-The only good reason I ever found for Mondays to exist was to get rid of Sundays doomsday preachers.

A pissed off Margaret Ortiz on a Sunday morning to a Jehovah’s witness

Montpellier, France, 27 year later

As I lay in bed listening to the shrill alarm of the clock, I was pondering the merits of smashing it to teeny tiny bits versus the need of saving money for more important matters, although if I was to buy a new one maybe I could splurge for one more musical in nature?

In the end reason (and my miserly nature) prevailed, letting the damn thing survive another day.

I sighed as I truly needed to get up, or I would end up late for my job in one of the medium sized clothes store of the city. Money was too tight at the moment with all the books and other items needed for my little sister school to afford the risk of losing the job, as annoying as it was at times.

I reluctantly got off my comfy bed for my morning ritual of stretching, showering and preparing myself, only to swear as my foot landed squarely on a sharp plastic piece, probably courtesy of Kate’s latest foray in the world of boat models, that promptly embedded itself in my skin.

“This is why I hate Mondays, not even 7 o’clock yet and it already started to suck.”

I truly love my imp of a little sister to bits, but sometimes I wish she would use her own room for her model building endeavors instead of mine, to which she always complains that if she did she would spend so much time alone in a den that she’d fear turning into a troglodyte.

Thus the model building and various accompanying plastic and wood bits more often than not found their way in my bedroom where the imp could pester me while I tried reading or working.

After digging up the offending model piece, I disinfected the scratch then slapped a band-aid on it, frowning a bit at the size.

“Strange, with all the blood I cleaned from the floor I was sure it was bigger than that. Oh well, I won’t complain because a wound is too small.”

At this moment a yell came from the kitchen downstairs:

“Abby! Breakfast in 5 minutes!”

I lightly tapped the bell on my desk in answer, then snatched the small clipboard with its attached notepad on a silver chain above it that Kate had made for my 26th birthday a few months ago so that I would always have a tool to communicate with other people. She had been careful to craft it prettily enough that I could use it every day without looking silly, and the notepad could be changed once it ran out.

I put the clipboard around my neck before tumbling down the stairs to the kitchen, and my mother’s voice.

“Take your seat and eat now sweetie, or you’ll be late for work”

A hug later, the heavenly aroma of my mother’s homemade bread was enough to remind my stomach of how empty it was after a whole night of sleep.

My hands flew in the air as I signed:

“How could I ever stand to miss your cooking? I’d crawl up from the grave for another serving”

As I watched mum taking it out of the oven, I couldn’t help myself but wonder how my father looked as I compared our respective appearances.

If one only looked at our faces, we almost could pretend to be twins despites mum’s 44 years of age, although mum’s skin was much darker, dusky whereas mine was fair, her hair dark when mine was tawny like fallen leaves, and her eyes almost black, not at all like the true gold of mine that made my school years a misery. We both had an oval face with delicate features and full lips, and were both on the curvy side, though I was a bit shorter than mom’s 1m72.

“I’ll be home late tonight, we have lots of merchandise arriving today at the shop that’ll need checking and organizing, so don’t wait for me.”

“Got it, I’ll leave you some dinner in the fridge for when you come back.”

“Is the imp not eating with us?”

“She already went for school, said she wanted to check her science project with her friend before class started.”

Katarina Ortiz, or Kate for short, nicknamed imp due to her sunny and mischievous disposition, is my overly cute 12 years old half-sister.

14 years younger than me, she’s something of a mix between mum and her deceased dad’s looks, with auburn bangs and mum’s eyes on skin even paler than mine, and a face a bit more angular than ours though mom’s features are still clearly visible in the lips and nose.

After kissing goodbye to mum I jogged to the tramway station in higher spirit thanks to my now bellyful of homemade goodies.

Sadly, the pandemonium of the shop was enough to make even a Zen master’s mood plummet between the aftermath of the weekend frenzy and the pallets of clothes already sitting in the aisles of the store.

The customary “hello” sign to my coworkers later, we all bent to the task of cleaning up the store for the day.

There are good and bad sides to all jobs, and this one was no exception. On the bright side, choosing and buying the clothes, then deciding where to put what in the store was pretty fun, the coworkers were mostly good people, and one could listen to music all day while working which was something I loved. My voice might be dead, but my ears worked just fine and music was as important as air or water to me.

On the down side, selling stuff when you are mute is not the easiest thing to do, even with the ever trusty notepad, relegating me mostly to the boring restocking and cash register though I would still lend a hand with the sales when needed.

It did save me from dealing with a lot of idiotic questions about which pants were the most flattering for one’s butt for example, and I was very thankful for that kind of small blessing. Staring at other women’s butts is definitely not one of my pastimes.

By the time the last customer was gone and the shop straightened again, night had long fallen on the city, the air chillier with a hint of rain carried in the autumn wind.

Heading for the street, I waved goodbye to my colleagues, only to stop in my tracks halfway to the tramway station when an all too well known face stepped out of the seedy pub I was passing by.

Michael was one of the biggest mistakes of my life, a living proof that one should never trust a pretty face too easily. If a handsome guy was single, there was a high probability that either he was a player or something was wrong with him.

I had met him at the store and we had gone on a couple of dates again my better judgement, as I was swayed by his handsomeness and a wicked use of puppy eyes. The man sure knew how to use his looks to his advantage! The first date was pleasant enough, though without that spark of something more I wanted for my own relationships. Tides turned on the second date when I had to suffer through all his complaints about how great he was in a wrecked world that didn’t know how to recognize his innate superiority, before he decided that since he generously allocated some of his time for me I should become his lay-slash-servant-slash-nanny.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I have enough on my plate already without having to raise a man-child I don’t love nor even appreciate after that less than stellar date on top”

Someone like me who couldn’t retort to his annoying droning probably seemed to be a godsend in his eyes.

Of course I wrote a very polite decline to his “suggestion” before running away as fast as I could since the guy obviously couldn’t take a hint.

Since then he had been pestering me in a very stalkerish way, popping everywhere I might be, calling my cell multiple times a day despite my lack of an answer, and making a nuisance of himself in general.

I sighed “Some people really can’t take a rejection”.

Right now he seemed to have indulged quite a bit in alcohol, his breath reeking of cheap wine, his usually crisp suit crumpled with a couple dark stains visible in his lap.

Worse, I could see two of his no-brain pals looking at us from the inside of the pub while snickering in a drunken fashion.

“Though you could get off that easily girly? I don’t care if you think we’re incompatible or whatever bitchy excuses women use nowadays to dump guys after leeching dinner out of them, but you won’t know how good I am until you try uh? You should be grateful, with those freaky yellow eyes of yours there’s no way you’d be able to land something else than a loser if I didn’t take pity on you! At least today you’ll know what a real man is.”

I smothered the rising anger, a clear mind being a must have if I wanted to get out of there in one piece, snorting in disgust. Was that how this spoiled brat truly saw himself, as a gift of heaven to all the single women out there who should thankfully line up to jump in his bed?

Keeping an eye around for an escape path, I opened my notepad to quickly scribble “I was not interested last week, nor the week before, I am still not interested today, and will not be interested in the future either. The fact that I can’t speak doesn’t invalidate the fact that I can and do think for myself!”

“You slut! I took you to a nice restaurant, spent time to take care of you, and that’s how you thank me? You owe me and I always get what I’m owed! You’ll beg me to fuck you!”

I snorted.

“We split the bill so I owe you exactly nothing, and certainly not my body. Now leave me alone please before I go to the cops to ask for a restraining order. As for fucking you as you oh so elegantly say, I’d much prefer to let the race go extinct if you were the last man on earth”

As I shoved that last note under his nose he spluttered, his face the color of a monkey’s buttocks. His hand shot at me hard enough that I had to take some steps back to avoid being hit, but sadly I could not ask anyone for help since no one was close enough to notice we were not on amicable terms in the darkness shrouding the place, and yelling was obviously not an option for me.

It was then that I noticed that his friends had come out of the pub, while I was backed at the entrance of the stinky dead-end alley brimming with the trash from the joint nearby, the garbage cans neatly blocking my line of sight on that side.

“Now we’ll see how long you can still keep that proud attitude of yours bitch. I know me and my friends will enjoy it, and who knows, you might too. I know you can’t scream, and if you tattle I might do something bad to that cute little sister of yours…”

Now I knew how a sheep cornered by a pack of wolves felt, as I was looking at the grinning bastards coming closer to me, wondering how to get myself out of this nightmare, ready to run at the first opportunity.

I had both overestimated Michael’s decency, and underestimated how far he was willing to go to avenge his injured pride, and now I was going to pay a heavy price for those mistakes.

“Crap, I really, really hate Mondays...”