Kalopsia

The apartment was always empty on Sunday mornings. Mama took Emory to church in the hours before the tangerine sun peeked over the distant mountain tops and before many people would be out to see them. Mama didn't talk to the neighbors, even when they came to check on her. She deadbolted the door and pulled the curtains shut with a shaking hand. Mama was manic on Sundays. She had stopped taking her medicine weeks ago, and she hit Emory more than she had when Papa was still alive.

Emory had broken her promise to Papa. She hadn't taken care of Mama like she said she would. Now Mama got angry. She made TV dinners for every meal, even breakfast. But the television was broken. Mama had smashed it on one of her bad days. Emory didn't tell anyone about Mama's bad days.

This particular Sunday morning, Mama hadn't woken up to hurry Emory to church. Mama hadn't made microwaved oatmeal for breakfast. She hadn't left her room to sit in the old rocking chair at night like she always did. Emory stared at the scratches and blood smeared on the door for mi.