Sunday mornings have consistently been perfectly charming for Marcy Hamilton. Never, under any circumstances, has she been able to recall an occasion where a Sunday morning hasn’t been remarkably pleasant. Even in dire means, Marcy always wakes up bright and blazing, erupting with energy. Sunday mornings are when breakfast and tea are patiently waiting for her on the table, placed with a loving note from her husband. Sunday mornings are when Marcy finally arrives at the last chapter of her book, and receives the satisfying feeling of closing it finished. It’s on Sunday mornings when the neighbors buzz over with childish and pointless gossip, and they’ll laugh and chit-chat just before Marcy leaves for her morning yoga class. Sunday mornings are peaceful and full of smiles, every single time. Until today.

The clock reads 10:37 AM, January 16th. Sunday. Marcy stands propped up against the wall dividing her kitchen and the living room. The faulty faucet drips rhythmically, and the muffled tones of the television resonate throughout the house.

Marcy rests in her cemented position, staring intently out the window. She observes as swarms of people scramble from one elegant house to the next, storming through garage sales. Marcy’s home seems to be the only one in the neighborhood with a bare driveway.

She scrutinizes their beaming faces and energetic aura as they all revel in the stunning weather. She focuses on a certain child as she begs her conflicted mother for a small piece of jewelry, jumping up and down and tugging her mother’s hand.

“Oh, just buy her the bracelet.” Marcy mumbles to herself.

She heaves in a harsh breath and stumbles over to the kitchen counter, grabbing her unfinished glass of vodka and harshly choking it down. Alcohol drips from the corners of her mouth. Struggling to keep her balance, she fills her glass back up to the brim.

“Bottle’s almost gone.” Marcy grunts. She grabs the chipped wine cup and presses it against her bottom lip as if she’s about to take a sip, but she doesn’t tip the glass.

“Oh, don’t be judging me, David. A woman is allowed to have a few drinks when she’s upset.” She states, lowering the glass.

She pauses for a moment and sets her drink down, concluding that she doesn’t need any more. She then proceeds to trace the perimeter of her aged and damaged kitchen counter with the edges of her fingers. Exhaling heavily, she shifts her position so that both of her elbows rest on the peeling surface. She places her drenched face in between her arms, cradling her head with her hands.

After a few moments and shaky breathes, she lifts up her head and begins to examine the lengthy bottle resting in front of her. Silently, she unscrews and re-screws the lid; reading the label at least four times over.

“You know, this is my least favorite kind— dragon berry. If you were any sort of a good husband, you would know that. Instead, I’ve spent eight anniversaries pretending to like it. Who the hell likes dragon berry, David?”

Fixing her eyes back down at the bottle in her hands, she reminisces of the day when she and David first moved into this house. In celebration, they twisted open a bottle of dragon berry vodka, of course, and planned on a boisterous night to themselves.

“Oh, honey!” David had expressed, so unfocused he barely noticed when the glass he was pouring began to overflow, “It’s perfect, isn’t it?”

David planted the half-empty bottle on the counter, waiting for a response.

“Marcy?” he continued, “Where’d you run off to?”

“In here!”

David trailed her voice until he spotted her stationed in the doorway of one of the extra bedrooms, gazing delicately into the space.

“We could paint the room with birds… and trees! Clouds on the ceiling.” Marcy said, gesturing with her hands and pointing,”A crib right over there in that corner would be perfect, and a rocking chair on that side.”

“A nursery?” David responded, beaming. He gently stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his head on her shoulder, burying his chin in her velvety blonde ringlets. He inhaled her lovely scent before he spoke again, “Is that something you want?”

“One day..” Marcy continued, “Oh, wouldn’t it be lovely?”

“Absolutely perfect” David responded, holding her closer. “I love you so much.”

Marcy giggled as she turned to look at him, grabbing his face and carrying it in both of her soft hands. She watched as the dimples formed in his olive-toned cheeks, brushing away a dark lock of hair from his forehead. “I love you too.”

Coming back to reality, Marcy retrieves her glass and swallows two large mouthfuls of vodka before blurting out, “I can’t even look at you David!”

She un-clenches her sweaty fists and wipes her palms on her ill fitting jeans.

“The girl you’ve been sleeping with…she likes dragon berry doesn’t she.”

A few cruel and silent moments pass before she hears several pounds on the front door.

“Marcy? Marcy, It’s Shannon. You haven’t been picking up the phone, I’ve been worried.”

Marcy doesn’t notice she’s holding her breath as she saunters around the kitchen counter. Eyes wide and anxious, she gawks at the door.

Shannon continues, “Marcy? Please come to the door.”

Marcy promptly wipes her face dry of tears and smudged makeup as Shannon continues to smack on the wood.

“I’ll get it. Please don’t say anything David…” Marcy whispers.

She pauses and laughs with an almost enraged tone for a moment, reacting to the fact that David hasn’t spoken to her since last night.

“Marcy!?”

“Sorry!” Marcy exclaims, seemingly flustered as she makes her way over. “ What brings you here?” She says, cautiously cracking the door open.

“You haven’t picked up your phone since Thursday and you didn’t show up for yoga today. I was just—“ Shannon halts, observing the alcohol on Marcy’s breath.

“What?” Marcy answers, strenuously trying to conceal the nervousness she feels.

“Why are you drinking on a Sunday morning?” Shannon remarks.

“Oh, please! I’ve just had a sip, I promise. I’ve been doing some cleaning and organizing in the kitchen and came across a bottle. It only had a bit in it so I figured I’d just finish it and then throw it out.”

“Oh, I see. Why didn’t you respond to any of my phone calls?” Shannon says, dubiously.

Detecting the skepticism in Shannon’s voice, Marcy hustles to close the conversation.

“Didn’t I? Oh dear, I’m sorry to have you all worried! It must have slipped my mind.”

Shannon stands in silence, observing Marcy with a hint of judgement.

“Okay… well, thanks for stopping by, but I have a lot to get done.”

“At least let me stop in for some tea, will you?”

“Next time, okay?”

“What’s going on Marcy?” Shannon says, with obvious concern in her voice.

“I have things to do!” Marcy snaps back. Marcy then finds herself staring up at Shannon's shocked and confused face and quickly contains herself, then continues, “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound angry at you. I’m just stressed. I’ll see you later.”

Marcy attempts to shut the door, but Shannon wrenches it back with an excessive amount of force. Marcy loses her grip and the door launches open, exposing the inside of her apartment.

Petrified and helplessly at a loss for words, Shannon begins to recede further and further from Marcy, threatened by her firm gaze. An influx feverish sensations parade her as she fixes her view on the scene before her, incapable of yanking her eyes away. Her trembling legs struggle to keep her upright and her breath becomes rapid and unstable.

“Shannon, please. It’s okay! Calm down.” Marcy says in attempted reassurance, grabbing her wrists to steady her.

“Marcy…” Shannon says, expressing her unease, “Please, I have to go.” She continues, battling Marcy’s tight grip.

“No, Shannon. Let me explain first.” Marcy exclaims, vigorously glaring into Shannon’s eyes.

“Just— please.” Shannon struggles, “Just let me go! I won’t say a word, okay? I promise. I just— I just need to go home.”

“Not yet!”

“Please!” Shannon cries, flailing her whole body in attempt to be freed from Marcy’s unyielding grip, only to be heaved brutally into the wall. The ghastly resonance of Shannon’s skull splitting against the dull surface echoes through the musty room as she spills onto the floor, leaving a trail of murky maroon blood spread across the wall.

Marcy watches as Shannon’s limp body thumps onto the ground. The color red soaks her carpet and Shannon’s eyes are motionless and still.

“Oh no… oh no no no” Marcy says through anxious breathing. With her fingers weaved through her hair, she tugs at her aching scalp; pacing the room. “Oh dear…” She continues, glancing at the dragon berry flavored vodka on the kitchen counter, then fixing her gaze on her husband resting innocently in his armchair. She focuses on the steak knife buried solid in his chest; his perfect olive skin now blue and stale, his eyes lifeless and cold. She then shifts her blurry vision towards the floor. Her own carpet is stained with the blood of her best friend.

“Oh dear. I’ve made quite the mess, haven’t I.” Marcy says to herself, “I have made quite the mess.”