Before The Sunrise

sunday

Sunlight filters in through the blinds, but that's not  what startled me out of my deep, mercifully dreamless sleep.

    Someone's pounding on the door.

    I close my eyes again. Somehow I'm still exhausted. Maybe if I ignore it, whoever's knocking will leave.

    "James, answer the door!"

    Never mind. My entire body creaks as I gingerly roll into a sitting position. My head rushes. I've been horizontal for probably 24 hours.

    "James!"

    "Ouch," I hiss as I stand, my hand darting to my side. "Fuck."

    I plaster a neutral expression on my face and swing open the door.

    "Hey, Rosie," I say, hoping my voice doesn't betray me.

    "Hey?" Rosie repeats with a frown. "Hey's all you got after you've ghosted me for the past 36 hours? I thought—I don't know what I thought. You can't do that, okay?"

    I blink.

    "Well?"

    I don't know what to say, so I step aside and allow her in.

    She stomps inside and flops down on the same couch that I just spent an entire day sweating on, dropping one of her million tote bags on the floor.

    I don't know what to do, so I stand awkwardly in the entrance, holding tightly to the doorknob with a sweaty grasp. My skin feels grimy.

    Rosie gives me a once-over. "Go take a shower," she orders. "Then come back and explain yourself."

    Dad's not in his office when I get upstairs. A hint of disappointment mingles with the relief. Is it bad that I wanted him to stay?

    I'm standing under the shower spray, a steadying hand gripping the tile wall, when I remember.

    It's Sunday.

    Seven years ago today, I woke up like normal. Went to school like normal. Came home. Went on a walk. Ate reheated spaghetti and went to bed.

    Everything was normal.

    Until I found my mother dead.

    My eyes burn fiercely. How have I been awake for so long without a thought? How did I forget?

    It's just a day, I tell myself. Just Sunday.

    I keep the mantra going till I get back downstairs, my hair still wet.

    Rosie's not on the couch where I left her. Instead, she's in the kitchen, cooking eggs. When she sees me, she silently passes me a glass of water.

    I sit on a stool at the counter, knowing better than to offer my help. When I take a sip, I realize how thirsty I am, and I have to stop myself from chugging the rest of the glass at once.

    Rosie divides the pan of scrambled eggs onto two plates, passing me one. Then she holds up a finger and turns to the fridge, coming back with a bottle of ketchup.

    Tears spring to my eyes without warning. Rosie thinks it's disgusting that I put ketchup on eggs, but I always have.

    Because my mom did.

    I swallow hard.

    It's just a day. It's just a day. Just a Sunday.

    I suck down the rest of my water and squirt the ketchup on my eggs, feeling surprisingly hungry. I guess I haven't really eaten in days. Rosie sits down next to me, and we eat in silence.