THE MONDAY GIRL

She hated Sundays!

Sundays had always been a cruel season in her life, not just a day. They arrived with the weight of a storm, relentless, unforgiving, dark as a bruised sky. From her earliest memories, Sundays meant suffering. She learned to fear them, anticipating the familiar rituals of violence and control. The house would be silent, stifled by an invisible, suffocating expectation. It was then that she would be summoned, her skin bearing the marks of their disappointment before the sun even touched the sky. Split lips, shattered toenails, the raw sting of peeled skin, and the ache of bruised bones—each an unspoken commandment she was made to obey.

Dressed in their chosen garments, her body a canvas for their perfect daughter fantasy, she would take her place at the front pew, a Bible laid gently in her hands, while her heart roared with rebellion. She sat through sermons like a ghost trapped in someone else’s story, her thoughts drifting, squirming beneath the weight of hypocrisy. The communion tasted like ashes, the wine a mockery of the blood it was meant to symbolize. When they swayed in worship, she remained still, holding back the river of rage and sorrow surging beneath her ribs.

But there was music. Yes, the music. The one salvation in her Sunday hell, the one thing she could hold close without it biting her back. Her fingers danced over the piano keys, the notes escaping like birds from a cage, soaring, free. For those brief moments, she forgot the bruises, forgot the suffocating weight of their expectations. The music was hers, the only thing that was truly hers.

Mondays, however, were an entirely different world. Mondays were her escape. She left that prison, the one she had called ‘home,’ and stepped into a different skin, a creation of her own design. She was no longer the broken daughter. On Mondays, she became someone else—beautiful, intelligent, brilliant. A girl with friends who adored her, a girl who told stories of perfect parents, and they believed her. No one saw the scars. No one ever looked closely enough. And she liked it that way. She spread her wings—wings no one knew she had—and in this other world, she soared.

And then, on a Sunday, was the wedding. A turning point, or so she had thought. But the truth was, even after the vows were spoken, after the wedding bells had faded, she still hated Sundays. Nothing had changed. The bruises remained. They weren’t as visible now, but they were there—deep beneath the surface, hidden away like secrets in the dark. And the wings? Weren’t they clipped every Sunday for the past twenty-four years? Was there even anything left to cut? She couldn’t be sure.

Yet, through it all, she still had some laughter left in her. There was still something in her that believed in happiness, in love. She still told anyone who would listen that she had an amazing husband, and they believed her. Just as they had believed in her perfect childhood. But who was she really? The Sunday girl, or the Monday one? Was she lost, drifting somewhere between the two? Did she even exist anymore, or was she a mere shadow, a reflection of what others needed her to be?

And then, one day, she was gone. Burnt to ashes in the quiet of her own despair. For three long years, she remained dormant, existing but not living. There were no bruises anymore, no violence. But there was also no love, no laughter, no friends, no family. She became a ghost, moving through the world unnoticed, untethered. She didn’t trust anyone, didn’t allow herself to feel. It was easier that way. Easier to remain in the shadows, unseen, unhurt.

But the universe is never as silent as we believe. One fine summer morning, she rose. She rose from those ashes, brighter and fiercer than before. Her flames, like wings, spread wide, ready to take flight. She was on the verge of soaring, of finally breaking free, when she spotted something under a dim stone. It was hope—small, fragile, and utterly dangerous. She should have known better. But she didn’t. She picked it up, cradled it in her hands like a precious little thing, and allowed herself to believe in it once more.

Hope told her she didn’t have to fly away, that she could stay. She could have everything she had ever dreamed of—a family, a home. She clung to it, waiting, watching, as promises were whispered under the moonlight, only to be forgotten by dawn. Still, she held on. She refused to let go. She never learned. The little Monday girl still lived inside her, the one who believed in fairy tales, in happy endings. And so, she waited. Waited for her day to come, for her dream of a family to be realized.

But every night, she pulled her wings from the closet, those beautiful rainbow wings that had once gleamed with brilliance. They were fading now, losing their sheen with each passing day as hope dimmed, little by little. Should she have flown alone? Was there ever a chance of finding a family to fly with? Was there even any hope left at all? The bruises were gone, but betrayal had taken their place. And still, she waited.

Then, one day, she stopped. She stopped waiting. At the break of dawn, just as the last of the moonlight disappeared from the sky and the first rays of the sun kissed the horizon, she made her choice. She pulled those wings from the closet one final time. They were tattered, worn, but they were still hers. She stretched them wide and dove headfirst into the ocean. The universe, at last, conspired in her favour. The ocean winds lifted her, carrying her high, far above the crusts of clouds.

And did she land? Oh yes, she did. But not on the earth. She landed on a rainbow, a home of her own making, where the Sundays could no longer harm her. Alone, yet never lonely.

And if you listen closely, on stormy nights, you might hear the sound of laughter, crackling in the sky. It's the Monday girls, flying high, untouchable, scattering joy across the land of Sunday men. And do they ever land on earth?

Never again.