Chaos. Pure chaos broke out when The Clocks synced up. The sky had grayed from smoke, streets were littered with trash, store shelves empty, and broken glass from previous raids. The people thought, if The Clock can change the death date due to circumstances, all they’d have to do is do everything in their power to change said circumstances to give them even so much as an extra hour to live. The hours felt like minutes, and before everyone knew it, The clock struck 24 hours. Denial invaded the minds of those trying to hide, of those trying to live just a little bit longer; Except for one.
Lorraine always held out when times were tough. 82 years young, living in her childhood home, the furniture that smelt of powdered perfume plastered with soft floral print, rooted in wood, and dusted with hair belonging to both herself and her cat, Frankie; He was the light of her life, a ragdoll kitty as cute as a button and just as white as Lorraine herself, and today just so happened to be his eighth birthday. Frankie spread out on the Persian rug splayed on the floor, haphazardly batting at a stuffed mouse and watching intently as Lorraine answered a phone call from her granddaughter.
“Please, come stay with us in the bunker,” She would plead. “You only have hours left!”
But Lorraine stood her ground. She’d lived long enough, she thought, and she couldn’t leave Frankie on his lonesome. ‘You young people and your technology,’ She wanted to say. ‘You can’t live without it!’ but she would politely refuse and hang up the phone shortly thereafter, ignoring the following rings as she slipped into the kitchen and opened her pantry. She’d seen plenty of war and ruin in her day, never letting it up-end her routine. And today was no different.
The peel of a metal can had Frankie standing at attention, excitedly padding towards the kitchen. There stood Lorraine, preparing Frankie’s little birthday cake. The shredded chicken and gravy fresh from the can, iced with chicken purée, and topped with crumbled treats; A medley of Frankie’s favorites. Lorraine looked down at the curious kitty with a smile. “Have a seat at the table, deary,” Lorraine said. “Your cake’s almost ready.”
As if he understood, Frankie made his way to the dining table, laying down in front of the table’s leg. A ding from the oven rang out, and Lorraine went over and pulled out a tray with worn oven mitts. She busied herself with preparing the table; A blueberry muffin and a hot cup of tea for herself, and Frankie’s cat-safe cake topped with a little candle in the shape of the number eight. She lit the candle and sat down as she watched Frankie hop up onto a chair and stare at her patiently.
Loud booms rang outside, the sky nearly pitch black despite it being midday, and her phone continued to ring with frantic phone calls from her family; But Lorraine simply closed the curtain and turned her focus to her precious, singing him happy birthday. She blew out the candle and removed it when she finished, pushing the plate towards Frankie and watched as he ate it with gusto. She reached out to pet him, and he let out a happy trill. For everyone, today was a day of reckoning, of final judgment, of consequence, of death. But for Lorraine, today was the day Little Frankie turned eight.