If the World was Going to End in Three Days

Dawns – Chloe Fox

Catie Chua

If the world was going to end in three days, then my nerves would swallow me. I would wander my house feverishly, and stop at the pantry, knowing most of the food inside would not be eaten in time. I would pray to every God I knew, hoping one would be merciful enough to stop the force that was going to destroy everything I’d ever loved. I would hole myself up in my room, surrounded by the melancholic ache of hopeless music while I sat on the floor and looked at old albums filled with memories of kindergarten-me playing with my sister, my parents, my grandmother. I would feel colder than I’d ever been.

If I was cold, then I would crawl onto my bed and curl up over my blankets. I would look at my saved posts on Instagram and Facebook and find myself drifting to sleep, thinking about all the different paths my future would have taken me. I would dream about becoming a mailman, delivering packages of happiness to every city in North Carolina. My stuffed bears that I had been sleeping with for the past sixteen years would be nestled to my chest, in tune with the slowing dissonance of my heartbeat. I would wake up in the middle of the night and find that my mother had tucked me in under a warm and heavy duvet. I would fall back into a dreamless slumber and acknowledge whatever was watching the world. 

If I slept the first day, then I would want to be together with my family on the second. My father would FaceTime my grandparents from 2,000 miles away and we would say our final goodbyes. My parents would try to be strong in front of their own parents, but I see the fear in their eyes; my sister and I share a look of knowing that only twin telepathy could achieve. The call would end and we would all sit together in silence. Later in the day, when the sun would set and we would look out and see that everything is as it was before, my dad would turn the TV on and our family would find something to watch, taking turns choosing between cheesy Hallmark rom-coms and action movies from before I was born. 

If my family watched movies for hours on end, then we would obviously have to end the second day with one last game night. I would pull out Scrabble and my mom would gather the board for Pictionary, and my dad would win both. My sister would pull out the Monopoly figures from her pocket, and I would get the wheelbarrow, as I always did. It would still be warm from her hand. My mom would win Monopoly. We’d all teasingly accuse her of cheating because nobody has ever won Monopoly, and we’d go to sleep with smiles on our faces and tucked deep into our hearts.

If we played games the second day, then we would throw an end-of-the-world party. It wouldn’t be a big party, just us and a few family friends that haven’t left North Carolina, but it would be the best end-of-the-world party ever. Not that there would be anything to compare it to; it’s not like anyone was alive when the dinosaurs saw the asteroids rain down from above. 

If we were going to host a party, then we would need entertainment. We would take out the bottles of spirits and vodkas and beers hidden on the top shelf of the pantry and all the adults would drink like the ball was dropping. I would pass out on the couch for one last midday nap until my sister would wake me up sometime after dusk, the stars still blinking lazily after being washed into the sky. She would drag me outside to my friends and one of them would point out something fiery and furious ripping through the atmosphere. It would pass over us until two more, then five more, then twenty more would cascade down like a meteor shower. The whole night would light up and heat would ripple across our faces, but we’d be too mesmerized to move. The earth would tremble and then everything would go silent. One of the tinier fireballs would thunder into our backyard and I would grasp the hand of something warm and sweet before being vaporized and tossed to the wind.

If the world was going to end in three days, then millions of years later, something smaller than a cat, with a body made of downy feathers, would be sniffing for worms or beetles over the remains of my house. If it dug deep enough, it would find my eighth-grade time capsule I buried in the depths of my house’s crawlspace. It would get spooked by the rustling of the tall grass, and scamper into a forest of bitter, inedible crabapples. Somewhere, thousands of miles away, a cervid creature with six legs and four sets of antlers would scrape against a metal sheet and create sparks that catch on dried leaves. A searing and shadowless figure would burst forth, licking at the sun-baked ground, and the cervid creature would be bewitched.