ELIZABETH || bill kaulitz

The last sunday

Mid-July, England. The kind of heat that made the pavement sticky andour the flat above the chippy unbearable no matter how many windows Mother threw open. Five girls, one bathroom, a landlord who pretended the boiler didn't exist, and a father who was there, but not always *there*.

The day started at church, because it always did. Sundays were the same, week after week: the worn wooden pews, the stained glass windows that threw colored light across the floor, the smell of old hymn books and dust. Alla sat between Katie and Elise, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the window instead of the sermon. She'd stopped listening to sermons years ago, but she still came, because it kept the peace, and because sometimes it was easier to be invisible than to fight.

The church was small, and everyone knew everyone. Old Mrs. Hargreaves sat two rows ahead, nodding off during the prayers like she always did. The Henderson boys were crammed into the back pew, elbowing each other until their mother shot them a look that could curdle milk. The front man — Mr. Ashworth, the vicar — stood at the pulpit in his white robe, his voice rising and falling in that practiced rhythm that had been the same for as long as Alla could remember. He talked about patience, about trusting in God's plan, about how the Lord worked in mysterious ways. Alla listened with half an ear, the other half counting the cracks in the ceiling plaster.

Then came the part she actually liked.

Mr. Ashworth stepped down from the pulpit and picked up the worn guitar that sat by the altar — the same one every Sunday, the one with the scratched body andthe slightly loose tuning peg. "Let's sing," he said, and the congregation rustled to their feet, hymn books open, voices warming up.

Alla had been playing guitar since she was way younger — since before she could really remember, before the cheap acoustic that had been her birthday present, before the electric guitar she'd saved up for and now played most of the time. Somewhere along the way, someone at the church had noticed she could play, and it had become her job. So when Mr. Ashworth handed her the guitar, she took it without being asked, settled it on her knee, and ran her fingers over the strings to check the tuning. It was off, like always. She adjusted the pegs by ear, quick and practiced, while the congregation shuffled through their hymn books.

"*Amazing Grace*," Mr. Ashworth announced, and the church began to sing.

Alla played. Her fingers moved over the strings like they'd been doing it her whole life — because they had. The chords came easy, familiar, the melody carrying the voices around her. She didn't sing. She never sang. But she played, and that was enough. That was the one place in the whole service where she felt like she was doing something real, something hers, something no one could take from her.

The congregation sang along, their voices rising together, old Mrs. Hargreaves's reedy soprano wobbling above everyone else's, the Henderson boys actually joining in for once because their mother was watching. Katie sang next to her, her voice clear and true, and Elise sang too, loud and unbothered, like she didn't care that she was off-key. Alla just played, her eyes on her fingers, the familiar weight of the guitar against her chest.

She glanced up once, mid-song. Her father was standing two rows ahead, hymn book open, mouth moving with the words. But his eyes weren't on the book. They were somewhere else — out the window, at the car park, anywhere but here. He wasn't looking at her. He never looked at her, not really, not unless she'd done something wrong.

Alla looked back down at her fingers, and played on.

After the service, they filed out into the heat, the congregation milling around outside the church doors, chatting in little clusters. Old Mrs. Hargreaves patted Alla's arm as she passed. "Lovely playing, dear," she said, and Alla nodded, a small polite smile that didn't reach her eyes. She'd heard it a hundred times. She knew it was true. She also knew it didn't matter, not really. Playing guitar was the only thing she was good at, and even that, her father didn't seem to see.