the statue of Jesus was crying blood. It only made Carrie cry harder, tears escaping rapidly as her shoulders shook violently and her lips tingling from Michael's kiss. And she realised the heavens were crying, too.