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The match is over.
It was a friendly competition between friends. Who could hit the target, the bullseye? Who could get the closest to it? They fire their pistols at targets one, two, three, four, and five times. Their gunshots ring loudly, and it’s hard for them to forget such a piercing sound.
(Angela isn't very good at it; Amanda was only marginally better.)
"Maybe I'm just not good at this at all,” Angela mumbles, upset that she cannot best Amanda. "I don't think I could hurt anyone anyway. I would just run away."
"Just aim, steady your arm, lock on, and fire," Amanda would say to Angela every time they practiced together.
They practiced the motions often because it was necessary. The world was ending. The hordes could get to them, and it was every individual for themselves when it came down to it. Someone, not even a zombie, could come for them. Madness abounds, mania reigns, and everyone is slowly going insane. It was common for even close friends to betray each other.
Amanda and Angela agreed to stick together as far as they could take each other—a mutual agreement. They needed to be able to defend each other for their sanity. Because to be alone was to face the world by yourself.
Neither of them was ready for that.
Amanda wants to have a good feeling about it all. But whenever she spreads her tarot cards, she always fears the worst.
She always pulls the Moon in reverse.
She's over me.
That's what Amanda thinks when she sees those pretty brown eyes glimmering in the moonlight. Every hushed word spoken destroys the barriers and walls she's carefully constructed to guard her heart.
They gently tumble and shift the earth beneath them, their dirty clothing becoming more sullied. It’s fine. By the crackling fire, they were seemingly burning brighter. The face of Amanda’s desire reflects in the heated touches that dig beneath her jeans, eager lips dancing upon her neck. She wonders if Angela can taste the loneliness on her tongue, waiting for a moment like this to happen.
It's hard to tell if the sky is falling or if Amanda is falling for Angela in such precarious times.
The world and their hearts are on fire, emblazoned with the desire to reclaim all that can be lost. Everything is burning down, but life persists after the flames. Forests will reclaim the land, and life will still go on.
Amanda tells herself it'll be okay. Angela's presence makes everything alright. Her warmth is Amanda's miracle in the dusk, a moment of reprise, a breath of fresh air. Tonight, the stillness of the night seemed less menacing, while the moon seemed to shine with fierce intensity.
Love blooms in the strangest times.
It's over.
Amanda stands above the body of who once was her lover: Mangled and sullied. Ruined. There's a deep bite mark on Angela’s arm. Redness inflames it, and yellow pus oozes out of some marks—a sign of infection.
Amanda was too late, and she couldn't save Angela. The pool of blood from the bullet Angela took grows larger and larger, and Amanda finds herself standing in the middle of the shallow scarlet lake, waiting.
It’s a gruesome yet beautiful sight. A fallen angel. Even in death, why does an angel look so graceful?
How could Amanda get over this?
(She never does.)
The only way to prevent Angela from rising again was to aim as Amanda practiced repeatedly with Angela, so Amanda raised her gun. She struggles as if there's a heavy weight upon her shoulders.
Lock on, she tells herself, peering at Angela's peaceful resting face from over the barrel. Angela could wake up anytime soon from the deep slumber of death. But Amanda would never let that happen. As much as she wants to see Angela alive again, Amanda would never allow Angela to be reanimated after death. Not as long as she lives.
Because if that happened, Amanda wouldn't be able to shoot Angela again.
Fire is what Amanda tells herself. Shoot Angela, and she'll be over it.
(She doesn't.)
Instead, Amanda sits beside Angela in the warm puddle. She closes her eyes and rests.
There comes a time when Angela’s body rises again, and Amanda falls.
(Truthfully, nothing is over until you've breathed your last.)
Amanda knew it would happen. The arcana foretold her death.
The downfall of the moon—What is a moon without her sun?