It was the year 2077. For years, the United States had been at war with China, for reasons that few could remember and most couldn't have cared less about in the first place. In fact, most had forgotten about the war entirely, since it was no longer interesting enough to be shown in the news broadcasts or to be discussed on the talk shows that were constantly aired. Life had continued to go on, with only trivial changes being made, such as insignificantly elevated prices for food and slightly cheaper quality in the clothes that were sold at the department stores. It wasn't enough to really break the country's heart and spirit, though.

Some families were affected negatively, of course, such as my best friend's. Her father was of the proud soldier type, and had volunteered to fight in China at the war's start, back when it was the honorable thing to do. A huge parade was held in celebration for the all of the new and old soldiers of our town, wishing them good luck before they went to the other side of the world to fight for our freedom and rights. Her father was even on one of those popular talk shows, with a ten-minute segment dedicated to no one else but him.

Three months later, though, nothing interesting happened. Her father was killed when he stepped on one of those land mines, but she never talked about it much. I went to his funeral, but there was no body. Supposedly, there wasn't anything to be shipped to them, but I believed that her mother decided to burn him. I wouldn't blame her at all if she did. After all, who would want to dump a bunch of guts and bones into a casket like that? That definitely wouldn't be something that people would want to see. Then again, nobody wants to view a corpse, unless they're one of those real sinister people. I know a boy in my class like that.

The war became a topic of interest again that year, though. Apparently, other countries were getting dragged in, were getting angry. Some were confused, but fought anyways, just for the sake of protecting themselves. China and the United States were getting so fired up that many of my classmates warned me that things were about to get really nasty. One girl, even though I didn't know her that well, gave me a handbook on what to do in the event of a nuclear war. It had all sorts of things in it, such as how to purify water, the proper way to hide if the bombs were dropped, and in the far back, there was information on some underground shelters called "Vaults." Apparently, they were designed to save those lucky and rich enough from the nuclear war, and were being created as the books were being released to the public.

My parents said that all of it was insanity and nothing more. They were pacifists by nature, so much that they had refused to buy me a house robot, even though all of the kids in my class had one. They claimed that they were too "dangerous and unpredictable." Machines and technology were unreliable things that only stirred up trouble because everyone eventually loses control, especially humans.

Three weeks before school would be released for summer break; my parents received a letter from one of the nearby vaults-in-progress. My dad had crumpled up the paper, while my mom burned it in our fireplace. They said that we could find natural ways of surviving if the war ever did escalate to nuclear tactics. Untested, human-crafted vaults were unreliable and unnecessary.

Because I hadn't known any better, I agreed with my parents and took faith that they would keep me safe if the bombs were dropped on American soil.

It was almost nine in the morning, two weeks before school would have been let out for summer vacation, the three months that were supposed to be remembered forever because of the endless possibilities and fun that they could potentially offer. I was still in my first period class, listening to a review lesson about two-step equations. The final exam would be the following day, so we had to be ready for it.

Then the sirens echoed throughout the sky for miles around.

The teacher's technologically enhanced marker dropped from her hands, rolling under her desk. She stood there in shock-or fear-for a long moment, almost as if a bomb would go off right under her feet if she even dared to move. Then she whipped around, her instincts kicking in.

"Everyone, under your desks, right now!" she shouted.

Every student obliged by her order, even though none of us understood how a desk would protect us from a nuclear bomb. I heard several of my fellow classmates praying, their heads bowed on the floor and hands clasped together, trembling in terror. Many were crying, wishing that their parents were there with them. I was one of those that sobbed, but I didn't pray. God couldn't protect us from ourselves-my parents had always taught me that and I took faith that their words were true.

"Everyone, take out your masks and put them on! Make sure that they are on properly!" commanded the teacher. I had already done that, though, since the training had been ingrained in my brain for years ever since the war began.

For a long time, we simply waited. I would have preferred it to be silent, but it wasn't. Everyone still whimpered, cried, and quietly prayed. The sirens continued to wail in distress along with us in a morbidly depressing, yet melodic song.

Then the floor shook. Pictures rattled on the walls and grit was shaken out of the ceiling. Several textbooks were knocked from their desks and onto the floor, where they flipped onto random pages that detailed how to apply complex formulas and how to measure the degrees of triangles without using protractors.

The girl in front of me, clad in a puffy, too-pink dress that was decorated in orange flowers, began to scream. She slapped her hands over her ears, rocking on her knees. Nobody stopped her. Nobody could blame her for the noise.

"Mama, Mama, save me!" she cried. Her brown bob became loose and frazzled as she dug her fingers into it. "Please, Mama, save me! I don't want to die here! I'm scared! Please, don't let me die!"

I felt more tears form in the corners of my eyes. I wanted my mama, too. I wanted to go back home, where she'd help me with my math homework because it was my worst subject and her best. Tonight, she was supposed to help me study for my final, while we ate some cinnamon cookies to help us concentrate. Dad would be outside, drawing pictures into the ground in an attempt to gather inspiration for his next painting. Then he'd dart back inside when an idea struck him, and he'd be grinning from ear-to-ear, yelling at us about how brilliant it was as he rushed upstairs to his studio.

An oof sound could be heard from the distance, but it was enough to cause a piece of the ceiling to fall down and land right beside me. I shrieked in surprise, feeling grateful that it hadn't hit me. It only reminded me, though, that something else could kill me at any second.

To ease my fears, I continued to think of what else I would do once I got home. I remembered that my best friend was supposed to go home with me, so that we could prepare for the exams together. Most likely, though, we'd simply devour my mom's cookies and think up future plans for the upcoming break.

The next oof came closer than the last one.

Once the clock struck six, she would have to go home to get some actual studying done. I would then wave goodbye to her as she sped down the street on her sky blue bicycle. She'd be screeching some crazy, horribly written song as she left. Instead of being annoyed, the neighbors would laugh because they were so accustomed to her antics.

Oof-that one surprised me and made me accidentally bite down on my tongue. I tasted blood in my mouth, but I ignored the metallic tang.

Happy thoughts…happy thoughts…happy thoughts…I need happy thoughts…

I felt a tap on my shoulder. It came from my right, so I turned my head in that direction. My best friend, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bloodshot, held up a piece of paper. A hastily scribbled message was on it.

Well, looks like we're gonna die. Want me to sing a swan song for us?

A warm feeling bubbled up in my chest, laughter soon escaping my throat. All eyes turned to me, ears tuned into my station instead of the one outside.

"Hey, guys, Cindy's gonna sing a song for us!" I announced.

Taking a deep breath, Cindy started to sing,

"Oh, we're gonna die, we're gonna die,

We're gonna die today, hooray!

Oh, we're gonna die, we're gonna die,

But hey, at least we lived pretty happy lives!"

Soon enough, the entire class, including me, joined in. None of us even noticed when part of the ceiling toppled down and crushed five of the students. No, to make up for the absence of their voices, we raised our own. The same lyrics were repeated, becoming a lullaby that would lull us into a permanent sleep. We swayed to the nonexistent beat, tears cascading down our cheeks as we delivered our swan song to the world. We drowned out our fears of death by facing it directly. We accepted that we were going to die.

I felt something impact with my shoulder, ripping off part of my beige dress. Blood seeped from a flesh wound, crimson spiraling down my arm. I interpreted it only as a pretty design.

"Oh, we're gonna die, we're gonna die,

But hey, at least we have more than tears in our eyes!"

Oof.