Sunday Knight was never an indecisive kind of person. Even as a child, she always knew exactly what she wanted. But unlike so many children who would readily throw themselves on the floor and scream until their weary parents acquiesced to their demands, Sunday was always very patient and gracious, all the while moving closer to the goal with unstoppable momentum. Nothing could stop her once her mind was made up – she was always both the unbreakable rock, and the unstoppable juggernaut.
The saving grace for her parents was, as stated, that she was always a very well behaved child. This was by no fault of her new-age hippie parents, who believed that it was best to let a child find her own way to develop fully as an actualized human being.. or something like that. Basically, they refused to discipline and instead endeavored to push self-awareness on Sunday. Their parents swore up and down that they would create a spoiled, self-centered child who would grow into a non-functioning adult, but some merciful God must have been looking down on the Knight family as they were given the one child in the whole world who that actually worked for. At least, that's what Sunny's grandparents always told her.
It should come as no surprise then that Sunday's childhood was unremarkable in most every way. She went to school, she listened to her parents, had normal friends and a normal life in the neo-bohemian city of Portland, nestled at the north end of the otherwise blue-collared state of Oregon. The only thing that really set her apart from her peers was her affinity for the piano and, when she was big enough to hold one, the guitar. But even that wasn't horribly unusual.. Nothing compared to what awaited Sunday once she hit the ripe-old age of 10.
The doctors had no idea what had happened to her. It came on so suddenly, and without obvious cause, not conforming to any of what they would expect from a virus or infection. Only a few months into her tenth year of life, Sunday was rushed to the hospital with a burning fever so severe that she melted the ice baths they soaked her in, attempting desperately to bring down her temperature and marveling at how the little girl could even still be alive. She faded in and out of consciousness for days while the fever spiked, cooled to not-quite-normal, then shot back up again, a small army of doctors trying everything they could think of to both control it and discover the cause. The local news did stories on the poor child who was hitting record high fevers almost daily, quarantined off at the Oregon Health and Sciences University for fear that she was contagious, the victim of what would surely become the latest epidemic. Patient Zero, they called her, though there never was a Patient One to follow up the act.
Four days into her fever, Sunday spontaneously began to turn blue. She shivered uncontrollably, teeth clattering with such force they put a mouth guard in, afraid she'd shatter enamel. Baffled, they switched gears completely, wrapping the girl in heating blankets from head to toe and keeping her as sedated as possible. It was only when this 'cold spell' hit that staff attending to the girl reported any symptoms at all, but only when in contact with Sunday – nurses collapsed in heat strokes while their co-workers huddled under blankets. Nearly the whole floor was sequestered off – surely, the outbreak had begun! But every nurse and doctor made a speedy recovery upon leaving Sunday's room, and no one who didn't come into contact with the girl directly ever suffered these symptoms. Not wanting to cause a panic, the hospital elected to keep the fact of additional unexplained cases linked to the girl a secret from the media. Their meetings became less the bounding about of medical facts as speculations worthy of science fiction, and just when even the most skeptical among them had come to the threshold of accepting something Beyond Normal was going on, Sunday made a miraculous recovery. Her temperature normalized, all blood tests came back normal (not that this was a change), and with nothing left to do, the hospital discharged the young girl to her parents and sent her home. In a few weeks, the media forgot all about the strange medical case, and the whole episode was filed away in OHSU archives, little more than a cautionary tale the Knight family presented to friends as reasoning of why they moved to the suburbs and cut out all use of plastic in their household. As if that had somehow been the reason, and only they had been smart enough to figure it out.
The whole episode was forgotten by everyone except Sunday herself, who would live with the repercussions of it for the rest of her life. After all the worry and pain she had caused people, she felt it best not to tell her parents when she began to feel again the way she'd felt that day she wobbled up to them, pale faced, and told her mother she felt too hot to do her homework. The hot and cold spells came back every once in awhile, but Sunday found herself much more equipped to deal with each successive one, feeling less and less discomfort each time – only an awareness of being hot or cold without the sweating or shivering. Still, it never occurred to her until she started boiling iced tea and freezing hot cocoa in her hands that there might be a little something more to be discovered..
More years passed in Sunday's life without noteworthy event. She steadily gained better control over what she had now accepted was her special ability, though it was, to her, a footnote in her development. That tiny text on the bottom of the page otherwise filled with stories about music. Pianos, guitars, singing, talent shows, fly-by-night bands with kids four years her senior! THERE was the real excitement, there was what Sunday really cared about. By fourteen, Sunday had begun that unstoppable trek, full steam ahead, with her goal being to perform and be known, to stare down vast oceans of fans with her band mates (none of whom existed most of the time, or when they did, had no such grand designs). She was good! Everyone said so! She threw herself into her lessons, took extra time to learn more on her own, and was bound and determined to make it.
If Sunday in her quest for success as a musician could be seen as the biblical David, then it follows that the Goliath in her way was her parents. Max and Roberta Knight had lost all interest in seeing their daughter make a life through music when it became apparent she was less interested in Simon and Garfunkel, and more in Jimmy Hendrix. They could even have lived with Tori Amos, thrashing about like a woman possessed at the piano keys, over this strange phallic-worshiping trance she went into with that big wooden symbol of male oppression strapped to her small frame, belting out lyrics lacking in anything they considered a worthy message. Their daughter was skipping down the path to Bumbershoot, when they believed enlightenment would come only from Lilltih Fair. So, for once, Sunday's parents put their foot down and imposed their will on their child, asserting themselves as parents rather than friends and life coaches. She was just 15, and she absolutely would NOT be attending the Battle of the Bands in Vancouver. And that was FINAL.
Sunday's response to this abrupt shift in parenting philosophy was, as always, swift and decisive: she ran away. She had made some friends who were all too eager to help the under-aged teen escape adult oppression, which to them meant crashing on couches, smoking pot at Saturday Market, and carting their unwashed selves downtown once every few weekends to hassle the tourists outside Voodoo Donuts. Under normal circumstances, Sunday would not have been quite so attracted to this idea of forcibly pushing ones self outside of the bounds of normal, acceptable society, but there was this one little change in her life that had proven to make all the difference: she'd fallen deep into Teenage Love.
His name was Drake. Well, not really, but that's what he made everyone call him. He was a 19 year old high school drop-out with dread-locked black hair, no less than eight piercings, and a smooth way with words that made fifteen year olds want to run away from their parents to be with him, play guitar for his band, and sing back-up for him. Sunday had worshiped the ground he walked on from the moment he cooed into her ear how pretty she was and how amazing she sounded up on stage, breath thick with whatever cheap booze he'd just bought with his fake ID. He always knew how to get his way - the unstoppable force, just like her. When he stole that first kiss, it was electric. She was certain she'd seen stars, and a week later she was already plotting out their life together and re-writing her name with his surname instead of her own. In little hearts and everything! He told her how special she was to him, how different she was from every other girl he'd met. He begged her to go to Canada with him, in that particular way he had of making it sound like the only thing he'd ever ask of her and oh it would make him SO happy, and Sunday was not about to disappoint. Not when he kept putting his arm around her infront of people, calling her "His Girl." She was so blinded with happiness, wearing that big stupid smile, that she didn't even notice the sad looks on the faces of their bandmates. The knowing glances. Their pity. Not that any of them warned her, or stopped him.
Sunday bounced from couch to couch before the band packed up and headed north, and after that, she stayed with Drake. Just like a real couple! They were together almost all of the time, and on the occasional night when he had to "go meet this big-time talent scout to talk up the band, so I probably won't be back until REALLY late" she would stay in their motel room and practice, and wait, and wait.. But the minute he got back, stumbling in at some god-awful hour in the morning with booze on his breath and his shirt on backwards, eyes blood-shot from who knows what, Sunday would greet him happily and hold him in the saftey of her arms while he slept. Or, at least, until it was time for practice, and she had to go make an excuse to their band-mates about why Drake wasn't there. More sad smiles. More knowing looks. More silence.
It was no surprise to anyone when they lost, though it was somewhat shocking that they ranked within the top ten. Drake was horrid for the whole set - off key, forgetting words, and at one point breaking out into a fury of cursing at the audience as they booed. He was so angry that night as the band went out to celebrate, sneaking Sunday in to a bar as their way of thanking her for saving their asses. Really, it was only this one brown-haired, bright-eyed girl who had gotten them as high in the ranking as they did, and they all knew it. She was the best guitar player they had, she'd written half of their set herself, and she'd done her best to shine with her background vocals and boost Drake's lack-luster performance. She was the hit. She was the success. The one going places. They all knew it. More importantly, Drake knew it, and that fact burned in his skull like fuel thrown on an already raging fire. The boys had bought her a beer, which she'd managed to spill on Drake's shoes as she was jostled by someone behind them. His reaction was, as always, swift and decisive: he back-handed her. Sunday hit the floor so quickly, she'd hardly had time to process what had happened before she heard the fight break out above her. Somebody had punched Drake - one of their friends? Somebody in the crowd? She wasn't sure - and the two of them were going at it. Somebody else pulled Sunday to her feet, asked her if she needed help, if she wanted them to call the cops. But the fight was going to bring them whether or not Sunday wanted the attention, and all she could think about - besides the throb on the side of her face - was that she was a fifteen year old run-away in a bar in Canada. Police interviews didn't sound like a great idea. Instead, she assured the kind stranger she was fine, put on her best Big Girls Don't Cry smile, and headed for the door as quickly as possible. After wandering the streets of Vancouver for an hour, Sunday finally returned to the only place she had to go - the hotel room she shared with Drake.
There were flowers the next morning, and tears, and apologies laid at her feet with great committment to the role. She wanted to go home, but he begged her not to. The band needed her! HE needed her. He was drunk, he was stupid, he begs forgiveness, and she, like a stupid 15 year old girl in love, forgave. Sunday would forgive Drake again two months later, after he bombed another set at El Corazon in Seattle. Then again sometime after, when she questioned why he was never around at night anymore, and what those pink stains on his collar were. What had started as a fairytale became Sunday's nightmare, and over time she'd come to see and understand those knowing looks and sad smiles. She wasn't special, she wasn't different, and she certainly wasn't the first. But by god, she would be the last.
On one sunny Wednesday she went to the local hairdresser and told them to make her a blonde. Not just a blonde - bleached! On Thursday, she called her parents for the first time in months to tell them she was okay, and coming home. And on Friday, Sunday packed the small bag of her belongings up and sat on her suitcase in yet another dirty, dingy hotel room she shared with the man who was probably off sleeping with some random groupie. He didn't even have the decency to show up some nights, and this proved to be one of them. But still Sunday sat, quiet, patient, clutching a cheap ID bracelet she'd purchased the day before, its raised letters spelling out a very specific message she wanted to send into the future. Her way of saying thanks for all the memories.
Right in that spot she remained, this tiny ball of quiet determination, never for a moment doubting the path she'd chosen. She was never an indecisive kind of person, after all. When Drake finally stumbled in on Saturday afternoon, he at first paid only a moments attention to the girl he was so used to shoving around and then basking in the care of. He didn't see the suitcase, but when he saw the hair as he collapsed into bed, he grunted something to the effect of "What the fuck did you do to your head?"
"Decided it was time for a change," was the reply chosen in the moment, as Sunday calmly rose from her perch, walked over to the dozing drunkard, and then shoved the burning hot bracelet into his cheek, blistering the word 'SCUMBAG' into his flesh. Well, a mirror image of it, anyhow. Drake screamed, flailed, and tried to come after her, but Sunday blocked him with a wall of heat that singed the carpet and sent him reeling backward over the side of the bed. Dropping the bracelet from her hand, Sunday instead took up her suitcase and, without another word to the curse-hurling teen, walked out of the motel, to the bus depot, and headed for home.
There were, of course, consequences. Happiness and hugs and I'm So Glad You're Home's, but also consequences. The days of standing back and letting Sunday just figure herself out were long gone, and she accepted the trust issues she'd created in her relationship with her parents. In an effort to mend them, she felt it necessary to tell them the truth she'd been hiding - no, not about her minor-deliquency-contributing boyfriend, but about what happened after she'd been sick nearly six years ago. Frequently the most level-headed and mature person in the house, Sunday sat her parents down and explained everything, even offering some demonstrations. They, of course, promptly freaked out, and started a mad-capped search for how they could get their daughter help. She wasn't sure how they found it or if the administration at the school found them, but it wasn't too long thereafter that Sunday found herself on another bus, headed to Cove City, and a new chapter in her life.