Last Sunday

• Gabriella Sneddon, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2021

I’m sat slumped over my old, dark wooden desk, my head laying against the splinter-ridden surface, my eyes glued shut. The natural noon light filters through my little window and casts a shadow across me. My room is damp and cold, the sun offers little but a dim glow. The atmosphere is lifeless. After what seems like hours a knock on the door pounds through my ears, what follows is the eerie creak of my bedroom door.
“Um…breakfast is ready.”
It’s Mum. I open my eyes slowly. My head feels heavier than normal, so with great effort I shift my face to see her. She cautiously takes a few steps forward, then pauses, her gaze fixed on me as if I’m a stranger. Her lips are dry and cracked, her eyes blankly bloodshot. Mum tilts her head to the left and shrewdly lowers her brows.
“You need to eat.”
I let out a deep sigh and turn my head back to where it was before. My heart sinks to my toes. Guilt washes over me. I see Mum in agony but can’t motivate myself to do anything about it.
“I’m ok mum, thanks.” I mutter.
She needed some closure, even if it was just about breakfast. I hear her slow shuffled footsteps fading away. I crave her presence, but I hate looking at her. You can see everything she feels. The company she offered is stolen by the unnerving creak of my bedroom door. SLAM!
Thoughts trickle through my brain and fixate on last Sunday. Just thinking about the word Sunday itself makes me jittery. Questions laced in remorse travel clockwise around my brain like a race in the Grand Prix. My heart skips, I’m shaking, and oh my God what’s happening? The silence in the room becomes excruciatingly loud. I need to move to create some kind of mental distraction, but I’m stuck still to this stupid wooden chair, and why does my head feel so damn heavy? Ferocity begins to bubble in my aura, I sit drowning in a pool of rage.
Suddenly I snap up, throw my chair, and sink to the ground. I crawl onto my side and hug my knees into my chest. Stiffly rocking back and forth in disbelief.
I give in and allow myself to see what I was killing myself to forestall… Mum lifelessly admitting “Your Fathers gone.” last Sunday.