by Noemi Szadeczky-Kardoss
It was Sunday evening again, and on every Sunday evening, I wanted to die.
“Cindy! Where are you?” I heard my mother’s voice calling me.
I was in the living room watching an episode of my favorite TV show that I had recorded on the Friday before. I knew my mother wanted to say that it was already eleven, and that I had school the following day, but that was something I didn’t want to hear. On Sunday evenings, I just wanted to bury myself somewhere and not come out until Friday, or drink some kind of magical medicine like Juliet, so that I could sleep deeply for days and wouldn’t have to do anything.
“So here you are hiding!”