Poppy should have killed him.

I should have killed him, she thinks with a tinge of remorse and the slightest of relief.

"You're a god. You were supposed to save us. We prayed to you, we prayed to all of you!" she bellows in anguish. "You've left me all alone! It's been two months of me being alone except for the ghosts around me!"

"You didn't pray to me," he assures.

"Why? You're all the same! You're just one big disappointment. The same goddamn disappointment!" The god in front of her winces when she screams.

"You didn't pray to me because you don't pray for Death."

"Yes," Poppy replies.

Her mother reaches out with a languid hand, muttering something in Spanish that Poppy doesn't recognize. Two years of Spanish Advanced and a tutor at home still hadn't gotten Poppy past the occasional "Hola."

"I'm sorry, Mama, but you know I don't understand that."

She grins sorrowfully and grips onto her daughter's hand. "It's the end of the world, Amapola," she whispers.

"You pray for Death when you know that it's the only good thing that will happen to you."