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Sunday wakes up to the ticking of Penacony’s constant rotation and the gentle hum of the planet’s life. He thinks he hears a charmony dove singing faintly. That’s only his wishful thinking, but he indulges in the fantasy; this is the only time he gets to breathe and dream.
Sunday slides out of his bed, grabbing his robe from his bedside and putting on his slippers. He kneels on the carpet, a thin barrier between Sunday’s knees and the hard floor; he prays at the altar adorned with emblems and sigils referencing the many faces Xipe has embraced over the millennia, the multitude of facets THEY have gathered to create the Harmony. To fully understand Xipe’s journey and THEIR devotions, one must understand THEIR many faces, like Ena the Order; one must ask the Aeon for guidance with folded hands and bowed head:
O, revered Triple-Faced Soul, hear my prayers…
Pray for Penacony and its citizens’ safety, to remain free from sin and suffering, able to enjoy eternal happiness;
Pray for my dearest sister, Robin, to continue her travels among the stars safely, to spread the knowledge and understanding of the Harmony across the galaxies;
Lend me strength to guide Penacony as the Head Representative. Lead me from temptation and toward salvation.
Sunday’s wings rustle as he bows his head to Xipe once more. After prayer, Sunday cleans himself, meticulously preening the feathers behind his head and brushing through his hair. His nails are clean of debris, skin moisturized. No blemishes, no flaws to be seen, and he is satisfied for now.
His clothes are starched and pressed from the previous night, pristine. One must always be clean and presentable, must always show elegance and grace. He ties his shoe (he hates the way it looks), ties it again (it’s too tight), and again (the bow is too large), and again (it’s too tight again), and again (why can’t he tie his shoe? he’ll be late soon!), and again (it’s too loose, but it’ll do for now). He takes one queasy step before stopping and retying his shoe one last time. (The queasiness still doesn’t go away.) His gloves are a much smoother ordeal along with his tie and jacket. Just before exiting the foyer, he looks himself in the mirror one last time. He readjusts his hair and smoothes his feathers down once more—he must be presentable; never show an ugly or weak side.
No time for breakfast—Sunday grabs a cup of coffee on the way to his first agenda of the day: construction has once again halted in Dream’s Edge. The coffee that Sunday had only taken one sip of burns a pit in his stomach when he arrives at The Family’s Construction Authority. A multitude of Penaconians surround the Authority, multiple members trying to calm the crowd and gather their complaints. Seeing Sunday, the crowd rushes over to him, and he resists the urge to turn the other way. No, he is the Head Representative; he must face his people as they bombard him with questions about why construction has halted again, when will construction be finished, what exactly are they building?
They’ve been asking him the same questions since construction began. Truthfully, construction will never end because Penacony must always keep expanding, but his people wish to see an expected end date to the disturbances. Sunday spots a crow out of the corner of his eye, its chest emblazoned with a golden eye, its watchful eye piercing Sunday’s skull. He must quash any dissent. He must quell their fears and appease their tempers without revealing any detailed plans for Penacony’s expansion, for his future plans. Mr. Gopher Wood had been clear to him about overpromising to his citizens.
With a steady voice that does not reflect the tightness in his chest, he assures the patrons that construction has only paused temporarily due to safety guidelines. The confidence in his voice quiets the crowd, satisfied with his statement for the time being. He swallows their previous disgruntlement and stores it in his stomach. They don’t need to worry, don’t need to suffer. The crowd disperses.
Sunday only has 15 minutes between lunch and an interview with the tv station. The twisting pit in Sunday’s stomach takes up space where food should be, but despite his lack of appetite, he must keep his schedule. It is virtuous to maintain his routine, to keep his body healthy and clean, and that includes eating when it is required, but not too much! Overindulgence, the catalyst to sloth and gluttony—Sunday only eats half of a sandwich, quickly but elegantly as he makes his way to Golden Hour. He must maintain his schedule.
On his way to the interview, a woman with a modest face and a child in tow runs up to Sunday, who he recognizes as a patron who visited his confessional multiple times to plead for help to reunite with her husband and child who had not been granted access into Penacony previously. Sunday had a hard time convincing The Family to give leniency to their visa, but it seems the family has been reunited.
The child doesn’t greet Sunday, staring at the band playing on the stage instead. The mother yanks at his arm harshly, scolding him for not addressing Sunday. She thrusts a small slice of cake into Sunday’s hands, wrapped with a bow on top—a gift of gratitude for helping her family stay together.
Sunday thanks her, admiring the rustic little cake before she drags her distracted son away. Sunday’s mouth waters as he stares at the cake in his hands. He had only finished his half sandwich mere minutes ago, but his stomach growls again, his tongue craving a sweet treat. Do not overindulge! Do not fall into gluttony! But this was hardly gluttonous if it was a gift, and this woman had spent her time and effort to bring him such a gift. He should eat it with appreciation.
He unwraps the bow securing the cake together, but the flimsy lid pops off unexpectedly. The platter topples and slips out of his grasp, smearing the cake across his coat and vest. Sunday doesn’t dare look down at his soiled clothes, his heart pounding in his throat. Gluttonous! Everyone’s hazy gaze must be on him, witnesses to his greed and gluttony, laughing at his gracelessness. He is flawed, a humiliation to Penacony.
His foul behavior has led to his downfall, his disgrace. Heat rises in his cheeks, ears burning at how embarrassing he looks, clothes soiled, the evidence of his sin staining his front. One must always be presentable, clean, and elegant. He catches the sight of a violet bird and shakes himself out of his thoughts. He must not be perceived in this state!
Sunday holds his breath as he rushes to the nearest public bathroom to clean himself up. It looks better than he thought, but as he starts dabbing his coat with a damp towel, Sunday’s anxiety churns his stomach. How could he fathom even eating cake when he was already so full? Greed, gluttony—he wanted and wanted and wanted and his desire had led him astray. He didn’t need more; he was content with his sandwich. What a fool to be tempted by a treat. You are always tested. How could he be so stupid!
Disgraceful!
It’s lucky the frosting was been white, but the discoloration of his now wet clothing is jarring, unpresentable, sloppy—unharmonious. Xipe surely frowns upon him. The heat in his cheeks hasn’t subsided, and now his eyes burn as he blinks away the wetness threatening to spill. He cannot show weakness. He’s embarrassed himself enough today.
He braces himself for the interview, well practiced, well rehearsed, eloquent, but constantly fiddling with his lapel, his hand covering the damp spot in his jacket, his posture stiff to hide the stains. His disgrace must not show, must not be captured on camera. If he hides it well enough, Mr. Gopher Wood won’t find out and reprimand him.
Sunday is thankful the interview ends quickly, and he leaves Golden Hour with a quick stride. He wishes he could run straight out of this place to hide in his office, hide away his shame, the mistake of his gluttony, but one must always remain calm and elegant. He passes by SoulGlad happy patrons and elated gamblers, guests living their fullest and happiest times, and he greets them with a stiff smile and even stiffer wave as he tries to keep his ruined jacket from showing.
Once Sunday is behind the doors of his office, he fumbles with the long sleeves of his coat, tearing the garment off. He inhales deeply, his breath shaky and wet. His bones rattle and he hugs himself to keep his body from falling apart—his disgraceful, deceitful body, so easily tempted by just a simple slice of cake.
Punishment surely will be in order later, but for now, he must attend to paperwork, grievances from confessors whose sins were not absolved while in reconsidering among other letters asking and complaining about the state of construction, about the lack of SoulGlad, about the casinos, about anything they would possibly want to tell Sunday.
All prayers must be addressed, and it’s Sunday’s job to address them. One letter addresses their infidelity toward their spouse. Another letter inquires about their motion sickness in the pinball mechanisms. Another letter details a person’s appreciation for the decor in the Clockie Theme Park. And so on…
There are more letters to address by the time evening hour chimes, but they will have to wait. The hour of confession arrives.
The confessional booth is perhaps Sunday’s favorite place, enclosed, isolated. It comes with the consequence of having to listen to grievances and confessions one after the other, endless, heartbreaking, but it’s one of the few places in Penacony that prying eyes can’t peer into, and Sunday prides himself on intimately knowing Penacony’s individual troubles.
He’s heard every confession under Golden Hour’s light, from heinous crimes to petty complaints. The hours pass quickly as Sunday absolves the sins of his guests, burdens himself with their suffering so that they can live a worry free life. Reconciliation ends late into the night, not that Sunday minds. He returns to his study proudly with the thought that he’s heard everyone’s prayers and confessions today, completed his duty to the fullest extent.
Sunday suddenly freezes, a chill biting at his bones and squeezing his lungs as he’s greeted by Mr. Gopher Wood in his study, holding his ruined jacket from earlier.
“You did not take your coat with you today?” Mr. Gopher Wood asks.
Sunday falls to his knees in front of Mr. Gopher Wood, head bowed, repentant and ashamed. The words unspoken hang in the air. He has seen everything. The stain of Sunday’s sin is still damp on his jacket. “I apologize. I was swayed by temptation.”
Mr. Gopher Wood hums softly, resting his hand on Sunday’s head. “At least you understand your wrongdoings, but you must atone and beg Xipe for THEIR forgiveness and absolution. Your temptation is proof of your unworthiness and disgrace. I must say, Sunday, I am disappointed in you.”
The words knock the breath out of Sunday. He is sinful and flawed, unworthy of Xipe’s grace. Sunday wraps his arms around himself tightly, head bowed lower as he tries to catch his breath.
“I understand,” he finally whispers. “I will serve my penance and beg for forgiveness, though I am unworthy.”
Mr. Gopher Wood pats Sunday’s head gently and leaves silently. Sunday doesn't know how long he kneels on the carpet, clinging to himself as he prays and prays and prays. Only when a Family member drops off the grievances that came in after confessions had closed does Sunday finally get up and make his way home with his ruined coat.
He undresses slowly, meticulously, and sets his clothes in the hamper to be cleaned. He showers and prepares himself for bed with clean clothes. After he lays down, he realizes he hasn’t eaten dinner yet, and he mulls over getting up to eat before deciding that he must fast as part of his penance.
The ticking of Penacony’s constant rotation lulls Sunday into a gentle and dreamless sleep.