When the end of the world began, I was home, sleeping off a hangover and avoiding responsibility. I'd rolled over the edge of my bed to puke into my trashcan and glanced at the alarm clock on my bedside table. 11:24 am. Whatever, I already missed the start of my shift. I groaned and flopped over onto my back, acid still burning in the back of my throat as I stared at the peeling paint of the shitty ceiling above my bed. Work didn't interest me anymore, even though it was something I thought I'd always love doing. Tattooing had been my passion for years, ever since I was little and discovered wood burning. The vibrations of the gun in my hand, the smooth glide of ink into flesh, seeing my lines become a masterpiece, fuck. It was better than sex, sometimes.

But then about four years ago, I met Roxas. He was a snarky little shit that liked to come into my shop just to stare at the art. I was fine with it the first few times, figured he was scoping out a particular artist for a special piece or some shit, but after a month of off and on visits, I was done.

"Hey, kid. The hell are you doing in here? You got no ink, and you ain't even talked to any of us about a piece."
The kid scowled, dark blue eyes narrowing as unruly golden hair flopped in front of them. "What's it matter?"
"You're eating up space that customers could be using." This wasn't necessary true, as the shop was empty except for the two girls in chairs getting tramp stamps from his co-workers. The boy arched an eyebrow and looked around pointedly, obviously not buying. "Look, kid, I don't even know if you're allowed to be in here, all right? You got ID?"
The kid-Roxas-had pulled out an ID and slapped it on the glass display case that doubled as a counter. I had taken a look at his DOB, and sure enough, he was 18. Soon to be 19. "Still doesn't answer my question," I growled.
He rolled his eyes. "Fine. I want some ink, Axel Fleming."
I rubbed my hands together. "Finally, jesus fuckin' Christ. You want something off the wall or a custom?" I didn't question how he knew my name; it was emblazoned across my black t-shirt in bloody red letters.
We'd spent nearly two hours designing his piece, two crossed keys over his heart. One was blocky, almost cartoonish. The other was a masterwork of swirling edges and delicate curves. He insisted we add handles—hilts? —and the end result was two sword-looking keys crossed in a coat of arms, kinda.
"For my twin brother," he said as he stripped his band tee off, revealing a toned torso. I tried not to acknowledge the part of me that was very, very, interested in exactly how that chest would taste if I dragged my tongue across it.
"That's cool," I grunted as I tugged on the custom latex gloves with a rubbery snap. Having ridiculously long skinny fingers is a lot less common in the latex glove wearing community than you'd think, I guess.
The tattoo took maybe four hours, with shading and everything. When I was done and Roxas had admired it in the mirror, eyes shining with silent appreciation, he'd turned to me and raked those blue eyes up and down my skinny frame, flaming red hair to battered black Converse. "You want to come to my place for a drink?" he'd asked. At 4:03 in the afternoon? With an underage piece of ass like that?
"You bet," I said, and clocked out.

We'd gone to his apartment, turned on the stereo, had maybe four or five sips of whiskey and then we'd been kissing, tongues slippery against each other. I had loved his sharp intake of breath when he found the tongue piercing, the way his hands fisted in my shirt before yanking it off and ripping a sleeve in the process.

I hadn't heard from him after that well-spent night for nearly a week. I hadn't gotten his number, just left him mine, which is not—I repeat, not—how Axel usually rolls, got it memorized? But I'd really gotten interested in this key kid, with his soft blue eyes that somehow looked as sharp as glass, his quiet voice like knives, his smooth skin like fire. He called me and I could hear his smirk through the phone when I picked up. Little shit.

It had taken a few months for us to really be a couple, I guess. At first it'd just been fast and dirty sex, then hanging out, hitting a movie, going to the beach, whatever. And then on Tuesday May 11th, he'd rolled over in bed and looked at me, lips slightly swollen and a quickly darkening hickey on his collarbone. "I love you," he said, and got out from under the blankets of my bed, beginning to get dressed. He hadn't gotten far. I had drug him back into bed and just held him close, heart pounding like I'd just run a damn race. I told him I loved him back a week later.

And then we'd started getting really couple-y. Our friends thought we were, quote, "The cutest fucking thing" and I guess we kinda were. Our three year anniversary had been the night when I got down on one boney knee and asked that little fucker to marry me. He'd said yes.

Eleven days later, at 2:44 am Roxas Strife was pronounced dead at the Twilight Town Muncipal Hospital. He'd apparently had some kind of heart condition that was never picked up on and one day it just sort of…stopped. I came home from working a super late shift and tossed my keys on the table, saw that the bathroom light was on and the door cracked. I kicked off my shoes and pushed the door open, saying, "Rox, sorry I'm home so late—" and then I saw that he was lying motionless on the bathroom floor in his tanktop and boxers, toothbrush and toothpaste scatted on the floor beside him like accidental casualties.

That was 408 days, 8 hours, and 47 minutes ago. I hadn't been to work regularly in months. I got drunk every single night, drunk enough to black out and remember nothing. I had moved out of the place Roxas and I had shared into a shitty little studio that was way below my budget so I could afford to buy as much booze as I wanted and still have decent quality of living. I was a piece of trash that sometimes showed up to work and made art. I guess it was art. I didn't care anymore, couldn't care. It was like the light of my world had been removed, the flame of my passion snuffed out.
It felt like my beating heart had been ripped out of my chest.

But that has nothing to do with the end of the world which, like I said, I spent the first few minutes of puking my guts up. We had these emergency radios issued by the City of Twilight Town in case of flood and fire and whatnot, but they'd never come on before. Not until that morning.

It started as a crackling hiss from the top dresser drawer, and I had a moment of sheer panic as I envisioned massive cockroaches—but no. I had shoved that stupid little mandatory radio into the drawer when I packed to leave our place and had never taken it back out. I stood shakily and yanked the drawer open, the bright red light blinking on the top of the radio making me squint. I set it on top of the dresser, having to shove a few bottles aside to make room. It continued to hiss for a few seconds before a calm, cool, female voice began issuing out.

"Citizens of Twilight Town, this is not a drill. There has been a state of emergency declared across the globe. A terrorist group, currently unknown, has released a biochemical bomb that issues an invisible and odorless gas. Citizens outside as of eleven o'clock this morning are to report to the nearest health care center immediately. Everyone else is being issued an order to remain inside. Law enforcement have authority to use whatever means necessary to keep citizens inside their homes for the time being. I repeat, do not leave your homes."

She continued to speak as I sat down abruptly on my bed, knees weak, but I only caught snippets of the rest of the report. "…causes visible sores and bleeding from the eyes, nose, and mouth…." What the fuck was this about? We'd been living in peace with all our neighboring countries for nearly three years. There hadn't even been rumors. "…advised to secure their homes against looters…" Okay, but what was I supposed to do? I lived on the top floor of the shittiest apartment building in the whole city. If anyone was going to start something, it'd be one of the residents here. I stood again, raking my shaking hands through my hair. I could feel my pulse pounding in my neck and there was a quivery feeling in the pit of my stomach.

A new voice broke through the woman's firm monologue, this one a rough male tone that conjured an image of a battle-scarred warrior. "Listen, civilians, new reports are coming. If you've been exposed to the bioweapon, get away from family members and friends immediately. This appears to be a type of virus similar to Mad Cow. Point being it's going to drive you fuckin' insane within an hour of exposure. Get away from people. Put yourself down, if you can. If not, find one of us and we'll do it for you. Those who've been infected are startin' to devour people. No, I'm not kidding. Arm yourselves, civilians, because the infected are coming, and they're coming for you."

The broadcast cut out.

Oh, shit.