Sunday Surprises

Dateline (3)

Sunday's hands were tied- literally.

As she sat in the back of the beat up van of her poorly matched tinder date, hands zipped behind her back, she thought not of how likely it was she was about to die, nor the fact her last known words to a non-murderous human being was about poop, but she found herself thinking of her room.

She was 10 when she first started impulsively cleaning it before a big trip, whether it be to see family or with school for the day, she made sure it was spotless.

It was the one time her mother would praise her, going around with a rubber glove searching for dust at the end of the day before giving a simple nod of approval- usually followed by a sly comment on Sunday's appearance of course.

However, it wasn't the slightest form of approval that kept Sunday scrubbing the gaps between the floorboards instead of getting excited to go to her friend's for a sleepover, no, it was a fear she would later learn wasn't what normally drove people to clean...

"What do you mean you might die?" Sunday's father, who was visiting for the first time in six months the very weekend she was with her school soccer team two states over, couldn't help his teasing laugh, "is a soccer ball that hard?"

"I just want to make sure when someone finds my room if I die, it's tidy" Sunday explained, re-folding her uniform for the 17th time- her 'lucky' number.

"You've already folded that" her father raised an eyebrow as she counted before letting out a sigh.

"Now I have to start again" she mumbled before turning around twice, touching the ground and then starting the count once more.

"What was that?" Her father's voice attempted to interrupt again, failing to get through until her last fold that brought more relief in her chest that words could explain.

"Like I was saying, I don't want the people at my wake to come up and see my clothes on the floor-"

"You never let your clothes go on the floor, I've seen surgical rooms dirtier than yours poppet."

He watched as she pinched her arm skin three times, kissed her fingers and tapped her hand before packing her passport into her hand luggage for the second time.

"Darling-" he stepped towards her softly with a quiver of worry in his voice, "-have I ever told you about my mother- about her condition..."

"I need my medication" Sunday's voice muffled against the rag hastily tied around her mouth she wished she could have sanitised beforehand.

The serial killer/tinder date, who of which she couldn't quite remember the name of due to the 6 glasses of wine she practically chugged, remained silent as he drove.

"I-I mean if you're going to kill me it doesn't really matter but if this is a kidnapping situation or ransom then I-" Sunday rambled past the gut tugging fear subdued by the alcohol and focus on her medication.

"Shut up" the man's tone was cross, yet controlled with a hint of anger- presumably that his plan to get his 'date' drunk and then easily kidnap her was 'foiled' by her calling an FBI agent in the cubical of a cheap Italian restaurant.

"Y-yeah, no, for sure I will be so quiet in just a minute, I just need to tell you that without my meds I can-"

"Shut up!" His voice boomed as the car skidded to a halt, turning with a blinding smack across Sunday's face that sent her flying to the back of the builder's van.