Pemma Apocalypse

Just jumped on The Train of Bad Decisions! Oh, wait...I never jumped off!

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Emma's POV

If my life could be summed in one word, the word would be shitty. Two words would give you the description "Fucked up". I thought that I had reached rock bottom when my sister Jane died, but boy was I fucking wrong. Because I was being dragged by my dead, singing friends to my imminent death. No, not my death. To some hell that even death thinks is fucking scary. A singing, dancing, musical Tartarus.

They dragged me and dragged me out of the hospital and into the street.

"You must Paul!" Nora, my former boss, stage whispered from where she stood at the back of the group with...him. She must have been pretty angry at him because she was using the tone she brought out when she threatened to fire me about twice a day. "If you want to be happy, you have to make Emma happy too! Kill her, so she can sing and be happy with you!"

What?

"I don't want to sing, please Paul, don't make me sing!" I screamed, hyperventilating. "Paul! Please, Paul! It's me! It's Emma! I don't wanna sing!"

Paul stood over me, my now infected sorta friends (and a creepy guy in a suit, who's expression honestly scared me more than the fucking Apotheosis) encircling us as if we were in an elementary school playground fight. Paul was playing the role of bully, I the one of victim.

"Paul! Please." My voice cracked and I lowered my volume to a whisper of desperation. "Please."

Paul bent down towards me, his loosened black tie falling in my face. His expression flickered between one of fear and resolve. "I---" A murmur fell from his lips, whispering of hesitance. His head seemed to be torn for a few lingering moments before a look of confidence and determination solidified itself in his eyes. "I'll do what needs to be done." His words were a razor cutting neatly through the thick layer of tension in the air.

"Paul! No! Please!" I sobbed. This could not be how I died. I wanted to go out doing something cool and heroic, like, "Emma Perkins, her flesh melted off while she was shielding children!", not begging for my life to my DEAD almost love interest.

Ted, that asshole, handed Paul the fucking handgun he'd stolen from us when Paul was taken. Coward. Ted smirked in my general direction. Rage surged through my veins, scalding my skin, drying up my tears. I felt my face twist with defiance, and I spit, with surprisingly good aim, at his face. I was gonna die either way. Might as well go out with a bang of spite. He froze. His hand slowly reached up and wiped the spit off his cheek. A triumphant smirk contorted my expression.

"Hey Ted, where's your girlfriend, what's her name, Charlotte? Still off pining for her asshole of a husband? Oh wait! Isn't she dead?" I hissed venomously, taunting him.

"Do it, Paul!" Ted's words dripped poison through the air.

I turned back toward Paul, satisfied with Ted's reaction. Paul held the gun about a foot from my forehead. "Go ahead, coward." I sneered, my fury fueling the Train of Bad Decisions that constantly ran on a loop in my head. Continuing the list of fucked up shit I did that day, I threw myself forward so the gun's muzzle was cool upon my temple. I could feel my responsible side yelling at me. "What the fuck do you think you're doing???? Escape!!!" I ignored it. Instead, I glared at him, stared into his eyes, into his soul. I emptied all my rage into my gaze. He flinched, only slightly, but I could tell. He was afraid of me. And he should be.

I squeezed my eyes shut in preparation, or rather acceptance, of my death. Paul cocked the gun with a satisfyingly final click. I asked myself if then was a bad time to wonder if God were real. It probably was.

And then, a gunshot sounded.

Bang!