Sunday Silence

It was a Sunday morning — quiet, still, nothing out of the ordinary — as a restless breeze slipped through the trees and kissed the leaves with cold breath. Golden slivers of a sun no one had ever touched hid behind thick clouds, casting a pale warmth over the town — the kind that feels too familiar, like déjà vu no one can explain. 

Judith had just woken up. Slowly opening her eyes, she scanned the room. She looked out the window, then eyed the heaps of laundry on the hardwood floor. She had always longed for carpet in her bedroom. Not that the maple wood floors weren’t nice, but they made her feet cold and brought a sense of discomfort. It was almost symbolic — her overarching attention to detail. That was her thing. 

Moments later, her mom, Kathleen, opened Judith's bedroom door. 

Walking in, she stopped and briefly looked around. Extending her hands to her hips, she cleared her throat. 

“Church is in an hour,” Kathleen said. 

Letting out an aggravated groan and placing the pillow over her head, Judith ignored her. Damn, she thought. Not even a “Hello” or “Good morning.” 

“Did you hear me?” Kathleen irritably said, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Yes,” Judith bluntly responded. 

“Good. And your room looks like a pigsty… clean it up, yeah?” Kathleen said, as if it were really an option. 

“Yeah, sure… fine… whatever,” Judith said, not-so-happily. 

“Oh, and there’s a plate that’s been waiting for you on the kitchen table,” Kathleen added as she exited the room. 

Judith’s stomach growled. Although she didn’t have the best relationship with her mom, she sure did appreciate her cooking. Getting up, Judith walked over to the heaps of laundry on the floor. Some dirty, some clean — she couldn’t tell the difference. Sorting through an array of mismatched socks, graphic t-shirts, and ripped jeans, she finally found attire appropriate for church — a cream sundress with yellow sunflowers on it. 

After getting dressed, she made her way to the bathroom. Splashing cold water on her face, she looked in the mirror. Today is the day, Judith thought to herself as she reached for a towel and began to dry her hands. She then brushed her teeth and pulled her hair back into a bun. Walking down the stairs, her nostrils caught the warm aroma of cinnamon and butter. With a smile sketched across her face, she picked up the pace, nearly running to the kitchen table. Homemade cinnamon rolls. She didn’t mind that they had been sitting there for hours; she still rejoiced in the fact that they were there. Pouring herself a cup of coffee — the only thing still hot and fresh — she sat down and ate breakfast. Within minutes, her plate was empty and the dishes were in the sink. Moments later, the doorbell rang. 

“That must be Mia,” Judith’s mom said as she walked down the stairs. 

Mia was Judith’s best friend. They had known each other since they were in diapers and had practically grown up together. She would often join Judith’s family every Sunday for church service, as if she were their second child. 

Mia walked in. She had long, orange curly hair and freckles like the spots on a Dalmatian. 

“Hey Judy, you ready to go?” Mia said. 

“Hi, I uh… think so,” Judith nervously answered. 

“You girls drive safe. Don’t be late,” Kathleen said, stammering as she put on her lipstick. 

“See ya later, Mrs. Wilburn,” Mia said as she pulled Judith’s arm out the door. 

The girls made their way to the car. Mia drove a nice car. Unlike Judith, Mia’s parents had lots of money. 

“Did you put your seatbelt on?” Mia asked as she pulled out of the driveway. 

“Does it matter anyway?” Judith said. 

“Yes, because we’re in this together, remember?” Mia said. 

“Where are they?” Judith asked. 

“Who?” Mia questioned. 

“No, I mean where are they?” Judith asked again. 

“Oh, my bad… in the trunk,” Mia replied. 

“And no one hikes on these trails?” Judith asked. 

“Not on Sundays,” Mia exclaimed. 

“Are they… you know…?” Judith asked. 

“Yes. Fully,” Mia said contentedly. 

“What if someone sees us?” Judith asked nervously. 

“They won’t. Everyone is in church,” Mia said confidently. 

The drive was eerie — almost too eerie. Judith and Mia had been planning this since they could first theorize the concept. There was nothing left to discuss between them, as they remained silent most of the way up to the trail. It was about a ten-minute drive outside the small, quaint town they lived in. They had turned off their cellphones before leaving, making them nearly untraceable. This was it. 

Parking the car beneath patches of bushes and trees, they both opened the trunk. There they were. One for Judith. One for Mia. Carefully placing them in their duffel bags, they made their way up the trail. Along the way, Judith couldn’t help but think about the hardwood floors she hated in her bedroom. She thought about the laundry she was meant to do later that day, and the cinnamon rolls she ate earlier that morning. Then she looked at Mia. She thought about all the promises they had made to each other — each one never once broken.  

They promised they’d leave if things got worse. Promised they’d never let the world swallow them whole. Now here they were. One last promise to keep.  

This time, they were making a promise to themselves. A promise they couldn’t come back from. 

Shortly up ahead, there was a stream. With shaking hands, Judith unzipped the duffel bags. There they were again. Cold metal. Heavy. Final. Handing one over to Mia, Judith felt the weight of gravity shift beneath her — a hollowness blooming in the pit of her stomach. 

“I have something I want to say… you know,” Judith said nervously. 

“And that is?” Mia asked. 

“I want to thank you,” Judith said through glossy eyes. 

“For what?” Mia questioned. 

“For you,” Judith said. 

A silence hung between them. The sky opened as it began to rain. 

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way,” Mia said. 

They faced one another, rain blurring the edges of their vision, hair plastered to their foreheads. Then — one shot. The forest exploded with sound. Birds scattered from the trees. Blood mixed with rainwater, streaming into the current like paint brushed into water. The stream carried it away, like it had never happened. This was the end.  

Judith stared down at the ground. A lifeless body lying beneath her. She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her breath caught in her throat as her knees gave out, collapsing into the wet earth beside Mia’s body. Her hands, still gripping the pistol, trembled violently. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. The plan — their perfect, airtight plan — had no room for hesitation. No room for just one of them pulling the trigger. 

“Mia,” Judith whispered, though the name barely escaped her lips. It felt foreign now, as if it no longer belonged to anyone. She stared at her best friend — her only friend — the girl who once braided her hair during sleepovers, who defended her in school hallways, who made her believe in escape. Mia had always been the brave one. The sure one. And she had gone first. No hesitation. Just faith that Judith would follow. But Judith hadn’t. 

“I can’t,” she said out loud, though no one was there to hear it. “I’m sorry.” 

The rain came harder now, washing Mia’s blood deeper into the soil, smudging it like an unfinished painting. Judith sat there, numb, her sundress stained with red and mud, clinging to her skin like regret. A sharp crack of thunder echoed overhead, followed by a blinding flash of lightning. She jumped, suddenly aware of the cold metal still in her hand. The gun was heavier now. Or maybe she was. 

She thought about going through with it. Finishing what they’d started. Completing the promise. But something inside her had already broken — not in the way she expected. Not in the way that leads to the end. No, something had cracked wide open, and in that fracture, something ancient and stubborn had clawed its way out: survival. Mia had believed they had no way out. Maybe she was right. But Judith realized she wasn’t ready to stop searching. 

She buried the gun under a pile of wet leaves and stones, then looked down one final time at the girl who had once been her whole world. Reaching out, she brushed a strand of soaked orange hair from Mia’s cheek. 

“I love you,” she whispered. “But I have to live. Even if I don’t know how yet.” 

Judith stood, her legs unsteady. She didn’t look back as she began walking down the trail, soaked to the bone, shoes squelching in the mud. The forest swallowed her up. And somewhere in the trees, the sound of the stream kept on going, carrying away secrets no one would ever fully understand.  

Judith makes her way back to the car. Still shaking, she puts the keys into the ignition and begins to drive off. She knew her mother was probably worried sick – but rather more disappointed in missing church service and making the family look bad. But she didn’t care. How would she explain why she’s driving Mia’s car? How would she explain the whereabouts of Mia?  

She didn’t have an answer. 

The windshield wipers squeaked against the glass as rain continued to fall in slow, heavy sheets. Every drop echoed the guilt pounding in her chest. Her hands were slick on the wheel — part rain, part sweat, part something she didn’t want to name. She kept her eyes on the road, knuckles white, breath shallow. The car smelled like Mia. Cinnamon gum and drugstore perfume. The scent made Judith’s stomach twist. She reached over and rolled the window down, letting the cold air slap her face, as if it could wake her from whatever nightmare this had become. 

"Just tell them she went home early," a voice in her head said. 
"Tell them she wasn't feeling well." 
"Tell them you don’t know." 

But she did know. And eventually, someone else would too. 

Mia’s parents would call. The police would be involved. There’d be search parties. Flyers. Mourning. Anger. Whispers in church pews. Rumors spreading like wildfire through the narrow veins of their small town. And Judith would have to carry it. Not just the secret — but the decision. Her decision. To stay. To live. 

She took the long road back, not ready to face the eyes that would ask too many questions. The woods thinned into open fields, then the familiar stretch of town — sleepy, quiet, and just beginning to stir. Church bells chimed in the distance. She gripped the wheel tighter as she passed the chapel. Men in suits and women in floral dresses filed in, umbrellas overhead. Her mother would be in there. Waiting. Watching. Maybe wondering where Judith was — or maybe just wondering what people were thinking about her daughter’s absence. 

Judith pulled the car into a gas station lot a few blocks away and turned off the engine. Silence. Her reflection stared back at her in the rearview mirror — pale, wet, with bloodshot eyes and lips pressed into a line. She picked up Mia’s phone from the glove compartment, powered it on, and scrolled. Photos. Messages. Missed calls from “Mom.” Judith hesitated, then turned it back off and slipped it into her pocket. 

There was no fixing what had been done. No way to erase the choices that led to the trail, the stream, the body. But maybe there was still time to reshape what came next. Judith exhaled slowly, then opened the car door. One step forward. Then another. She didn’t know what she was walking into — only that it was hers now.  And she’d have to find a way to live with it. 

Judith stepped out of the car and left the keys in the ignition. Let someone find them. Let someone take the car. She didn’t care anymore. The rain had stopped, but everything about her still felt wet — her skin, her dress, her thoughts. She walked with no destination, just movement, like a puppet with its strings frayed, still twitching from memory. The streets were nearly empty, the town dressed in Sunday silence, the kind that presses down on you, suffocating in its civility. Everyone was at church. Every lie was being polished into truth by stained glass and choir music. 

She crossed the street without looking. Her hair hung in thick ropes against her face, her dress a soggy mess of petals and blood. A man outside the bakery glanced at her, startled. She didn’t meet his gaze. Just kept walking. By the time she reached her house, her legs felt like splintered wood. She didn’t knock. She didn’t need to. The front door was unlocked, like always — a small-town habit that assumed nothing evil ever crossed the threshold. 

Her mother was in the kitchen. Lipstick perfect. Church hat still on. Her mouth opened to speak, to scold maybe — Where have you been? Why didn’t you answer your phone? Why are you wearing that? — but she stopped when she saw Judith’s face. 

“What happened?” Kathleen said, her voice sharp, tight. “Is that… is that blood?” 

Judith looked at her. Really looked at her. And for the first time in her life, she felt absolutely nothing. No guilt. No fear. No longing to be understood. Just a cold space where something used to live. 

“She’s gone,” Judith said flatly. 

“Who?” her mother asked, already shrinking. 

“Mia.” 

Kathleen blinked. Her painted lips parted slightly. “Gone where?” 

Judith didn’t answer. 

She walked past her mother and up the stairs, dripping water and mud along the white carpet runner. At the top of the landing, she turned left — toward her room, the one she hated. The hardwood floor was the first thing she saw when she opened the door. The way the light hit it. The way it looked clean but felt cold. She had always hated that floor. Too honest. Too hard. Too easy to bleed on. She stepped onto it barefoot, leaving dark footprints as she moved. Her body felt like a shell now, her skin just clothing for something older, something finally awake. 

She peeled off the sundress and threw it into the corner, then stood in front of the mirror. Her reflection stared back — hollow-eyed, soaked, streaked with red and rain and grief. It didn’t feel like her. It felt like something new. She walked to the closet, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out the small, rusted tin she kept hidden beneath old sketchbooks and unopened letters from school. Inside it: a lighter. And a velvet pouch Mia once gave her — a dare in the shape of a gift. 

The matches came from Mia too — a joke once, a pack that said BURN IT ALL on the side. Judith lit one. Held it until the flame kissed her fingers. Then dropped it onto the sundress. It caught instantly. The fabric twisted and shrank into itself, blackening at the edges. Smoke rose, thick and acrid. Judith didn’t flinch. 

The fire crawled across the room, hungry. It devoured the laundry she never folded. The cheap curtains. The books she never read. It danced across the hardwood floor she despised, eating away the surface she had walked on since she was a child — that cold, gleaming floor her mother insisted was “cleaner than carpet.” 

Soon, it would be nothing but ash. Downstairs, her mother’s voice rose in panic. Footsteps pounded upward. Judith sat down on the bed — calm, deliberate — folding her hands in her lap like a girl at Sunday service. She could already hear the sirens in the distance. Let them come. Let them see. Let them all burn if they had to. 

Because Judith had survived. But not as the girl they used to know. Not anymore. 

And the floor was finally warm.