Every day since, Heather wrote down another reason not to, or to not, nuke the world. On this single dry sheet of paper would be the fate of her planet. Or at least the planet people lived in, and she looked at. And as she expected, the first day was a piece of cake.

It was this rather large leftover piece from the day before; everyone was stuffed and no one had the appetite, particularly not her. She did not feel remotely inclined to eat the whole plate in that one sitting. Perhaps she should have bought just a single slice instead of a whole cake for the celebration. It was hers, the cake. And the birthday. For and by her. Twelve dollars. Plus tax. The candles were on sale though. Twenty for two.

It would be a disappointing waste to let such a filling chunk go undigested. Imagine the baker’s turmoil as he, she would imagine with a long white hat you’d often find them donning, wakes up at the crack of dawn preparing the dough and the creams for this pastry. The various colors and flavors. Then only to battle the flames of the oven to bake the cake to the optimal softness.

On top of that, perfectly spherical balls of honeydew decorated the frosting. Imagine the labor. How thoughtful, Heather thought. It was her favorite green melon. Just what I would have gotten myself. And indeed, it was what she got for herself that day.

She did not get herself any additional gifts however. Fourteen dollars over her monthly budget, she could not bring herself to get anything else. Oddly enough, it was just like this last year. And probably the year before that. She should have managed her finances better. Though she did, once— receive another gift one day.

It was a green wine bottle. Just the bottle however. Inside instead was a neatly rolled scroll of parchment, yellowed and battered by its secluded experiences. She left that bottle by the door, where it first appeared, unopened.

Period. One down and…

-=~~=-

She wrote it down because she would. Because she would, probably, nuke the world, if or when it would come to that. She found that out, now four days ago, whilst taking a rather long, relaxing hot bath. Well, it would have been. About only six minutes and forty two seconds of silent repose had floated by before it began. It began with a ring.

Of course, she had her mother’s gold ring placed safely beside the sink across, adequately distant from the deep end of the tub. The ring originally came from her great-great-great-great grandmother. Or so that is what her mother told her. Four greats, she claimed. She did not know much else after that. But it– she– was important, Heather was told. The ring was the embodiment, the last remaining true form of her maternal ancestry. She was to be cared for. Do not lose it– her.

Heather knew how not to forget where she puts things, but her mother was adamant she kept her with her at all times. Her being lost includes being not regularly palpable, regardless of its immediate location being never occasionally unknown. And not regularly palpable definitely means not down a particular, dark and tiny drainage pipe situated at the bottom of the tub. The tub of which she currently sat and pondered in.

-=~~=-

She was in a box. On top, a card read: To Heather. The box was plain; it was simple and held no odd purpose. And so she opened it. Within was another card but more descriptive. It told her that she was chosen and given the end-all button of their existence: With great power comes great responsibility, etc. etc. From: A Higher Being.

And beneath, isolated and alone, was her. The ring.

That was nearly forever ago. Now in staling, lukewarm waters, she was tempted just to test it, to give it a light tap, but her conscience got a hold of her. The world deserves it, she believed. But she should at least give them a chance. She thought.

-=~~=-

Then dawn came. It was now the third morning after the incident, and she is, begrudgingly, still awake: eyes forward, pen in hand, paper on desk, and, oddly uncomfortably, the second line still blank. She then witnessed the morning wistfully climbing into her room through the open window. A whole day has gone by, and nothing cannot be written.

So she agreed. That is how the world ends.

The allotted time has been exceeded. She was on the third day with only one entry on her list, and still she failed to formulate a good reason why the world should live on. As she bid the ground she sat on farewell, she remembered that gift.

She pushed the button.

That dusty glass bottle with the secret paragraphs tucked inside, tied with a fading blood-red bow. An ancient scroll of the kind one would only find in those medieval, high fantasy adventures. She wonders where it came from and who sent that odd carrier. What surprises would it hold? Which ironic forbidden texts desecrated the unworthy stationary? Of what prophetic doom required a savior?

The button clicks.

And whether the sender would see the blast, or whether the sender would be sleeping and not notice it at all. Or would they all feel it afterwards, after the flash of light, as the approaching, overwhelming heat dissolves their crooked backs and bloodshot eyes and disjointed thumbs and all the other ones. What would they do? She pondered on that as the missiles closed in. What surprises could it hold? These undiscovered mysteries.

The windows shook. The plates and cups jitter off the shelves and showered the room with white porcelain. Birds leave their nests unattended and vulnerable for the neighbor’s cat, Pinky.

Who now finally reflected pink from the approaching wave, she humored. The room faded into a deep, solid red hue, as if the whole world submerged into an evening horizon.

But then she saw the bottle again: how it meticulously reflected a bright sheen of the short-lived sunlight onto her rather blank walls, decorated only with a single painting of a forest somewhere in the world. The rays were angled perfectly over the plaid, old couch— but just below the arboreal portrait to not cast that ugly shade of brown she usually saw plastered over the furniture every afternoon coming back home. Then, not as she expected, she realized that…

She found that the green glass complimented her decor quite nicely on top of this red canvas. It was a shame it had to end. This is something Heather will miss, she thought to herself.