“Sunday” Liz Johnson

I always drove out to the lake after I had had a rough night. I liked watching the morning fishermen head out in hopes of bringing back dinner for their hungry families. I could never understand how they could sit still for hours and hours, though, just them and the lake, nothing to keep them occupied. They must have grown bored at sometime or another. I wondered.
This morning was different for me, in the sense that I don’t remember night ending and morning beginning. It had all been spent at the lake anyway. The garbage bag wasn’t too heavy; she had been fairly young. I slid the bag off the docks as the first warmth of sun heated up my face. The cool splash of water cooled and slapped me out of my confused state. I sat down.
I do remember the rain stopping. I was relieved by then that the screams for help had ceased. I was disappointed to see that as soon as the sun came up, the clouds raced each other to hide it. The rain had left a haze over the lake, and everything seemed blue. Even the trees, sprinkled green by the newly welcomed spring season were a tint of blue.
I could always tell when the fish were waking up. They would sporadically jump above the lake line and splash back down. The fish were not awake today. They could be gathering around the new contents of the lake, a dead little girl. But, where were the fishermen? Were they also down at the bottom of the lake, around the mangled body? It didn’t seem likely.
I couldn’t get over how quiet the lake seemed. Although there were no fish jumping, no loud motors from the boats, it still didn’t make sense. Even after several minutes of searching, I could not find one bird in the sky. In fact, not even a light from a cabin across the lake seemed illuminated. Everything that could be conscious knowing knew. I still had splashes of the once thick red fluid on my hands. The color now brown, and the fluid now dry and thin. Inevitably the splashes had found their way up my arms and to my neck. What a mess, mess, mess.
The second time I felt the lake on my body was voluntary. The water was still cold, and the smell of the lake crawled up my nose and suffocated me. I sneezed and jumped a few steps back. My sneeze echoed over the lake as I heard sirens in the distance. The sound was so faint that I was almost certain the fog covering the lake had entangled the sound; had trapped it. The fog was telling me to run.
I climbed into my truck and turned on the radio. It was 9:27 a.m. and a preacher came through the speakers loud, but distorted. I never got good reception out here. It was Sunday and I was late for church.