Sunday Mourning

One Sunday, Dominique awoke, only to find herself dead. But it took her some time to realize it.

SUNDAY MOURNING

by Boris J. Novak

It was Sunday, at precisely 9:36 A.M., when Dominique awoke, only to find herself dead.

At first her eyelids wouldn’t part, but she’d inexplicably willed them open with great effort. To her astonishment, she was viewing the bedroom in sepia tones. The light intruding through the window shades held a diaphanous quality, the likes of which she’d never before witnessed.

Puzzled at her new alien perspective, Dominique sought to bring a hand up to her eyes and rub them, but both arms were stiff, like month-old baguette loaves. She tried rocking gently from side to side in hopes of gaining cooperation from her limbs -- that failed. 

A panic-attack ensued, and she began rocking once more -- this time violently -- until she’d rolled off of the edge of the bed and landed on the hardwood floor in a cacophony of snaps, crackles, and pops. Her muscle tissue and joints rebelled against the movement.

After her fall, Dominique had discovered that she could now, more or less, control her limbs.

Oh s**t! I’ve had a stroke, she thought. But a stroke at twenty-six-years-old? That just isn’t right. Is it? Then she’d remembered the prescription of muscle relaxants she’d poured into her mouth the night before. Damn. The pills are still affecting me, she reasoned.

She summoned all of her willpower and coordinated her arms and legs into functioning together, using a nightstand as an anchor of stability, until she’d managed to posture herself upright. 

Her head hung to the right in an uncomfortably obtuse position she could not correct without much trouble. With utmost care, she balanced herself and shuffled to the bathroom.

A good, hot bath is what I need, she assured herself.

She managed turning the water on to a satisfactory temperature, and stole a moment to examine herself in the mirror above the sink. Good Lord, she thought. Over night I’ve gone from pretty, to pretty goddamned ugly.

She felt at ease soaking in the warm bathtub, and her aching limbs loosened. Reflecting as vividly as possible, vague memories of the night before had resurfaced to her.

Jordan had come by early in the evening to collect his spare, overnight clothes from Dominique. She, in typical fashion, plead with Jordan not to part ways. But his mind had already been made up -- this time for good -- and he had chosen to be with his newer girlfriend. To him, Dominique was a mere pastime, a casual piece of a*s, nothing more, often less.

After nearly three months of endeavoring her best to mature some form of stable relationship with Jordan, all was lost. 

This was not the first time it had happened to Dominique. She was always attracted to the bad boys, and the bad boys always broke her heart. The prospect of her eventually being dumped, was empirically set in concrete, as each pecker-carrying male entered her life. 

Instead of continuing on in this manner, she had decided to take the easy, painless way out: prescription overdose. She had thought it would leave her to the quiet world of eternal sleep, trite as it was; however, the beige little pills didn’t perform the miracle she’d been looking for.

As she soaked in the water’s fading warmth, half and hour had gone by before Dominique came to the disturbing realization that she had not taken a single breath since awakening. She focused on her stomach and diaphragm, and willed her lungs to expand with air. Whether she breathed or not didn’t seem to matter. Inhaling was too much a task, so she decided to forgo it altogether. If she didn’t need it this far into the day, why start breathing at all?

Dominique stumbled out of the bathtub, awkwardly patted herself dry, and padded into the bedroom. She stretched, and noted her joints felt more flexible, after the long bath. 

Lily, Dominique’s pet Chihuahua, approached from behind an open closet door, sniffing with caution and distrust. Dominique painstakingly dressed herself and watched with idle curiosity as the small dog scurried away in apparent fear, and hid itself under the vanity.

The minutes wore on, and Dominique could sense that her body was growing cold once more. She pulled out a thermometer from a drawer and took a reading. It perplexed her to see it registered only seventy-two degrees, room temperature.

Am I ill? With a temperature like that, she'd discerned, it’s time to see my doctor.

Her muscles and joints maintained an unnatural stiffness as she made her way to the telephone.

She had misdialed the first two times, getting through to the doctor’s office only on the third try.

“Hello. It’s a great day at Family Medical Care. How can I help you?” chimed a female voice on the other end.

To her amazement, Dominique could not speak back to the receptionist. It was as if she’d lost her voice and could only mutter one languid groan, followed by a few insipid moans.

“Sir, or madam, if you are experiencing a life-threatening emergency, please hang up and dial nine-one-one,” explained the receptionist.

It’s not an emergency, you dumb b***h! I think I’m sick, though! Dominique thought with frustration. Then she made another effort to speak, but only groaned again.

Vexed at her lack of speech, she placed the phone back on its base and found her way to the bedroom vanity. The little dog yelped upon seeing her approach, and fled back to safety inside the closet, leaving a trail of urine half of the way there.

Dominique gazed into the mirror. A sallow, pallid reflection mocked her in return. Girl, you are a mess, she smirked. Time to put my face on.

With unsteady hands, she applied her makeup with an occasional, involuntary, spasmodic twitch, each stroke of the mascara brush scraping an eyeball or an eyelid.

When she finished, the semblance staring back at her from the vanity mirror was more homologous to a Raggedy Ann doll than anything else. This realization did not square well with her.

Dominique looked at the wall clock and realized it was nearly 11:00 A.M. She thought of how long it had been since she’d attended a Sunday Mass at Saint Bernadette’s, though it was located only a short distance down the road. For reasons she did not understand, going to the church seemed instinctively appropriate for this particular day. And although she didn’t care for religion itself, church was cathartic for her. 

Why not go? Dominique considered. It might do my conscience some good after that overdose attempt, stupid as that was.

She went to the living room and reached for the doorknob to go outside, but stood a long moment, realizing that she’d almost forgotten how to operate it. Her mind had become more disoriented by the minute. Like drops of milk slowly being poured into a glass of spring water, a subtle cloudiness had been ebbing in, like a patient serial killer, yawning while waiting to finish her off.

Dominique considered driving to the church, but decided against it, due to her present affliction. Besides, it was a nice day for a walk. She’d hoped her legs would not fail her.

#

It was as if she was seeing the world for the very first time as she shuffled along the sidewalk: the sky maintained a dull, ashen appearance; a neighbor’s lawn gnome had eyes, which nervously followed her, and it made her skin crawl; the cool breeze in her hair felt as heavy as molasses; and sidewalk hedges perceptibly retreated from her as she passed by.

A woman standing on a porch eyed Dominique suspiciously as she continued along the sidewalk, but Dominique only forced a crooked smile in return.

Olive Branch Cemetery was just ahead to her left, when she came upon a sight she thought impossible: road kill, a dead cat, pivoted its remaining eye, looking up at Dominique. It began to purr.

Dominique stared half in wonderment, half in horror, as the cat beckoned for affection. Its body quivered with excitement at the prospect of being caressed under what remained of its chin.

This… this isn’t happening, reasoned Dominique. 

The foul, musky-sweet stench of rotting feline carcass permeated her nostrils, and illicitly brought upon her, a spontaneous gag reflex. 

Pull yourself together, girl. Maybe you’re still being affected from last night’s pills, that’s all it is, she considered.

Then someone spoke from the cemetery grounds to her left.

“Poor darling. She really doesn’t know yet,” said an elderly woman’s voice.

And then Dominique heard another voice.

“She’s resisting the inevitable,” said an unseen man.

“Of course,” replied the elderly woman.

Dominique neared the open cemetery gates, but saw no one inside. Some of the century-old headstones stood at slight angles, due to the ground below them having settled over decades of weather changes. The sparse trees, scattered throughout the cemetery, suffered from blight and simple neglect.

“Isn’t that how it always is?” sighed another unseen man.

The elderly woman’s voice was then directed at Dominique. “Just accept it, dear. It happens to every one of us. We’ve all got to do it someday.”

A collusion of reality and disbelief assembled into Dominique’s mind as she realized the voices were coming from the graves themselves. And she wasted no time in hurrying onward to Saint Bernadette’s church as quickly as her fight-or-flight mechanism could channel mobility to her legs.

She tried erasing from her mind the irrational things she’d heard. After all, since there had been no one at the cemetery, how could there have been voices?

#

It wasn’t long before the church had come into view, and Dominique saw that the parking lot was nearly empty. This was fine by her. She could avoid an encounter with someone who might recognize her. What would others think of her sickly appearance? She preferred not knowing the answer.

As she approached the double-door entry of the church, she paused a long moment, and realized once again, that she could no longer elevate her stiff arms. Most of her body had now maintained a cool numbness, and the initial reason for coming to the church eluded her. Her thoughts were becoming a brackish pool of disorientation.

One of the doors opened slowly, and Father Peterson stepped out. His slight smile twisted into a frown of concern as his eyes met Dominique’s listless Raggedy Ann gaze.

“My child, will you come in and find your peace with the Lord?” he inquired, more as a statement than a question.

Dominique stared at the priest for a long pause. Her jaw slackened involuntarily, and she managed a slight nod of acknowledgment.

Father Peterson held the door and motioned for her to enter. There were few people remaining inside the church, all of them seated near the pulpit, heads down, praying in low whispers. 

Dominique chose to sit in a pew at the far rear, and Father Peterson sat beside her. He was close enough to invade her personal bubble, but that didn’t occur to her. His nose wrinkled at the stench of what he perceived to be human bodily discharge emanating from Raggedy Ann seated next to him.

“Child,” Father Peterson started. “Many a time I have seen the face of one in distress…” He winced with revulsion, trying not to retch, as the odor grew stronger. “And I see it now before me.”

Dominique stared at the priest, her head arched at an unnatural angle. Random, hazy thoughts flittered into her mind, which had no beginning and no end, no explanation, no logic.

“And I say to you, child of our Shepherd,” continued the priest, “When He calls upon us to seek our salvation in His kingdom, we must head that call.”

The priest reluctantly took Raggedy Ann’s hand inside of his, and a meandering chill ran down his spine, as her cold, stiff fingers touched his palm. “Find your peace now, child,” he concluded, his face twitching in sequestered revulsion.

It took a concerted effort for Dominique to rise up from the pew. She smiled her crooked smile at the priest as he assisted her. His hands trembled as he walked her to the church door and held it open once again. Raggedy Ann shuffled her way outside.

#

Something primal led her back to the cemetery gates. It was a sense of peace, like when you are being prepped for surgery, and are asked to count backwards from one hundred, and they inject you with a powerful anesthetic, but you don’t make it past ninety-five. And you fall into a pleasantly-encompassing, abysmal sleep.

Inside of the cemetery, Dominique found a quaint, old tree, which she came to rest under. And on that tree was a long-forgotten, heart-shaped engraving made from someone’s pocket knife. She noticed it, traced it with a stiff finger, and smiled before closing her eyes.

“That’s a good darling,” said an elderly woman’s voice from somewhere inside of the cemetery. “Home sweet home.”

Author's Note

I hope you will enjoy this bizarre little tale. >:-}