𝙋𝙀𝙍𝙁𝙀𝘾𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉 || EDDIE MUNSON

Sleepy Sundays

SUNDAY morning Brandy all but crawled her way out of bed. Her body still ached from Friday's practice. Her eyes peeled back begrudgingly as she sat up with a groggy haze over her vision. Wiping the dried drool from the corner of her lip, she gazed at the clock with sluggish brown eyes, 8:45. With a mental groan, she stood on unsteady legs, swaying as she walked. She ripped open the door, walking across the hall to the bathroom.

Her blonde hair was in disarray, the curls were frizzy and unkempt. Brandy let out a huff, she couldn't be bothered to fix it in the moment. Her body felt far too depleted to even be bothered to function. She sat down on the toilet, placing her sharp elbows on her sunkissed thighs. The girl rubbed the sleep from her eyes with the base of her palms. Mornings took the brunt out of her, always, without fail.

She stood, flushing the toilet. Brandy moved over to the sink. She hated the smell of their current hand soap, her mother had gotten it from the hospital. It smelled very antibacterial, but not in a way that made you feel clean or sanitized. It was acrid all around and left a nasty smell on her hands. The smell of anything hospital-like just made her skin crawl.

She splashed water onto her face, trying to wake herself up. It seemed to work for her appearance, at least a little. Her dark eyes no longer seemed hooded from drowsiness, yet they looked well-rested and her face more youthful. Though her freckles always seemed to make her look such a way. Leaving the bathroom Brandy shuffled down the hall, her pajama pants rubbed against her thighs as she looked around the living room and kitchen for her mother.

Brandy stopped short at the bar that cut the two rooms in half, her mother was all dressed up in a floral-patterned dress. It went down just below her knees with a frumpy white blouse underneath it. The dress itself was greyish blue with a plaid pattern. It gave little to no figure, to her mother, old-fashioned with a white ribbon at her collar. Something Brandy hadn't seen her wear in years.

"Why are you all dressed up?" Brandy asked in a moody tone. Plopping herself into a bar stool she grabbed a waffle off of a plate, eating it with her hands.

"Church silly, it's at nine-thirty," Atta told her daughter with a shake of her head. She walked past Brandy to the ornate copper mirror that hung above the couch. She bumped the bottom of her nearly black hair, trying desperately to hide the silver strands that grew from the base of her neck.

"Since when do we to Church?" Brandy asked, turning her body to look at her mother. Her face was one of doubt as she chewed slowly on her waffle, waiting for an answer.

"We've always gone to church," Atta said it like it was the most obvious answer in the world. Her voice stayed chipper and her face passive. Brandy could tell she had lined a barrier of eggshells around her, eggshells that her mom was trying to desperately not crack or crush.

"We haven't been to church in five years, mom." Brandy said through a mouthful of waffles. "I mean I'm sure Pastor McMince would welcome you back-"

"Oh I'm not going back to our old church," Atta shook her head, "Micheal said he would take me to his church, it's the one the Wheeler's go to." She told Brandy.

"Is that supposed to entice me?" The teen asked lamely.

"Well, I know you and Nancy get along well enough, and to be honest with you-" Atta sighed, turning back to Brandy. Her daughter had this look, one that she could muster even as a child, it was a nearly blank stare but you could tell just what she felt when she gave it to you. Whether that be sadness or joy, or God forbid it was unhindered rage. But the look that Atta was getting in this moment was not any of those, instead, Brandy's look was full of irritation and despondency. "To be honest I think you need more friends," Atta finished.