Wednesday’s child is full of woe

They sat in the dirt behind the house, seven small bodies arranged in a rough circle around the single wooden car. The toy had been handed down through cousins, its wheels held in place by nails that flashed silver beneath flaking yellow paint. Monday pushed it first, leaving a neat pair of tracks across the dry soil. Tuesday took it after him. Each child claimed their turn with the blunt certainty toddlers have, their movements clumsy, their breath loud with excitement. Wednesday watched from the far edge, hands idle on her knees. A mild grit clung to her palms where the dirt had started to cake, the texture dry enough to sting.

When it became clear no one would offer her a turn, out of boredom, or sadness, or both, she picked up a thin stick and studied it. The point was ragged, splintered from whatever branch it had once been. She pressed it against her ear, nudged it inward, and felt the membrane resist before giving way. The sound inside her skull was soft and wet, followed by a pressure shift that made the world tilt. Pain arrived seconds later, a clean and hot throb. Blood crept down her neck in a warm thread.

Thursday noticed first and scrambled to his feet, stumbling as he ran to get help. Sunday stayed where he was, leaning closer so his shadow fell across her shoulder. He clicked his tongue the way adults do when pretending disappointment, his voice pitched with an older child’s smugness. He told her it was her own fault. That she should have waited. That crying wouldn’t fix anything. She did not cry. She sat very still, the stick resting in the dust.

The children had larger bodies now. The seven of them stood at the lip of the old battlement, a slab of concrete mottled with lichen and the shallow pits left by long-forgotten explosives. The drop beneath was steep enough that the air carried a faint mineral cold, the smell of wet stone rising from the shaded ground below. Sunday tested the edge with the tip of his shoe, then leapt without hesitation. His landing sent up a dull puff of dust and he straightened with a triumphant grin. Monday and Tuesday followed, their bodies thin and quick, arms slicing the air as they hurled themselves below. The thuds of their landings travelled upward.

Wednesday stood back from the ridge. The height made her frightened. She felt the faint vibration of Tuesday’s whoop echoing upward. Thursday lingered beside her. His voice dropped to a soft register. He told her she was the only girl and no one expected her to jump. She could stay where she was. She could watch. She didn’t have to follow them.

Sunday overheard. He climbed back up the slope with a flush of irritation across his cheeks. He called her pathetic in a tone meant to wound, loud enough that the others turned to look. He asked if she wanted to be the weak one forever. Wednesday felt the pressure behind her ribs again, that familiar internal drop. She stepped forward, toes touching the crumbled lip of the battlement.

The fall was shorter than she imagined, yet the moment of impact bloomed through her arm with a hot, wet crack. She lay curled on one side. The broken bone sent pulses of bright pain along her elbow and shoulder, each one rising like a wave and breaking before she could brace. Thursday reached her first. He knelt and pulled her to his chest, his hands careful as he steadied her head. Friday sprinted up the bank toward the path, shouting for anyone who might hear. Wednesday pressed her face into the fabric of Thursday’s shirt, hiding her tears.

Their bodies grew larger still. The chapel was at the farthest edge of the property, It doubled as the schoolhouse. A bell rope frayed where countless hands had pulled it. After chores, Thursday asked Wednesday to meet him behind the chapel. She found him near the rear wall where the grass grew taller. His posture was restless, shoulders tight, fingers pulling at the hem of his shirt.

He spoke in a rush. He said he wanted to run away. He said Friday and Saturday would come with them. He said they could go anywhere else and never touch another chore on this land again. The words tumbled from him, warm with hope and desperation. She opened her mouth to answer but he stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath. His lips pressed against hers, unsure and clumsy, the contact soft at first before he adjusted awkwardly. Her heart thudded once, then again. The kiss held no grace, only two inexperienced mouths learning shape and pressure.

A twig snapped. The sound cut through the quiet like a small fracture. She turned and saw them at the corner of the chapel. Sunday in front. Monday and Tuesday crowding behind him. Their expressions were wide with amusement, eyes sharp with interest. Sunday mimicked the shape of the kiss, exaggerated and cruel. Monday elbowed Tuesday. Laughter rose.

Wednesday tried to step back but Sunday moved quickly. He shoved her chest with both hands. The ground was soft from last night’s rain and she slid into the mud, her palms sinking deep into the cold sludge. Thursday shouted her name and swung at Sunday with a wild, unpractised punch. He barely made contact before Monday and Tuesday seized his arms. They pinned him with an ease that made Wednesday’s stomach turn.

Sunday struck him once, the punch landing square against his stomach. He struck him again. The rhythm built, dull impacts carrying through the air like someone knocking on a hollow wall. Thursday’s legs buckled but Monday and Tuesday held him upright. Sunday told Wednesday to watch. His voice was calm, almost bored, as if this were another chore to complete. She tried to rise but the mud held her hands, thick and cold between her fingers. The chapel wall cast a long shadow over them, the building silent as Thursday’s breath grew laboured beneath the repetition of Sunday’s fists.

Their bodies fully grown now as Wednesday pushed Thursday along the narrow path. The wheelchair rattled over stones that had worked themselves free from the earth, each vibration passing through the frame. He asked again whether she was sure. She told him yes. She told him today was the day. Across the field the chapel stood dressed in white bunting. Sunday was to be ordained, the culmination of years spent shaping himself into something righteous. Wednesday had watched him do it, had watched how quickly righteousness became a weapon.

Friday had not lived long enough to see this morning. Sunday had poured drink for all of them in those earlier years, a cruel sort of hazing. Friday’s body had failed before dawn and none of them spoke of it now. Saturday had run soon after, vanishing down the road with nothing but a small canvas bag. Wednesday remembered watching his figure shrink against the horizon, knowing she’d never see him again.

She helped Thursday into the passenger seat of the work truck, lifting his weight with a careful grip beneath his arms. He settled into place and watched her load the chair and a small bag of clothes into the back. He spoke of marriage then. He had imagined vows spoken under a sky that was theirs alone. She squeezed his hand.

She returned to her room for the last of her things, knowing Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday would be occupied at the chapel, busy readying the day’s ceremony. When she turned to leave, Sunday filled the doorway. His shadow swallowed the narrow space. His tone was calm as he explained his plan. She would be his wife before sundown. She would carry children for the good of the community. Her life was already decided.

He stepped forward and gripped her face with one broad hand, squeezing her jaw until her teeth tapped together. She felt the warmth of his palm, the press of his thumb against her cheekbone. She did not flinch. She reached instead for the pear knife tucked deep within her apron pocket. She angled her wrist and drove it into the soft place beneath his ribs. The sound he made was sharp, a broken inhale. She pulled free and ran.

The gasoline canister sat in the corner of the truck bed. She snatched it up, splashed its contents along the dry boards of the house, and struck a match. The flames caught fast, hungry as they climbed the old wood. Smoke curled into the skies. She climbed into the truck beside Thursday without a word. In the rear-view mirror, Monday and Tuesday raced toward the inferno, their figures frantic. Sunday’s screams chased the wind.

Sunday’s child grew harsh with pride,

Monday’s child stood at his side.

Tuesday’s child learned cruelty’s game,

Wednesday’s child bore all their blame.

Thursday’s child held love so small,

Friday’s child took one last fall.

Saturday’s child ran far from sight,

And none of them were raised in light.