Waking Up On Sundays: A Short Story

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Waking up on Sundays has become one of the hardest things you’ve had to endure. You’ve been through the phases; all of them. When you were young you believed they would become your saving grace and God would protect you from all of the demons chasing you. When you aged a few years you became angry with Him, angry because how could He damn a child at birth? After that phase came a deep-seated sadness that settled in your bones and became something you could never quite overcome. Now, they just seem to be a waste of time. You swing your legs out of from under your heavy duvet as the knocking at your door becomes more insistent. The wooden floors feel cool under your warm and bare feet as you shuffle over to the door in darkness, reaching for…show more content…
Seeing him no longer makes your chest burn, but it does send a wave of nostalgia over you. Not for the boy who seems to have eyes for a new woman, no; nostalgia for a time you hardly thought about your future. It was a time you could ignore the mark when you bathed, dreaming of running through the garden and swimming in the stream nearby when you managed to slip out from your mother’s thumb. A time when your prayers at night were short and kept things like please keep my family healthy, my friends happy, and let me get new toys for my birthday, instead of huddling at the side of your bed praying to be granted entrance to heaven when you die, to be spared from inevitably burning due to your…show more content…
Richard’s new wife, Mary, holds his arm like your mother held your father’s, but you only smile prettily and greet them politely, like you were never considered a part of their family. Somehow the seven of you fit on one pew, and as if it’s a sign, you sit furthest from the priest, furthest from his Bible, blessed by the Pope himself. Fitting. “Welcome.” The priest says, his voice low and scratchy, and for a moment you wonder if he’s even loud enough for the commoners to hear him, all the way in the back. He takes a moment to clear his throat, before he’s speaking louder. “Let us start with some hymns to give glory to our Lord.” You all stand once again, and you take the Bible from your mother, flipping to the right page. You sing with the rest of them, your voice only a whisper. Hymns are a waste of time to you; you understand their importance, but you would rather listen directly to the word of God than spend time giving glory to somehow who has yet to explain why you were born the way you were. O come, all ye

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